Robert Pirsig describes this as Quality. Put oversimply, it is the bridge between subjectivity and objectivity: it is something that cannot be named or pin-pointed, for it exists at the cutting edge of human experience and hence cannot even be reflected upon without imposing something upon it that it isn’t. This is akin to measuring some quantum state: in the time it takes to measure the state, what you were attempting to measure has changed. So, Quality being the bridge, it is neither objective nor subjective, but entirely something else, yet containing elements so indistinguishable from both that it is difficult to refrain from calling it one or the other. In Pirsig’s novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, he essentially generalizes this idea to being the bridge between mind and body, East and West, good and bad—whatever duality you want. This is the impression I get, at least, and it seems that the ever-elusive Quality can act as a glue for any framework due to its at-least-partly-ineffable nature. For this reason, I do not think “actual” philosophers take to Pirsig’s idea very kindly. Of course, this is the very attitude he spends much of the book campaigning against, and while this sort of rebellion is usually dismissed, I must say that I agree with Pirsig’s motivation.

Whether or not Quality is real… well, I do not believe that is the purpose of philosophy. There exists a trap, and it is in this either/or kind of thinking that says there must be a way out. But out of what? In the last article, The Purpose of Good Fiction, the intention of something was very closely related to the purpose behind that something: intention was the antecedent to existence while purpose was the conclusion to existence. Applied to philosophy, let us first ask, “What is the purpose of philosophy?” Once answered, perhaps then the intention of philosophy can be inquired of.

Should the purpose of philosophy be to discover the difference between good and bad? Suppose it is and see what follows. To discover the difference between good and bad, mustn’t one first have a procedure for categorization? If one did not, then one would be unable to compare something good against something bad and discover the difference. So, one must have a procedure, but then which procedure to pick? Depending on the procedure picked, those things that are bad might end up with what is good or vice versa; or, all those things that are good might be labeled as bad, just as one accidentally carries over a minus sign in a math problem. But then, is such a categorization good or bad?—This question is tempting! but there would be no way to know, for your very purpose was to discover the difference between good and bad. So, unless you want to pursue your philosophy without integrity (which we said in the previous article that to pursue something without integrity was to not actually pursue your craft at all, but to pursue a farce), you must stop at once and admit you either knew something about good and bad already or were lying to yourself. However, if lying to oneself appears to be bad, then you are forced to accept the former.

That was dreadful, but perhaps this will not happen for other choices of purpose.

Suppose that the purpose behind philosophy is to discover the difference between correct and incorrect. Follow the previous argument and replace “good” and “bad” with “correct” and “incorrect” up to the very end. Once you have done so, do it again, but replace these two words with “positive” and “negative.”

I find that, as I read through the argument again with the replaced words, I am forced to admit I understanding the words less and less and that the entire argument is incoherent. Is this a fluke? Try, one final time, replacing the words with “X” and “Y”.

This is the tension that I believe Pirsig is pointing out. He accuses the East and the West of pursuing their own forms of this or that, entirely missing the point of their own systems. The respective philosophies imagined that they had clear purposes and aligned their intentions respectively, but this assumed what one was trying to prove. Seeing this faulty duality and backwards approach, Quality seemed perhaps the most obvious answer. Assuming there is indeed something with which philosophy is intent on discovering1, should our intent be to discover what this is? Quality would say that what “this” is is right before our eyes. By continually looking backwards and around at what was or what is believed to be out there, we are trapping ourselves within our own sights and preventing ourselves from seeing what is present, cutting edge, and here.

This, I believe, is what shall separate good fiction from mere fiction. Mere fiction wears the cloak of discovery: it aims to imitate what it has seen and reproduce the same effects; it desires to be something more than it is, but there is something missing that it is always looking for and is never finding; it is too concerned with whether it is good or bad, correct or incorrect, positive or negative, this or that, here or there. This distinction runs through every word and is felt in the reader such that, even if the author had somehow copied down its form exactly from a great novel, merely replacing the words, the reader would be left with a sensation of wanting something more.

Good fiction, however, is deserving of its name. It does not seek to be good but simply is. Others call this “being authentic” or “honest” or “unabashedly original.” Whatever one calls it, it is compelling and grabs your attention just as though the story is actually happening to you. While reading, you may be subconsciously aware (or reminded, much to your irritation) that someone’s name is on the front cover, but you disregard it—“They are hardly attached to the story at all, for the story is alive and moves on its own,” you say. One is even tempted to say that such fiction contains its own spirit. One even considers such fiction odd, for it need not contain “great” prose, “correct” pacing, “proper” character development, etc. for it to be good; something about good fiction neither denies nor conforms to the standard practices of the day.

Why, then, do we teach others to write within the box that good fiction clearly does not operate in? There are many reasons, and perhaps some of them are noble, but I believe that one who is pursuing good fiction must advance past these reasons and begin to write with Quality.

Nevertheless, puzzles and their potential applications to our lives are very interesting, and it should be considered very good that we can spend our days occupying our minds searching out and feeling such deep and wonderful things.

Good fiction can be compared to a kind of puzzle, but only if it is written with an intention. Suppose, to the contrary, that there does not exist intentionality behind some story—can the story be said to have a purpose? A purpose is that which something exists for, but if intention is that which is the cause for something existing, then it seems to follow that, where something lacks intention, it also lacks purpose. For example, people commonly agree that a puzzle’s purpose is to be solved. However, if one designs a puzzle without caring to see if it is solvable, another might justifiably argue that the “puzzle-maker’s” intention was far from making a puzzle but, instead, of making an absurdity. While the intention was called “puzzle-making,” in truth it was actually “farce-making.” Since there existed no intention to create a puzzle, no purpose of solving could possibly be attached to the alleged puzzle.

Now, since most every action is done with some kind of intention, whether voluntary or not, one is warranted to ask what exactly disqualifies a created object from failing to achieve its intended purpose—the worry being that one may accidentally create something entirely different through a mistaken intention. However, this fear is only slightly warranted. In the case of the puzzle, one can easily verify whether it fulfills the intended purpose: they must simply show that it is solvable. The difficulty arrives in matters of art, for how does one show that something is truly fulfilling its intended purpose? One may explain their art, but, then again, sometimes the purpose of art is simply to make one think, and such a purpose is invalidated once the artist must come out and say it!

People, sensing this tension, have up with dishonorable ideas such as the “death of the author,” which is really an excuse to do away with the tension altogether. Secretly, these literary analysts desire to do away with the mystery of human expression, or the mystery of originality which resides within the breast of every man, woman, and (much more poignantly) child. These rhetoricians would rather make their craft into a science and compose a text based off a persuasive probability distribution; they desire to destroy the ability for text to express something hidden if it means ensuring its ability to be interpreted. But what use is interpretation if there is nobody to apply it to? For don’t you know that a man without expression is nothing more than an automaton or a husk? It is obvious to anyone who has “succeeded” in life that success is not a place. Therefore, one cannot “arrive” at success—it is merely lived. Thus, if one arrives at the correct interpretation but has lost the person to whom it applies, what good has the interpretation become? Likewise, to give a text complete expressive power and omit mention of any true and intended interpretation is to deny one’s humanity as well, or else risk killing not only the author but the work of art altogether. Thus, we cannot throw out expression in favor of interpretation (or vice versa) and still maintain any integrity.

Good fiction, like science, has the uncanny ability to apply to anyone who reads it. Just as the far-reaches of knot theory in mathematics has strange ties to quantum mechanics, which influences our everyday, so too does the most remote sentence in a story have the ability to change our entire perspective on life. However, it is not as though this sentence was necessarily planned to have this exact effect on us, but simply that there did exist some intention behind the sentence. The sentence had a purpose which transcended the story so as to speak something true to its reader. This truth is undoubtedly mysterious and difficult to pin down, but this is the nuance of good fiction: that it means something profound and unsayable, yet easily felt and seen. Good fiction preserves some human subtlety that academic endeavors often lose, for academia is far too concerned with the uncovering of knowledge as detached from a perspective, and not concerned enough with directing itself to and from the one to whom the knowledge shall apply. Good fiction has no such purpose; its entire purpose is to speak to exactly one person and show them something hidden about themselves. For this reason, I shall continue to write fiction; for this reason, I struggle with good fiction most of all.

How much time had passed? But a few days… of course, yes, of course. That’s alright. The halls, however, seemed narrower. Was it already dark? I thought that—well, no, never mind! No time to say. I knew it was dark already. Yes, remember. Anyway, I was already on my way down the hall, figuring that I ought to do what I said I would do: namely, to speak to Mr. Langley. By all rights, I had every inclination to avoid the man. What could I say? “Whatever must be said, of course.” And, of course, that was true; how could it help but be true? Yet, what could I say I had to justify myself at that point? That a cast of buffoons surrounded him? Or that this very cast was becoming my downfall. . . One must always be sensible and never stoop down to other’s levels. At any rate, I was resigned to heavy breaths, either due to frustration or despair (it hardly matters which at this point—both directions end up the same!—always the same...), and the halls felt darker and my thoughts were becoming loud and quiet and annoying. That’s alright.

If it could be repeated, I might repeat it, but I can’t talk about it anyway. Mr. Ludlow, a likely appendage or parasite on Mr. Langley’s side. One could’ve guessed it easily enough, if not by the look of him, then by some other crude means of deduction. Yet it was strange how quiet the halls seemed. What had happened to everyone, anyway? Oh, bother. I was certainly out of sorts, or else I certainly am now. Always a trouble, always a complaint. What was one to do when everything they did was precisely the problem? But then, must we always be doing something? I think I ought to have counted myself lucky back then, but, then again, it wasn’t nearly as obvious back then what would come of me. Oh, but how could I have forgotten?—The bird!

“William! William!” I heard Dolores shouting over and over from the direction I had come. “Will—AGH!”

The hall brightened and I was suddenly back where I began in front of Dolores’ door. Except, instead of the girl being under her bed, she was—though indeed on the ground—cupping her eye, sobbing, and at the feet of Mr. Ludlow, who held Mr. Canary’s cage in an arm outstretched away from the girl. The bird was chirping and tweedling in repeated shrills, to which Mr. Ludlow gave a short furious shake to the cage. Mr. Canary suddenly stopped.

“NO! William, please! Stop him!” she shouted.

“Shut up,” Mr. Ludlow said back. He would not raise his voice, and I was disgusted. He was too calm. So, naturally, I mimicked him.

After all, it wouldn’t do to charge after the man. He was far greater a match than I, and by more than several leagues. Rather, I locked myself in place at the doorway and was caught in a loop looking between him and Dolores. She had been definitely struck on the eyebrow, though her whole face had become a mess of red and black smears. I settled, finally, on the bird. If I was not to overcome him with force, I supposed all I could do was speak!

“Mr. Ludlow. What do you intend to do?” I asked. I felt entirely out of my mind.

“I have done all I intended to do, William,” he said. “The rest depends entirely upon you.” He stared and it was clear that he was honest. “Where have you hidden it? You do not want to lie to me.”

“Please, tell him, William—don’t let him hurt Mr. Canary! Please don’t let him hurt him, please—please—plea—”

“Be quiet, girl. William!” he turned, “If you let her sob even one more time, this will be entirely on your hands. Do you understand me?”

“Bastard!” I lost my footing. “You—”

Mr. Langley lifted the cage high above his head and sharply inhaled.

“Alright!” I quickly said. “Just put him down and I’ll show you.”

“I knew you had sensibility,” he replied, lowering the cage. “Show me now, and you have my confidence. I am not asking you.”

I looked down at Dolores, who was silently sobbing and urging me to go, then agreed and backed out of the room. However, as I reentered the hall, I saw Miss Beadle hurriedly walking toward me.

“M-M-Master Gorbachev—did I h-h-hear yelling? Is every—”

I caught Mr. Ludlow’s eyes and turned back to Miss Beadle. “Miss Beadle,” I said, “no, no, everything is alright,”—I was certain my voice was betraying me—“yes, please, we just got caught up… in a game is all. Please, don’t worry yourself—wait, Miss Beadle”—she was unwavering in her determination to come closer—“No, Miss Beadle, everything is—Stop right there!” My command had its effect, though she was very evidently surprised to hear me become so stern. I was secretly very sorry to speak to her that way, but became quite severe in complexion. “I am telling you now, Miss Beadle, that you must turn away this moment. I—”

“Master Gorbachev! Dear word! What has gotten into ye? If I did’n know better,” she said, “I’d suspect someth’n terrible has happened, but—”

“Miss Beadle,” Mr. Ludlow suddenly said, setting the cage down within the room and appearing in the hall. “I apologize on behalf of Master Gorbachev’s tone. We have gotten into a small disagreement, and it is regrettable that I began to raise my voice at him.” His attire of smiles and condescension blocked the woman from looking past.

“B-B-But,” Miss Beadle began, “By God, I swore I h-h-heard Miss Signet—”

“Yes, Miss Beadle,” he interrupted, “she was here briefly, and was a major contribution to my unfortunate outburst. Please forgive me. She ran off just a moment ago, and I and Master Gorbachev were to put our momentary differences aside to fetch her that I might apologize to the lady.”

I corroborated his words to a very concerned Miss Beadle, and I insisted that she go ahead of us to possibly comfort her before we arrived, guiding her the way she came.

“I s-s-saw no Miss Signet on my way here,” she said meekly. “Are you sure sh-sh-she went that way?” She addressed me specifically.

“Yes, Miss Beadle,” said Mr. Ludlow. “We’re certain of it.”

Her expression hardened and she continued looking to me.

“Yes,” I repeated. “We’re certain of it.”

The old maid was obviously unimpressed with the whole charade and exhaled a very deep frown. “My! I don’t like this one bit!” she declared. “I’m off to find Mr. Dorothy, and we’ll see about this, then!” And she turned by our bidding and stamped off. “We’ll see about this, we shall, we’ll see...” she called back several times.

During all this, Dolores did not dare to pick herself or the bird cage up. She covered her mouth and buried her face into her legs throughout it all. Mr. Ludlow turned to seize the cage, and for a second my eyes were drawn to the rack of shoes beside the door. “What,” I thought, “would it mean to lead him to the brief case? Hadn’t that alone been what Dolores had feared?” A pair of glittering heels begged to be used against the unobservant man, but it felt to be an act in futility. I couldn’t imagine doing any real damage to him with a heel, “but,” I thought, “perhaps something else…”

Mr. Ludlow turned back, cage in hand, beckoned me to move onward, and ordered that Dolores stay put, then closed the door behind him.

“Tell me where we’re going,” he said.

“Mr. Pliny’s,” I blurted. I did not think about what I was saying, but there was not time to hesitate. I reasoned that he might do worse than kill the bird if I said nothing, but I needed more time.

“You’re lying to me, William,” he said.

I turned back to him and glared. Fear was the last thing I’d be giving him! “Fine,” I said, “kill the bird, then, if you’re so sure. You kill the bird and I’ll never take you there. Or do you really think I’d hide it here with everyone snooping around, especially the girl?”

He made no move or gesture, and for a moment I thought he’d called my bluff, but then he seemed to bite the inside of his bottom lip and motioned for me to continue.

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Afterwards, I was what some would call neglected. One cannot fault the woman, however, for, though she breathed the same, she had already died and I was already an orphan. I say with some pain that it was better that she eventually killed herself, otherwise I fear I may have died with her. Difficulty seizes me in recollection of that time. It is no better than a phantom, as one scarcely ever believes having seen it once put to the past.

I knew not of her letter to my uncle. My departure from her imminently-ending life was abrupt, and was the source of many uncertain tears of my own. It was a winter night, and she bought us a meal with what little we had saved. There was slightly more color in her face, I believe, but perhaps it was only that all the lights in the house were on and the fire was actually lit. We ate and a recognition brightened her eyes. I know not what she recognized, only that I was seen. I began sobbing, though I didn’t know why, and I felt the warmth of my mother’s embrace for the first time in months and for the last time in my life. I must suppose that she felt peace, knowing I would be going and that she would be shortly after. And it was so, for a knocking came at the door but an hour later, and I was led away with merely the clothes I wore, looking back and crying at my own living mother.

I did not know the man who led me away, except that he looked to be very young and of a dark demeanor. I remember boarding a train and that he said nothing the whole time, only staring at me with some worried or pensive expression. Soon after, I was in a city—perhaps New York—and then entering my first boarding school. The man argued with some older gentleman who was soon to be my first headmaster, then the darkened gentleman came and handed me my mother’s letter, saying, “You will be here now. Take this and know your mother loved you.” I was then led away by the headmaster with a very firm grip and soon forgot all about the man.

At the boarding school, my quality of life improved only mildly. I was the youngest of the children there, being only four, and I was particularly timid. Once the truth of my mother was learned by the surprise public reading of my letter, I was branded as an orphan and considered an outcast by students and teachers alike. Phrases such as “mama’s boy” and “only child” were cuts dealt with the thickest irony, for half the children there were of my same condition; however, I believe this only made their own emotional vitriol that much more potent towards me. So, while I was fed and warm and of a decent constitution, I was more miserable than when my mother walked listless before me.

My time there, in recollection, was short. Soon enough, I was transitioned to a new school and I learned to hide my mother’s letter. But, no matter my tactic, I was always thrust into the center of abuse. I could not understand why I was so hated, and my confusion and panic at such only further exacerbated the public sentiment.

It was not long into my second school before I was physically attacked for the first time. I sustained more injuries from Patrick and James Higgins than anyone else in all my life, and I believe it was no more than a mere fraternal contest, paved way by an Irish tradition to see who could hurt me the most. Patrick certainly won, but James came very close when he broke a pool stick over my back. I can thank them only in that I learned to block and sustain blows of the most incredible pain.

Each year following, I was transitioned into a new school. It was always to my relief and was never a moment too soon, but any pain forlorn was a pain I learned to remember fondly once in the next year’s gauntlet. A piteous teacher would occasionally befriend me, but the school’s headmaster always intervened and prohibited these relationships. Such was the case with any friends I made too.

Whenever I was transitioned, it was always done by an older gentleman. He did not speak much, but was very kind to me and occasionally asked me questions. One question in particular always stood out to my memory, and it was this:

“Young William,” he said, “do you believe in miracles?”

I had learned to fear answering questions, but I meekly nodded that I did.

“Good,” he said. “Miracles only happen to those who believe in them.”

After this, I prayed for miracles very often.

I went through the next several boarding schools like this, and I only ever looked forward to the time of transition when I might see the kind old man. My conditions had not improved, and it seemed that the students only became more vicious with age. Their ability to wreak emotional damage had far outgrown any physical attack, and I began contemplating my own suicide from far too young an age.

One year, I asked the old man, “Sir, why, if I believe in miracles, do they never happen to me? I see bad people constantly getting what they want, but I always get what they deserve.”

The man looked deeply upset and I felt sorry for asking. “You will believe in miracles because you need a miracle, not because other people don’t get what they deserve,” he said.

The man’s rebuke destroyed my confidence, but I eventually asked, “Pardon me, sir, but what do I deserve? My mother’s letter says—”

“What letter?” he interrupted.

This flustered me immensely, but I produced the letter for him at once. “This one, sir.”

To Gorbachev
For an abundance of time and a lack of love, I must make up the difference and be on my way. Give William what I could not. Give him a future, a hope, a life, and someone that he may always trust. Lord knows I have failed him enough.
Rebecca

The man read it for a long time. “This is your mother’s?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I... some man,” I said.

He glared at me and asked, “Do you know what he looked like?”

“I—don’t really remember. He had dark hair.”

...

“Young William, I am going to borrow your mother’s letter for the time being. I will deliver it back to you very shortly.”

My younger self was incapable of telling anybody no, and especially the only gentleman of my acquaintance, thus the deal was sealed. It was a few weeks later that I received my letter in the mail, and along with it was a note from the man saying that he would be unable to transition me between any future schools.

It wasn’t until halfway through my twelfth year on this earth—four years after my last contact with the old man—that I finally did see him again. I was nowhere near my annually expected time of transition when I was suddenly called to the headmaster’s office. This, by itself, was not out of the ordinary for me—I was constantly pinned for things I did not do but had long given up trying to defend myself of. Yet, even for this, I was perplexed, for the week had been relatively calm. Then there, sitting in the office, was the man himself.

“Hello, young William,” he said. I thought him rather cheerful in tone, though his face betrayed none of it.

“Mr. Dorothy! What are you doing here?”

“I have come to take you. You are coming home. I have just signed for your release.”

“Wh-what? What do you mean? Home?”

“You will see,” he said.

That was the first time I ever rode in a car, and I did my best to stifle my tears the whole way there for fear of staining the cushions. Hours passed and it was becoming dark, but we finally arrived at a large Victorian mansion.

“We’re here, young William,” he told me, then helped me get down from the car.

“Are you sure? How can this be my home? You’re surely mistaken, sir,” I said.

This clearly amused the old man, however, for I had never known to see much emotion on him and yet I saw the slightest smile. “Yes, I am sure. Would you like to see the inside?”

In my time since, I do not think I ever beheld that house in as much glory as I did upon my first introduction. Being as small as I was too had its positive effects. There was a ball room, a courtyard, parlors, libraries and towers, an endless supply of bedrooms and servants and a great dining hall. There was a room for billiards, a room for smoking, a room for observing the stars, a room for drinking; an indoor greenhouse, an outdoor greenhouse, a yard with its own yard; everything was wooden and marble and rich in all ways; chandeliers of crystal and gold, oil paintings of every genre and time period, souvenirs from every age. I felt that I’d been wandering the house with Mr. Dorothy for hours before he told me the tour was complete.

“Young William. I must tell you something,” he said.

“Please, Mr. Dorothy, what?”

“Forgive me for not telling you sooner. Your great-great uncle, Mr. Jacob Gorbachev, has recently passed away. He has named you the new master of the house in his stead. All that you see is yours. Welcome to your new home, Master Gorbachev.”

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In the course of my life, I have realized that to ask “what should I do?” is always a bad question. In all the times I have asked, never once has there been an answer. While I have been graced with the creaking of pipes, some rustling of leaves, or the groaning of a lone heater—far too numerous are the occasions I have tried to find some all-knowing meaning behind such things!—never have I truly heard an answer that evoked epiphany. No, when I ask the question, I only become aware of how pitiable a situation I am in. One who understands their purpose never asks the question; they are too busy pursuing their goal. The question belongs to the one who has given up, who is losing themselves beyond hope. Such a one believes only in the power of a miracle to save them, as their own ability to will victory has failed them. Miracles have occurred in my life, but never have they been performed by my hands or wrought by my twisted mind.

My first inclination at my tuxedo’s disappearance was to fall to my knees. I had looked in the right place. I was sure of it. To look anywhere else would be to perpetuate futility. How dismal!—but this is only the result of reflection. The word had little meaning to me in the moment, nor did any word. Rather, my mind prepared an altar of sacrifice, and on it was the recollection—the image of the two gentlemen in quiet tidings and subsequent surprise to my premature arrival. Of course, by no means ought these gentlemen to have considered it premature, and this fact was placed squarely and appropriately below this image. My puzzlement at the fact lasted only a moment, however, for I believed it could only have meant one thing: no sooner had I entered than they had begun their quiet conversation, and what else but the discovery of my tuxedo could occasion their great hush-hush! I am sure they were both quite mindful of the severity of the situation—oh, certainly. Well, I was determined to let their sacrifice be pleasant in my eyes, albeit painful for them. On the altar they would go, and from a matchbook to tinder to flame, it would be an easy process for the conscience to undertake. The only matter was in action, and upon the floor where I then stooped, it seemed that the events toward which I was inclined were not so easily grasped and put aflame.

Naturally, I was upset. I threw myself off the ground and to my feet, truly in a desire to be angrier than I was. A better word—more apt, yes—would be livid. Yes, I was livid, to which the root meaning is “of a tint of blue and black.” Certainly. For one is quite cold in this kind of anger; and, of a cold disposition, one is easily capable of advancing the ministry of darkness. I stood, therefore, quite tall and of a pale complexion. Stooping was no longer necessary. Interestingly, calmness of mind and foot were had, and I was prudent in putting the contents of my drawer back in order. Nothing worthy of concern belonged there anymore, so why ought the rest of my clothes suffer? Why ought the pristine condition of my room be sullied by the treachery of two meaningless infidels? Their ruin would come about soon enough, and concern for them belonged to me alone—spare the room!

It would not be long, I figured, until some knocking came to the door and some angry face or some accusatory tone penetrated my ears. Of course, this would simply not do. I was in no mood to deal with the frivolous legality of men conditioned to be angry. It truly mattered not what they thought. Not now. What difference did it make? Everyone would get their due one way or another. Everyone always gets their due, whether now or later. Death was a mere trifle—a thought that caused me much amusement in the moment, so much so that I felt suddenly encouraged to write a letter (though not before locking my door, lest I be unduly disturbed).

“Dear Miss Dolores Signet,” I wrote. “It shall not be long now, I assume, before the man-children that have taken refuge in and control over this house come to reprimand me. I will leave them unsatisfied, and it is my desire that it shall remain this way. I have been stolen from, and it must not be tolerated. A fine thing, death. We find it in the most unexpected ways. Do not consider me rash, nor that I undertake to perform such an ignoble thing as murder. I rebuke such thoughts! No, there is a noble way to handle my position, and know that it will be nobly done.

“Thus, while I am careful to consider what must happen next, rest knowing that I do consider you of some confidence. I shall not hide from my enemies, though they surround me. I am to speak to Mr. Langley at once.

“A detective has arrived today by the name of MacAvoy, as well as a lawyer—Mr. Belov. I do not know their object, but I believe they are co-conspirators, though their origins seem radically opposed. My position is likely lost, Miss Signet, yet I will not go down in cowardice. Let them accuse me, I care not. Only protect yourself. I am mad for writing such a thing, but forgive me for earlier today. I give you my affirmation, and that is all I will say.”

After ripping the page from my journal, I left my room and made way to Dolores’ own. My object in seeking her was, at the time, disguised as necessity. Naturally, one asks, “necessity for what?” But the question was immediately dismissed. “What does one consider worthy of consideration?” I asked myself. “Such is the consideration of philosophers, to be sure. Well! One need not justify what they feel impelled to do. Such a thing is called intuition. It simply must be done, and to act on such things is the mark of a self-aware man. But, from the domestic standpoint, do I not have some responsibility for her so long as she is under my roof? And besides, she has helped me in the past, so this is out of a highly general interest and nothing more! Any good man would do the same, and I loathe the one who dismisses such obligations. She ought to have warning anyhow, or else she may ruin the whole thing. Yes, a warning is absolutely necessary—but what use is arguing about it? She has a right to know what has happened and nothing more.”

Her door was closed. I knocked, but there was no reply, so I let myself in. There was no sight of the girl, only the sound of Mr. Canary. The yellow ball fluttered around the room and perched slightly behind his cage. I greeted him, but he was evidently not in the mood to reply. I took no offense, however, as I thought it would be nice if someone might refrain from speaking to me for a change. “Social obligation fails to find the mind of a bird,” I said to the yellow blob. “Good. I dread these meaningless conventions.” Then, with the letter placed on her window sill, I began to leave. “She will find it soon enough.” Yet, time was no longer of the essence and I felt a brief impulse to stay a moment longer. And, reflecting on my previous conclusion, I thought best to heed such a feeling.

I looked around the room, at greater liberty to linger at the details than the night prior, and I realized just how organized everything really was. The bed was neatly put together, her endless supply of shoes were in straight rows and clean, and even her makeup seemed to have accessibility in mind. The blood-stained dress (cleaner than before, it appeared) still hung by the window, but it too had the appearance of purpose behind it, placed neither to the left nor right. There was clear thought and procedure behind her actions—nothing like the haphazard throw-away attitude of a child. “Perhaps,” I said, “she is closer to a woman than I realize.”

Peculiar, too, was that she had covered each of the paintings with her own tapestries of multi-varied colors. More specifically, they were of landscapes: depicted in each was a sun in the center with birds flying around it in song, as illustrated by notes and dotted lines to denote their fluttering paths. Overall, they were very well-done, and I wondered how long each one might’ve taken. “And certainly, this takes greater patience and foresight than that of a child.”

Each room had its own set of paintings, Dolores’ being no exception, yet there was not a single room that I considered to be in want of art. Thus curious, I peeked around one of the tapestries to remind myself of the artwork behind. There was a small ship buffeted by waves with men throwing water overboard in buckets. They looked to be in panic, and the gloom and dark of the clouds surrounding them promised no hope. One man was seen overboard, and there were two trying to throw a rope and life-buoy. The rest were unconcerned, however, and were throwing all sorts of things overboard to save the ship and themselves. There was one man—the captain, I presumed—who seemed to be doing nothing but watching, and I have always suspected him to have thrown the one man overboard.

Mr. Canary suddenly started chirping and flying about.

“Shush, bird,” I said, turning and commanding him.

Twu-DEEE-Daaaa Twa-twa-twa Twu-DEEE-Daaaa

“I am not interested in your songs right now, alright?” I set the tapestry back in its place and Mr. Canary stopped chirping. Curious. “Oh?” To test, I lifted the tapestry and he began flying and chirping again. “I see, so you hate the painting? How odd. Well, that a strange bird belongs to a strange girl is no surprise at all.” He was partly hiding behind his cage again. “I’m just glad it’s her and not me taking care of you.”

Amused, I flipped the tapestry back and forth several times and found a momentary distraction in Mr. Canary’s distress. I must say that this was rather wicked of me to do, and I am not proud of it now, but I was quickly punished for this as Mr. Canary began dive-bombing in my direction and pecking at my hands.

“Alright!” I shouted, and the bird landed atop Dolores’ mirror, feathers ruffled and making clicking noises at me. “That’s enough! I’m leaving, okay?”

“He’s very protective, you know.”

It was certainly Dolores’ voice. I turned toward the door, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Miss Signet?” I asked. “Where are you? Show yourself at once.”

I heard nothing.

“Well?—AH!”

My ankle was suddenly being grabbed and pulled from under the bed and I heard the girl laughing. I fought the instinct to kick and yank my leg away from the girl, but only barely. I did not want to hurt her.

“Let go of me!” I shouted.

“What? You told me to show myself, so here I am.” She let go and poked her head out from under the bed, smiling at herself. “It took you long enough to find me.”

“What makes you think I was looking?” I asked, incredulous.

“I know you were looking for me,” she said, sliding out from under the bed and standing. “I heard you run after me, then I saw you run right past me.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. Where were you?”

She laughed in reply and I regretted saying anything about how she was anything more than a child.

“Won’t you tell me?” I pressed. “Or are we always going to play this game?”

“That depends. Won’t you ever call Mr. Canary by name?”

I turned away from her. “Dreadful girl!” I thought. “I ought to have known better than to have said anything aloud.”

“My apologies,” I muttered.

“And what were you doing to make him so upset?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“I really do not have time for this,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “I came only briefly and I have other business that I must attend to, so if you’ll excuse me,” and I made for the door.

“Hold on!” she ran around me and blocked me. “Why did you even come?”

“Oh, but I thought you knew I was looking for you?” I retorted. “Well, I’ve found you, and now I’ll be going.”

She frowned. “You’re so difficult, you know that? What kind of answer is that? I may not know you well, William, but I know you’re not so shallow. Nowhere near it. Let me guess, did you want to tell me not to go looking for your briefcase? Well I have no intention to, okay? Your little secret is safe with me.”

In my writing, I have attempted to refrain from saying anything staunchly negative about Dolores, but I feel permitted to say that, while she was emphatically grating and trying at times, I harbored a small respect for her. She was not nearly as boorish as the common fold of gentry in my part of society, who seemed to consider their age and rank as immediate excuses for disrespect. Though Dolores, while disrespectful in her own way, at least had the sense to criticize me by my words and motives. I could confess even then that she was much more than what her girlish features suggested, and that I found a slight joy in getting her worked up.

“Dolores,” I said, “I accept your commendation. I strive for depth in all things. However, while the briefcase is the least of my concerns, your knowledge of it is the second least. I’ve apprehended your disdain for Mr. Langley very easily, and it is evident that this outranks even your love for your sister. I’ve left for you a letter, and I entreat you to enjoy it at your leisure and not mine. So, if you will no longer detain me, I must be going.”

I went to move past her, but she would not budge.

“Really, Dolores, I insist that you move.”

“Are you truly incapable of respecting anybody but yourself? Maybe if your eyes were not so accustomed to gazing in the mirror, you wouldn’t have these problems. Ugh! I don’t even know why I’m wasting my breath—you don’t listen anyway. Just take your letter, okay? I don’t want it. You talk at me enough.” As she said this, she merely glared at me. I expected her to keep talking, but, when I realized she was finished, her irritation toward me suddenly felt much more pointed. I was indignant and made up my mind to speak no more, as this seemed to be her desire. “Fine,” I thought, “If she wants respect, then respect is what she will have.” I went over to the window sill, passing the ruffled and clicking bird, and took back the letter.

Yet, my pride prevented me from keeping my own word and I felt a spiteful apology rising within me. “Forgive me, Miss Signet. I was only trying to warn you before what I am about to do. And maybe to provide some small comfort to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please, don’t bother.”

“Oh, my dear, but my every inclination is to bother you,” I said—this brought me too much delight, I must admit—“I intend to speak to Mr. Langley at once. I do not expect your accompaniment, and truly warn against it. I have no pretensions as to how our conversation will go, but it has become imperative in light of… recent developments.”

“Hand me the letter,” she quickly said, crossing the room and reaching for it. “Why are you always so cryptic—what recent developments? I don’t know what you’re thinking, but he cannot have that briefcase back. What are you planning to do?”

I held the letter away over my head. “Oh, so now you want to read it? You detain and berate me until I say something useful, and you expect me to comply all the way? Well, Miss Signet, I’m asking the questions now. Who knows, maybe I will give him the briefcase—Why shouldn’t I?” But I was a little surprised to detect fear on her at the suggestion.

“William, you cannot give him the briefcase under any circumstances. Being caught is better than giving him the briefcase. Do you hear me? You must—wait, don’t tell me they know, do they? Do they know you took it? Why are you going to talk to Thomas?”

“Ah, how nice of you to be concerned for me! I was beginning to suspect vitriol and manipulation from you alone, but it seems you’ve turned over a new leaf. This is very refreshing.”

“Stop joking around already.”

“Stop avoiding my question, or does your ego forbid it?”

She stamped her foot. “Ugh! Fine.”

I waited, but she didn’t do anything except stare off. “Well?”

“You’re miserable,” she said before lowering her voice. “You can’t give him the briefcase because if you do, Mr. Ludlow—you know, Thomas’ ‘friend’?—well, he’ll ruin Thomas first and then you and me and Maria and everyone else here. Do you really think Thomas wanted to come here? The last thing he wanted was to step foot anywhere near a Gorbachev, but he made too many promises he couldn’t keep and now Mr. Ludlow is expecting to be paid.” Dolores huffed and recrossed her arms. “Thomas is just trying to trick Mr. Ludlow to save himself.”

But I wasn’t sure that I truly believed her. “That’s ridiculous. Trick Mr. Ludlow? How? I’m sorry, but if he’s tricking anybody, it’s himself. He’s been nothing but a nuisance since he got here, and I don’t see how anything he’s done has to do with Mr. Ludlow.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Thomas doesn’t want anything to do with you. Ugh. Remember how he remodeled the whole house?”

“Of course, and how he had those awful portraits hung in the main hall.”

“Oh,” she said, “so you do listen once in a while. He didn’t pay for any of that, you know. It’s from our old house. He just moved everything here. Where do you think the portraits even came from?”

I just stared at her and my ears were suddenly hot. My lividity was slowly repossessing me—a soft desire to strangle the girl’s neck was swiftly suppressed, but the sentiment was most assuredly there. “And you’ve kept all of this neatly to yourself until now? Tell me at once. What is he trying to trick Mr. Ludlow with?”

“Give me the letter and maybe I’ll tell you,” she said, smiling.

I’m sure she felt very coy. I didn’t say anything, but merely complied. She laughed and made sure I knew she was triumphing over me with shoulder shimmying and eye batting. Then she looked at me as though the answer were obvious. “Thomas is trying to trick him that this is his house, of course, and that he’s very wealthy and set to receive the Gorbachev inheritance. If Mr. Ludlow knows he’ll be paid,” she said, matter-of-factly, “then Thomas might have some hope left.”

“Hope… for what?” I said, uneasy.

“What, are you suddenly slow? You already know. Hope to see another day.”

Naturally.

“And,” she continued, “if Mr. Ludlow doesn’t get the money from Thomas, he’s just going to have to get it from someone else.” Her mouth twisted into a smile. “So, what are you going to do, Master Gorbachev?”

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We also know the form of an apple: it need not be any color in particular, but must come from an apple tree and have… what, exactly? Need it be crunchy? No. Need it be sweet? No. Need it be fresh? No. It need only be an apple, and a person knows an apple when they see it, do they not? And besides, even if we did not recognize an apple immediately, we could perform tests and eventually create a list of criteria, expanding the list whenever an anomaly surfaced.

What about the form of goodness? We all know goodness when we see it, don’t we? Someone says that the good is loving, generous, kind, just, patient, etc. True enough, but what is love? Is this another thing we know when we see it? Or generosity? Can someone be generous without being good? Consider a man giving a homeless person fifty dollars—“How generous!” one quickly responds. But what our extoller did not see was that, immediately following, the man turned to boast about his kindness to his friends. Suddenly, the man’s motive surfaces, and he is seen as entirely self-seeking.

“This is fine,” our apple scientist insists. “We can create a taxonomy of emotions and determine which ones are evoked when someone is experiencing love, generosity, etc.”

Very good! But will this not end up highly probabilistic? That is, this still will not yield any way of strictly determining if goodness is present. Put another way, this does not generate an algebra where we can systematically check our answers. Furthermore—and this is the more glaring issue—this taxonomical approach assumes we know something about goodness already.

But don’t we?

This assumption is a major criticism of the Platonic forms. However, in typical Platonic fashion, this is not limited to the forms alone. It is commonly said that all of Western philosophy is footnotes to Plato. How fitting, then, that the flaws of Plato should also be handed down.

Footnotes to the Flaw

At the beginning, we described the forms loosely as idealities of nature that always are; however, let us try to describe what this means by looking at what the forms are meant to do.

The forms are designed to allow us to reason in a pseudo-divine way about the particulars of the world. By pseudo-divine, I mean an essentially fictionalized version of what is ideal or true.

“But why fictional and not real?” you ask.

Because the Platonic forms cannot, in good faith, promise to give you the real thing. The world, as far as we are able to discern, is made exclusively out of particulars—think of atoms or discrete objects.

Example: A chair is a single discrete object. As are each of its nails, planks of wood, cushions, etc., all the way down to each individual grain, molecule, atom, sub-atomic particle, etc. When we motion to a chair, we are implicitly motioning to all of these smaller discrete objects as well.

In general, we collect these various particulars under generalized names such as the good, the beautiful, the just, etc., just as we did the chair. One often hears it said, “there is no such thing as a chair,” to which everyone subsequently rolls their eyes. However, what’s really being said here is, “there is no scientific way to test for the qualities that make up a chair.” This is because any two people can very easily disagree on what a chair is—this is a qualitative issue as opposed to a quantitative one. This would not be an issue if there were a way to verify a correct answer as there is in mathematics, but since one person’s claims are just as valid as another’s, the law determining what a chair is cannot be made rigid.

Example: Two people are at a ping-pong tournament, and it is their first time attending. They notice that there are no chairs anywhere and, while they’re waiting on their next match, decide to sit on one of the tables. They are well aware that these are not chairs—they’re tables of the ping-pong variety—but they evidently judge that these tables possess the form of the chair, attested by their very sitting. Quickly, they are yelled at and told not to sit on the tables.

“But it is possible to sit on the ping-pong table, so how does that prove to the tournament organizers that they aren’t chairs?”

This is a valid objection, and it demonstrates that there is some validity to Platonic dialectic. That we can look at a table and disagree about its purpose, then debate and reach an agreement about what ought and ought not to be done shows the practical benefit of the forms.

Particularity Versus Generality

This brings us to the second part of our definition: one must not confuse the forms with real objects, as though one may hold in their hand the good. To debate about the form of the chair is to make claims about the form itself, not a particular chair.

Example: Consider the Platonic shapes. These are the square, triangle, circle, cube, cone, sphere, etc., and they are the result of perfect adherence to a definition. For instance, a square is defined as follows: A square is a polygon with four equal sides and four right angles. Now, one may further define what a “polygon” is, what “four” is, what “equal” means, what “side” is, and what “angle” is, as well as what it means to be a “right” angle. These would likely require further definitions until, finally, we reach a few fundamental definitions called axioms, which require no further justification or definition.

An axiom may be developed for any reason and for any purpose. Because of this, they can be highly controversial, since an incorrect axiom or understanding of an axiom can lead to disastrous results in the system at large. Consider what would happen if a building’s foundation was built to incorrect dimensions and out of poor materials: the building would inevitably collapse. Likewise, if we are not careful with our axioms, our mathematics and natural theories will inevitably collapse.

Yet, even when our mathematics collapse or when our natural theories are proved incorrect, this changes nothing about the truth of mathematics or science as they are in reality. Newtonian physics, for instance, is not complete, though it had colossal practical importance. When the theory was proven inadequate for multiple observers, that merely exposed our lack of understanding—not the truth itself.

“But what,” someone asks, “does this have to do with the Platonic shapes?”

The Platonic shapes are exactly the consequence of mathematical definitions, which are the consequence of the abstraction of our observation of nature. For this reason, we call the Platonic shapes idealities of nature. Our mathematics and sciences, in general, are an attempt to make precise our observations of nature. Thus, when we form the theory of relativity, we must remember that it is no different from a Platonic shape. It is much more robust, yes, but it is still the consequence of definitions produced by observation. The theory has no true bearing on how nature actually works, though it is a highly useful way of describing and reasoning about the world.

This is precisely how we combat the one who says the Platonic forms are an inadequate method of philosophy because they already assume the form of goodness. This is equivalent to someone accusing the sciences of being inadequate because natural theories assume there is such a thing as nature—but this is completely absurd! We must always assume that the thing we’re trying to describe actually exists. If it did not, then what would we be describing? Nothing at all.

Then can we really say that this is a mortal flaw of the Platonic forms? If it is, then this same defect must be defended in every theory of philosophy, for there is no philosophy without something that it seeks to philosophize about.

For the forms, the point is not to completely describe the good, the virtuous, the just, the courageous, etc.; instead, it is to show the limits of human reason and the inconsistency of a reliance on mere observation—it is a mathematical understanding of our reality and ourselves. For instance, it often happens that we are tricked by optical illusions, suffer delusions, and experience hallucinations. If, however, we can reason from principles and not from our daily-changing whims, we will greatly reduce our error.

However, in light of the argument about Platonic shapes, we cannot completely reduce our error. The forms are symbolic of the ideals of nature as we understand them, but this still rests on observation. The truth, however, is not found in observation and the subsequent assignment of words and names, but as a fact lived out in reality. If we understood the truth perfectly, then mathematics, science, and philosophy would be a fruitless endeavor. It will not, in other words, be through philosophy (whether that be dialectic or some other method) that we come to know wisdom, but it will be precisely the opposite: we will come to the knowledge of our lack of wisdom. Philosophy as dialectic, then, is a kind of negative education meant to show our ignorance and inspire humility.

Negative Education

Our argument has been that the objection against the Platonic forms can also be used on any philosophical doctrine, on any mathematics, and on any science. We admit that the attack on the forms is justified, and that this is not a flaw but a feature.

Plato understands perfectly well that the theory of forms has its flaws, and this is in virtue of the fact that the construction of the forms is also of the world—that is, by observation. By necessity, then, imperfect words, names, and reasons make up the composition of his theory. If he were to suppose his theory was the truth, he would be proven wrong by his own theory since anything of the world is merely some shadow of the form it is meant to be representative of.

Now, someone wishing to cause Socrates a headache might come up to him and ask, “Socrates, I know that you spend your days questioning people about wisdom and virtue, and that you are always unsatisfied with their answers. Furthermore, I know that you place a great deal of emphasis on dialectic. But now I must ask you a question, if you will permit my doing so.”

“I will,” Socrates will say.

“Your dialectic—does it also have a form? Or is it formless? Or is it a composition of many forms coming together? I know that Parmenides would ask if the form of something also has a form, such as largeness with larger, more encompassing forms of largeness still, demonstrating mortal consequences to your theory that you are well aware of. Do you finally have a response to these questions, or will you continue to badger people on unsound principles and show that they are ignorant—but only in the face of what is not, which nobody can help but be ignorant of?”

“My dear lad,” Socrates might say, “you are right to bring up such questions, and it shows your devotion to wisdom. I can tell you have committed the thought to your mind a long while, and now you have finally had the courage to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth and apply yourself to the dialectic.

“You ask,” Socrates continues, “‘does dialectic, too, have a form, is it formless, or is it composed of many forms?’ But don’t you know that if a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand? How can you be satisfied with any answer I give you when you claim my answers are incoherent before I even begin? Yet, if you insist on asking, I am obliged to answer, though we may not care for the outcome for fear of what criticism awaits. Only say that I have warned you. But let me answer by asking you a question: would you agree that dialectic really is?”

“Socrates, with a question like mine, I could hardly be tricked into entering into discussion on your terms. You know the flaw well, and there will not be any getting around it. I pray to your reason, then, and insist that you speak to me truly—not as one with some object in mind.”

“As you say. But am I to believe that you don’t have some object in mind? What reason could you have in your desire if there were no object attached? Or do you mean to say that you don’t have any desire?”

“No, no, there will be none of this,” our enemy of the forms will say. “You know perfectly well what I mean. You attempt to make clear what is not clear and, in doing so, only confuse people that much more. There is no peace down your road, and your promise of it comes out flat. What makes you skilled in discerning between the good and the evil? Or do you not simply assume that you know and, consequently, enjoy circular reasoning, albeit with such large circles that only one standing far away could see? But you!—you are aware of your circles, and you bring many men up close so that all they see is one straight line, and one you say is leading to the truth! So answer me truthfully this time and do not play games, what is this ‘form’ of dialectic, if there is said to be one? I, for one, am uncertain how to take the first step—that is, how do I determine what questions are to be asked and which answers are to be given?”

“A very fine point you have raised, and it must be straightened out at once or else I risk certain condemnation, both from others and myself. But I believe that I see the core of your question: are you concerned that the basis for putting one thing in some category over its complement presupposes some knowledge—some grasping at the form—of said thing, and so the dialectic necessarily supposes the knowledge it is trying to prove?”

“Yes, Socrates. Really, I’m nearly to tears with you; the brevity with which you put this point seems to suggest that this is quite a glaring issue, which begs the question of how you could have possibly overlooked it!”

“But, my boy, don’t you see that this problem pertains not only to me, but to you as well?”

“What do you mean?”

“You claim I argue on unsound principles, but how do you determine sound principles? What do you compare dialectic against so as to see clearly its flaws? Or don’t you say there is such a thing as sound principles? Certainly you must if there are unsound principles, don’t you? But then, please describe either of these for us clearly so that we might examine the problem more closely. However, I fear that this will suffer the same problem and it will be like chasing after the wind or shadows.”

“Don’t be a devil, Socrates. I will not so quickly admit a form of truth of my own. I know you would love nothing more than for me to refute you here and now. You know very well that you can make whatever you want appear true. You rely on many words and confusing idiosyncratic ideas that you allege to understand so as to demonstrate your points. But then, when you have thoroughly confused your opponent and they make up some excuse for needing to leave (because what can they do except quickly escape the trap you have caught them in?), you declare behind their backs that they were foolish all along. Give it up, then. You ask me for some constructive answer, but you give none yourself, relying on my contradiction under your theory.”

“You put up a good fight,” Socrates might answer, “and your devotion toward wisdom is commendable. It is true that I have many thoughts and they are sometimes quite confusing, but it is not true that I have any knowledge of my own. I boast of no true theory and my conscience is clear of intentionally confusing others for some personal gain. Truth be told, I merely express myself as my mind directs, preferring communication with others over some lofty speech or polemic that claims to teach. I am merely talking, lad, and this alone is my object. You point to the many that depart from me confused, but it is never I who confuse them—they always confuse themselves; their own words turn against them and I merely suggest their observation of it. I do nothing except say what I hear, yet you say I have wronged them. Have I wronged my fellow man by wanting to understand what is coming out of their hearts? Are you not doing the same with me this very moment? For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of. And if I find that they are confused—and by their own words, no less—am I to be blamed if I point out their hubris at their belief that they have knowledge when they do not? Have I ever boasted of knowing the good and giving it to other men? Or hasn’t it rather occurred that many men come to me claiming they know the good, only to fail under interrogation?

“Every person,” Socrates continues, “has their own beliefs, and a belief in goodness, justice, truth, beauty, and the divine as the path to virtue is mine. The opposite qualities have shown themselves to lead to wickedness, and I will neither doubt my eyes nor my understanding of this fact. However, despite this, it will remain just that: a belief—no theory attached. I suspect the same is correctly said of yourself. So, will I be blamed if I set out to understand the limitations of belief, refine myself in view of these beliefs and their limitations, and question others concerning their own beliefs for the edification of all?”

“Let your own heart speak to blame and to the truth of what you say,” the stranger will reply. “I will not blame you, but I must be going now. I have to write a paper criticizing Hume and I haven’t fully worked through the details yet.”

“So be it. With your wisdom, I’m sure that you will have great success.”

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The old man would not drive away until I entered the house. I am certain he felt himself good for doing this, but it was exclusively to my annoyance, for it prohibited nothing but a leisurely pace. Upon reaching the door, I smiled and waved back at the car and was, the next moment, hastening up the stairs. As far as could be seen, there was no evidence of the farewell party the old man had mentioned. On one hand, this meant my chance of being detained by Mr. Dorothy was slim; on the other, it signified a far greater lapse of time than might’ve been implied. Whether or not I was anxious, I did not lend any of my attention. I only know that the halls seemed narrower than usual and that I passed through them in what felt like mere steps.

I neared my room, and saw that my door was indeed open. I knew not what to brace myself for—if Detective MacAvoy would be there to greet, if the room might be disheveled and my tux vanished, or if there would be nothing at all. Most of all, I feared the latter. Ignorance of a bygone fact was the worst reality, and I am certain my breath was all curses as I rounded the door.

The room appeared untouched, and in its center were Mr. Belov and Detective MacAvoy in quiet conversation. At my entrance, they both turned and seemed shocked, like I had walked in on something private. But, if this was the case, it was well hidden by the fashionably contrasting figures: Detective MacAvoy by unabashed suspicion, Mr. Belov by sudden smiles and greeting.

“Master Gorbachev,” the puckered man said, walking toward me. “We were just looking for you.”

“Is that right,” I replied, without emphasis.

“It is.” I was beginning to dislike the lawyer, always talking on airs and eyebrows. “When we could not find you, the detective suggested we wait in your room. I said, ‘Mr. MacAvoy, I must not allow such a breach of privacy!’ But, seeing that he was insistent, I had not the choice but to accompany him. I could not allow him to wait here alone, you understand, and I am sure you will pardon the man, for the situation is certainly urgent.”

The detective made no corroborating remarks, and the lawyer gave no opportunity.

“See,” he continued, “there has been a development in Mr. Langley’s case. It stirred the whole house, and it’s a shame you missed it.” He laughed in the same inappropriate high tone as earlier, and I am sure I visibly winced. “Ha-ho, a shame. There has been—”

“Mr. Belov,” MacAvoy interrupted, maintaining his glare on me. “To the point, perhaps?”

The lawyer’s conviviality faltered in dark regard to the detective, and he said much quieter, “If you insist. Master Gorbachev, as your lawyer, I advise you from a place of discretion. Evidence has come forth indicting you for the theft of Mr. Langley’s briefcase. Detective MacAvoy requests that you immediately produce your apparel from yesterday’s party.”

I gave no attention to acting, for I felt too angry to feign any sense of shock. My fingers had numbed from the moment MacAvoy spoke, and the sensation was quickly traveling into my ears and eyes.

“Is that so?” I said.

“It is so, Master Gorbachev,” replied the lawyer, “So, if you might make due haste in producing the aforementioned apparel, then we can get everything sorted and be out of here duly.”

“Is that really the case?” I repeated—my God, I was certainly out of my mind. My restraint was ebbing away from me, and I knew it would not be long held after MacAvoy’s following address.

“Do comply with Mr. Belov,” the wry sleuth agreed, “and we will put this entirely behind us. If you have nothing to hide, I am sure that this will not be a problem.” I am certain he winked. “If not...”

“If not?” I said. It was lost. My anger had swollen into an indignation I was beyond all hope of quenching. “If not. I see.

“Well, Detective MacAvoy, I am sure that this would be to your utmost pleasure. I am sure that you’re feeling quite good about yourself. Aren’t you?—I am sure you are. You would love nothing more than to force my incrimination (this, you have made very clear). Oh, what a pleasure this is! How I enjoy this so much: to find two men I hardly know intruding not only in my house but in my own room. I suppose I must start locking my own door in my own house, shall I? Shall I, gentlemen? Shall I? Or has sense not taught me that this is an absurdity? Well?—Well? Has all proper order and respect left this household that I must abandon sense and live as among barbarians?”—I knew not how fast I was talking. My eyes seemed they might burst out of my skull—“Now this is a point I cannot stress enough, and it’s that I shall not be complying—not with disrespectful brutes such as our ‘detective’ here. Comply? What shall I comply with? The orders of a worm? Treacherous! Is there no respect at all in this house? Is there no regard for me here that I shall be persecuted at the drop of a hat, and at the suggestion of a bumbling old man who—I am most convinced, ‘gentlemen’—could not apply to memory the days of the week without the aid of several calendars. And perhaps not even then! I—”

“Master Gorbachev, you will stop at once,” Mr. Belov interjected, apparently angry as well. “This is highly—”

“Silence!” I yelled. “What shall you say, my good lawyer, that will convince me of any insolence, aside from yours and the detective’s alone? I shall not hear it, and I demand that you two leave at once. I will not stop, and I shall not be spoken over—not in my own room, let alone my own house. You—both of you!—have overstepped your boundaries, exceeded all welcome from the moment of your arrival, and have acted in the interests of your own authority. My sense warns me of continuing—rest assured gentlemen, I am entirely in my senses!—but I shall not. I shall not because this is an outrage. To act any more sensibly would be entirely unjust. I should rather throw each of you into the street than ‘comply’—Now, I demand that you two make your departure, and imminently, or I shall be forced to act in a way entirely regretful for you both.”

“William,” said MacAvoy, pretending—I am sure of it, that loathsome man and his monotony!—to be unaffected, “this is not a matter of disrespect, but of due process. You will produce what we have told you to produce. It is not a request.”

Oh how I hated him. I hated him. He was the worst man on earth. I cannot recall a time my vision darkened as it did then. I cannot place a time that my limbs moved on instinct more than then. I felt as a dog and that I might’ve been snarling, though I cannot say. I was indeed quite outside of myself and looking down, but my face was obscured and very dark. Suddenly, I was before the detective and his collar was clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Truly, I was out of my mind, and I know not what vehemencies I was screaming at the man’s face. If only letter and syllable could express my hatred for that man in the moment. I wished that he might be condemned. Eternal torment, pain, and fire without the hope of death are only all-too-apt punishments. What good, for the likes of him, is the use of exclamation point? What should I say in bolded letters or in excessive capitalizations that might express my hatred? I might sooner rip up the page and painstakingly reconstruct it, and a thousand times over. I would gladly render the man’s smile in two, down the middle, and laugh as some devil swathes his wounds in citric acid. Perhaps then, I would bottle his screams and give it to a warlock to be used in a spell of torment, that I might feed it to him. He!—For he on this earth alone, I might become maniacal and wicked.

Yet, the pain is only mine, for his evil grin and laugh are forever branded on my memory, and I could not be torn away from the detective soon enough. The lawyer was yelling something, but I could only see MacAvoy and his contortions and twitches (I was the sole recipient of this side of the man, I am positive) while he laughed and laughed. His shirt was ripped and I still held his white collar in my hand.

“Master Gorbachev, get ahold of yourself!” the puckered idiot yelled. Can I make my distaste of the man any clearer? Our internal qualities shall always make themselves known on the surface, and pretension was certainly a quality to be scorned. “What! What are you doing? Master Gorbachev. Unhand him!”

“It is fine, Mr. Belov,” said the detective. “Do not worry. Let us not burden the boy any longer.”

I regained a minor composure and yelled, “Have I not warned you? Have you not breached my explicit instruction​? Yet you stand here still! Leave! Leave at once—Leave!”

“Come, Mr. Belov,” the detective continued in monotony. “Let us submit to the animal’s request. Perhaps his alleged sense will return to him in time.”

“My word, I have never! That this might be the progeny of Jacob Gorbachev,” replied the lawyer, turning to follow the detective out the door.

My distaste was too great to respond to such disrespect. “Had I not made myself clear?” (I speak now on behalf of my former self, for such thoughts were present but far from explicit manifestation) “Was I not sensible in my speech? Yet I am ridiculed even now, and without even the decency to wait until out the room!” But I gritted my teeth to this effect for very little time, as they were out the door and I was soon slamming it behind them. I threw the detective’s collar across the room and, still very much in rage, thrust open my drawers. “We shall be done with this at once. If they shall breach my privacy so wretchedly—well, there shall be nothing to hide!”

I combed through my clothes and reached the back of the drawer, but there was no tuxedo.

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I meandered a long time on my way home. My ambition was very far removed from me, and I desired my arrival to be long past any dinner, if there were even hands enough to make it. I wondered if people were still out searching for the briefcase, and if Mr. Langley would be among them or if he’d given up. The second of the latter seemed quite compelling and the former even more so. And it was there, balancing on the curb, that the realization settled for the first time.

“Mr. Langley’s advantage is all but lost,” I said aloud. “What is left of him in the way of power? Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum have returned, and, following them, the pinstripe’s ostensible claim to inheritance has vanished. Then there was Mr. Ludlow. Bah! There is something to the man—but I must slow down. One can only do so much in a night, after all… yes, only so much. Yet, the imposing man must have some staying power over Mr. Langley. What else can be meant by having ‘stake’ if not some desire for Mr. Langley to receive the inheritance?—William! Stop your speculating and calm down, already. Won’t I calm down for even a moment?”

I consigned myself to silence, deducing that it was the power of my tongue that caused so much of my fretting. “If I can only stay silent,” I thought, “then perhaps I will find peace this night... Yes, a little silence does wonders for the mind and body alike. There are those who take vows of silence, after all, and say that the tongue is a great evil. Perhaps they are right, and the only way to quench evil is to destroy all possibility for its coming to be. Now, a vow of silence would be entirely disagreeable to—” I suddenly groaned. “William,” I practically yelled, “are you so truly incapable of shutting up for just a moment? Must you continue and continue on and on to speak? I dread you, mind! You will obey me when I say ‘silence!’”

But a nagging produced the feeling of my handing down an empty threat.

“I know your trick. What devil has inhabited my voice? Well, fine. I say this of my own volition, and name you a criminal to be hunted down. The punishment shall be this: you will be sentenced to the cage and thrown into back rooms—you will be forgotten and ridiculed, in that order, among the loyal of my mind. You will have no share in my plans, nor shall your influence be remembered. I shall forget you, you hear me? My tongue shall not be a place of worship or of sacrifice, you false god of reason!”

In my harsh sentence, I had stopped and was staring at a tree, imagining that the demon had perched itself on one of the branches and was looking down upon me, mocking me and daring me to destroy him myself.

“You cretin! I shall not stoop to handing you over myself. Let the angels and powers that be deal with you.”

But the imaginary foe taunted me still, speaking in soundless threats and aggravations. I knew well that it wanted me to climb the tree and go after it, and I even rolled up my sleeves to do so. Just then, the wind picked up and rustled the leaves in my sideline, and I must suppose this spurned the temptation in me.

“No!” I yelled. And I turned to the wind and continued down the street and into the darkness. The streetlamps had been malfunctioning for several months now and would not light. I knew the way home well enough without them, though I felt no less uneasy walking ahead. The adversary left behind had been a fiction—I may have been foolish, but I was no lunatic—but my mind was opened to the possibility of the supernatural, and I felt panic beckoning my heels faster at every step. Soon, the thought of vampires came to me, and I was looking behind very often. There was always nothing, but one could not be sure in the darkness, in which passing shadows were convincing ne’er-do-wells ducking into thin air, and the wind was a great cover for any breath that might be imminent around my neck.

“This is ridiculous,” said I, feeling utterly ridiculous. “I shall not be intimidated by the natural forces of the world. Darkness is darkness, wind is wind. What harm can come to me in my own town?” I turned wide around and called out, “Your efforts to affect me have failed. Do you hear? The street is no different at night than day, and you shall not convince me otherwise!”

And the wind howled all the same, yet, to a level of shock I would rather not disclose, I was suddenly enveloped in a yellow light from behind. In an hour where my wits were to hand, I am sure I would not have been so perplexed, but the irrational threat of vampires and the darkness rendered me far too stupid to apprehend light. I put my hands before me and let out a meek cry, only to see that it was a car, and that it was coming to a stop beside me with an open window.

It was far too dark to see into the cabin immediately, but I heard a call from within, “Gorbachev, my boy!” The voice was vaguely familiar. “Say, what are you doing out at this hour?”

Still blinded by the sudden light, I was squinting and said, “Good evening, sir. I was only out for a walk and heading home.”

“Well!” he replied with such gruff—I swore I knew the voice—“Come on in and I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, sir, but it’s not much further—”

“Please, I insist! Any son of Langley’s is a son of mine. Don’t argue with me on this, my boy.”

His persistence was definite and undeniable. I felt I had no choice but to give in to his request, and I rounded to the passenger side (hiding my eyes from the light) and confined myself to close quarters with my apparent benefactor.

Inside the cabin, I had the relief of sight, but it was no sooner strangled than I saw who the man was, for I did indeed recognize his voice. From his gray curly mustache alone, I recognized him as the older man who had complimented my speech but the night prior—the man of unfortunate circumstance surrounding my entrance to Mr. Langley’s room. I can count the darkness of the car as a blessing, on account of my sudden pallor. He immediately began more thorough introductions.

“My boy, Gorbachev, this is indeed a surprise,” said he with a touch of magnanimity that did nothing to soothe my angst. “I was highly honored to have a word with you last night, and I told my dear Maria just as much. I expected much time, and perhaps the remainder of my own, before we should ever speak again. Only a few moments ago, I was saying my goodbyes to the household. Mr. Doris, I believe his name was, was looking for you, as well as Mr. Langley. Can you believe it? That one should steal from Mr. Langley at his own party!”

I was not for words, and merely said to the effect that I could not believe it.

“Yes, it’s such a tremendous crime against the man. He has had a difficult few years, and it has been very hard on my Maria. Yes, my boy, their most recent foreclosure has been very difficult on her, and certain relations (I have a mind for confidentiality, you know) have been particularly trying on the man. Mmm, yes, mhmm.”

I agreed that it must be very hard and that Mr. Langley must be going through a lot right now.

“Yes, yes, very much,” said he quickly in reply, “It was shocking to me, my boy, to hear just how close they were to catching the culprit. They had only just broken the door down when he had gone out the window. Shocked was I to hear the time of the intrusion, indeed I was! My boy, it could not have been within ten minutes of our conversation last night. When they showed me which room, I began to lay my incredulity at their feet, yes, oh I did!” In his reproduced shock, he began coughing, and I saw his face grow redder and redder as he apologized between fits and put his face into a handkerchief.

He soon calmed, and I managed to say I was nearly as shocked as he was to learn, and that the thief could not have been far behind us.

“Indeed, mhmm” said the mustache, grunting away remnants of phlegm, “mhmm, indeed. Naturally, I asked if they were able to see the culprit, thinking I might be of use and identify suspects. Having talked to so many of the guests, I was certain I could match even a loose description. Unfortunately, they said they had not, other than that he was no greater or lesser than average. They were, however, able to produce a shred of clothing. The detective—McAlloy was his name, I believe—found it just this evening in the bushes the thief escaped through. In fact, I was in departure when the man came running up to us, the shred of black cloth in hand. Everyone was quite shocked and I, feeling quite inspired, requested a closer inspection at once.”

That the man was so preoccupied with his recapitulation was rather fortunate, for I stared at him with the darkest complexion as he spoke. “Oh?” I feigned. “And what did you think?”

He took my interruption as cue to cough once more. “Mhmm, yes, mm. Yes, I found that it was of quite a considerable quality—the shred of clothing, I mean, of course, of course—and appeared to me as the end of a tail-coat. I am certain of it. But how am I to say who it might be, what with so many people falling into the description? That detective was insistent, though, and said that any lead was better than nothing.

“I admit, my boy, I was quite hesitant to say anything. I did not want to lead them down the wrong path, as I was very certain, indeed, that my guess would do so. McAvery insisted and insisted, however. I found him very tiring and against my morals, but—oh, my dear Maria! She came to me and pleaded that I would give them any hint or clue. She reminded me of Mr. Langley’s troubles, and that, without my lead, they would be entirely without hope. How could I deny that dear girl when she cried and cried so much? My boy, you will find it impossible to resist giving a woman whatever she wants when her tears are involved. It was very much embarrassing to me, I must confess to you, my boy, but I was incredibly obliged to speak.”

“And,” I said gravely, “what did you tell them?”

He sat back, sighed deeply, and seemed to hunch over, as though he had intended to keep the matter a secret. I waited a while and wondered that he might be hoping for me to relieve him of the sudden obligation. However, my benevolence did not reach his soul that night, and it appeared he gave up and desired the confession to be quick, for he spoke much faster than before.

“Oh, Gorbachev my boy, I am sorry to say, but my conscience was troubled by my dear Maria and that insistent detective. I told them that I had seen you not moments before.—But worry not! I assured them that I had seen you in wonderful spirits, and that coincidences are very frequent at such large gatherings. I told them of our conversation and of your humility, and that you were very agreeable—nothing like a thief on the verge of a crime would be! I am certain that nobody suspected you for a second but Maccabee. Please forgive me, my boy. I tried to tell them that it would only cause burden and trouble if an old man should be begged to remember such a night. I left quite soon after, but not before that detective ran off somewhere into the house.”

“Into… the house?” I repeated.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” replied he. “Somewhere upstairs.”

We had arrived at the house but a few moments prior, and I thanked the man and tried to mask my hurry, but was stopped just before opening the door.

“Gorbachev, my boy. Do forgive my conscience, but I must ask for my own peace.”

“Erm, yes… sir?” I realized then that I never got his name.

“Forgive me for asking, but what were you doing in Mr. Langley’s room? Rest assured, you are absolved of all crime in my mind, as I see no need for a boy of your position to stoop to such petty theft; yet—curse my mind for it, I am betting on your graciousness—I cannot stop wondering about the coincidence of your timing with the crime.”

I believe I did not give the man any kind of speedy reply. I am sure I looked at him far too long, far too gravely, and with a revilement I can only hope the darkness of the cabin concealed. Any worry for what to say was not upon me—it was a trifle to lie, especially to an old man of his gentility. Rather, I hardly cared at all what I said, and considered telling the truth if only to be out and running to stop the detective much sooner. It was a certainty in my mind that the detective was gone to my room and would be through all my belongings within minutes, if he had not done so already.

But in the event that I was undiscovered, I mustered a smile and told the man, to his visible relief, that I was merely ducking into the room to redress, for, in my dancing, my clothing was put out of sorts. Then, in addendum, I mentioned that I had not even known it was Mr. Langley’s room, and I was there perhaps five seconds before leaving. This was received in the greatest airs and with much congratulation (though, I cannot say why this was performed, except out of nervousness), and I was no sooner bidding him a calm farewell and walking toward the house.

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“William,” said Mr. Pliny sitting across from me at a small dinner table, “you seem troubled. Has your condition improved since we last spoke?”

The old man had made—extraordinarily quickly, I must say—a hearty vegetable soup. It was still so incredibly hot, however, that a thick mist of steam and spice separated our faces from one another and made him appear quite ephemeral. That the house was so intimately lit had its own effects as well, for it seemed that the rest of the world melted away as butter in the soup, and that there was nothing but he and I and the mist.

“Well, Mr. Pliny, I must say that it has not. It would seem to me—I have not forgotten what you said—that the conspiracy has spread among all members of the household! I really cannot ascertain who is trustworthy anymore…” and I told him of everything that had occurred since we last spoke: Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum leaving, the renovation, the party, the feathered lady (in perhaps too much detail) and Dolores—I originally meant to pass over the briefcase, but the story took on a momentum of its own and I quickly realized that much hung on the fact (the man was a true confidant, at any rate, and details upon details easily spilled from my mouth)—I told him of the gazebo, how confusing Dolores had been and my dumbfounded confession that logically followed, detective MacAvoy’s baseless accusation, Mr. Belov’s puckered lip, and the conversation I had heard perhaps an hour or two prior.

When all was said, I strangely felt much better, like I’d sunk into a hot bath. It wasn’t that I was completely unencumbered, for the sudden lightness revealed much exhaustion and stress that had heaped up in my face and back. My muscles suddenly ached and I felt far too happy to be eating such a simple meal. Yes, I believe I was laughing like a fool with each spoonful, bathing in the steam and feeling pathways in my sinuses open that I’d forgotten I had had.—That devilish old man! He knew what he was doing. I wasn’t privy to his tactics back then, but my age has revealed this to me: that the man must have been a saint. It can only be with a divine affinity that one can so easily relieve the burden of another, and Mr. Pliny did so without any perceptible exertion of effort.

Do not take this for granted: this ability is not something that comes with age. I pray that an afterlife of felicity is possible without having the skill of that old Italian; I pray that this is the gift given to old Italians alone and is not the expectation of all mankind. Otherwise, I shall have many things to give answer for.

“This all happened in the last few days?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Honestly, I can hardly believe it myself, but now I am at a loss and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I have the briefcase, but I can’t even look inside because of that eavesdropping wretch, MacAvoy, and his auspicious vantage point of the gazebo. If Mr. Langley is telling the truth, then I don’t know how I can believe Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum. And yet, I know the opinions I previously expressed of Mr. Langley, but I am highly tempted to say that he is not lying at all. But, if he’s not, I cannot trust anything Mr. Dorothy says. But—oh, don’t you see how ridiculous this all is? There is not an ounce of respect for me in that house! And if we continue accruing guests at this rate, I am sure the house will be full by the end of the week and they will all be equally suspicious and secretive. How I want to just throw everyone out and be done with it all.”

“Eat your soup a moment, won’t you? You’re talking too much.” His own bowl was nearly empty, and the mist was disappearing from his side. I obliged the man and burned my tongue on each spoonful. We were silent for a long time while I ate, then he asked, “Why don’t you ask Mr. Langley why your uncle named him as your godfather?”

“What?”—I forced down a mouthful of burning soup—“Excuse me. What? How can I just walk up to him and ask? Is that not highly suspicious considering the circumstances? Would he not suspect me instantly? And what if he put Detective MacAvoy up to all of this? Maybe Mr. Langley already suspects me…”

Mr. Pliny was waiting and I trailed into silence.

“It feels like a natural question,” he said. “You’ll speculate forever unless you talk to him.”

“Mr. Pliny, you haven’t met him. How am I supposed to talk to that?”

…

“I don’t even know how to talk to him. What am I supposed to say?”

“William,” he said, “you’re overthinking this. What do you want to say?”

Unthinkable. Saying my true feelings to Mr. Langley? “Well,” I said, “that he’s deplorable and a cretin and he’s been nothing but an imposition on my household. That, from the moment he arrived, I have not known a moment of peace, and that he has no right to consider me his godson in front of so many people.”

Yet, I nearly felt ashamed, and then ashamed for even that. I suddenly felt captive at the table. The steam was all gone and it was just I and Mr. Pliny at the center of existence, alone under the single light. I didn’t know why, but I felt very wrong for what I’d said. Mr. Pliny looked at me almost no differently than before. He still looked quite gracious and very serene, but there was something to his eyes, or maybe his brow? I don’t know. The way he looked at me just seemed to ask, “Do you really mean that?”

“But I do mean it, sir,” I pleaded out loud, though much more to my own conscience. “I desire nothing to do with the man. He has been an utter nuisance to me, and his arrival has only produced angst and confusion, not excluding that girl seemingly bent on my perpetual torment. I don’t understand that family’s motives in anything they do.”

“William,” he said.

“Yes, I know, I know. But—”

“William,” he interrupted. I was not used to his interrupting and I fell low into my chair. “Have you considered that Mr. Langley has not been as bad to you as you think?”

I hastened to speak, “Well, I—”

“William.”—another shrink. Oh I felt lousy!—“Just think about it. Don’t talk. Have you considered that Dolores might not be as cruel as you think? Think about it.”

Mr. Pliny stood and took my bowl and asked if I wanted any more. Afraid to speak lest I be handed another rebuke, I shook my head that I didn’t, and he went to clean up, leaving me alone in the center of existence.

“Yes,” I thought, “I had considered that about Mr. Langley, but—oh, that frustrating old man. I know. I know, alright! Yes, I know that I ought to speak to him, but—confounded mind! Why must I find exception after exception? Will I never be content? If not, I shall never settle for an answer. Fine. So I must speak to him. Then what? What will it matter, his answers? I cannot be afraid if he tells the truth. Suppose Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum are not as I think; will I not be better for knowing so? And if I must discover this through Mr. Langley, then so be it. And suppose Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum are free of charge; won’t I be that much more gratified to discern this from Mr. Langley’s lies, should he tell them? Then it must be agreeable in every way to speak to Mr. Langley. Let him speak, as he loves to do, and I am certain he will expose the truth one way or another.”

I was not so easily persuaded of Dolores, however. It was a self-evident fact that Dolores was cruel, was it not? “Oh, but William,” I thought, more than likely squirming in my chair, “how can this be when she makes apologies to me for her behavior? Without her, I would never have known about the will, and in this regard, she has spoken truth to me from the beginning, has she not?” I then recalled her abrupt anger at me the night of the party. “Yet, this is inexplicable. Hadn’t I merely asked about my benefactor’s whereabouts, as agreed? I had only been trying to avoid her careful gaze toward me and made mention of that dress. But”—I could not deny the impression it made on me, even at the time when I had seen it fresh as she sat in the moonlight—“it’s true that she has not totally despised me—why must this all be so frustrating!”

“Mr. Pliny,” I suddenly said, “what do you think of Dolores?”

He returned to existence a few moments later and appeared thoughtful, like he was focused on deciphering some text far behind me. I wondered what might be taking him so long to answer, and, as though he read my mind, he slowly said, “William, I suspect that you are quick to find the bad in people. In fact, I suspect that you are quick to do many things, and always by yourself. You are smart, but I wonder if your intelligence makes you untrusting. Have you even once asked anybody for advice?”

“Of course—” I instantly replied and regretted. His calm face was so opposed to my own, but I was sure we shared the same sentiment over my haste.

I couldn’t look at the man. His focus on me became so evidently singular and embarrassing. I examined myself and felt my own focus was highly varied and unruly—was I so truly incapable of steadying my mind on any one thought long enough to understand it? “Any idea inevitably leads to another through some kind of loose reasoning,” I thought; was this not the way of the mind? What distinguished Mr. Pliny’s mind from my own? Was I in so little control over my own thoughts, their directions, dictations, and ultimate conclusions? I recalled the waves of confusion that had tried to throw me overboard but an hour prior—and I recalled the previous night when my mind and emotion prevailed over me. And they had prevailed, hadn’t they? I doubted if I had been capable of denying the allure of proving myself as anything but a coward, and I concluded that I had not. “My God,” I thought, “have I truly done evil? Could I have done wrong, even to Mr. Langley? Have I been in so little control, and over even myself?”

Mr. Pliny evidently sensed my revelation. “Do not worry, William. You did not know. Slow down. It’s a lie that you must do everything by yourself, and it’s a lie that it all must be done today. For now, pick and focus on one thing and do it with all your might. If you can do that, you will be a man among men.”

“But Mr. Pliny,” I barely looked at him, “how do I know what to pick?”

I was not expecting him to laugh as heartily as he did, and it was just as infectious as before. “You know, William,” he winked.

Soon after, I left, and was astounded at how dark and chilly it had become. He waved me off and told me to come visit soon. He assured me that he was always there to talk, and warned that I had better visit sooner than later or else he would have to come find me, and that I wouldn’t like what happened if he had to do that. I laughed at his threat, but, like his advice, I only had a vague idea of what it actually meant.

“I know?” I repeated to myself. “Actually, Mr. Pliny, that’s why I asked. I don’t know. Why must everyone speak to me so cryptically! Oh, for the love of God, William, stop getting so worked up and focus… yes, focus.

“Oh this is just hopeless. What am I supposed to do? I couldn’t even talk to Dolores if I wanted to, and I have absolutely had my fill of ‘gentlemen’ today—but what did he say? That I did not need to do everything today? Yes, yes, that is obvious. A man cannot do everything in one day, but there are certain responsibilities one must attend to, are there not?—But that old man isn’t so daft, I know, I know! Yes, I realize well what his meaning is. I must slow… down.” I sighed. Then sighed again. And again. And I believe I sighed all the way home, if for no other reason than to keep myself from thinking any further—but it was, to my ever-increasing self-frustration, to little use.

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Dolores was nowhere to be found. I must have scoured the house several times, from her room to the attic to even my room a few times, peeking out a window to the backyard whenever I could. Yet, all signs suggested that the girl had vanished.

“Confounded girl! How could she have so easily slipped away?” I thought. My gut was uneasy leaving Dolores to her own devices, but if she wasn’t in the house, then there was little I could do.

I left the house with little hope or intention of actually looking for her. “Perhaps I’ll look up and down the street and nothing more. If I cannot find her then, I’ll do my best to savor my ruined evening.” And there was no better way to describe the evening, to which the day had suddenly ordained it to be. It seemed that not a moment ago, the sun was high in the sky and sparse with clouds, but the light was already beginning to poke through the tree line, bringing out orange in everything and creating a purple haze above. It was so incredibly attractive to me that I felt very calm taking a walk down the street and again through the park.

A different path was required for my thoughts that day, and I thought that if I should go to Copperfield Bridge, it would only be on the way back. Rather, a less defined path, and of a more winding disposition, would be sufficient for that evening.

Its winding nature was due to its parallel travel to the Platonic River, as I so aptly named it from inside my spire. It was always pleasant in the summer. The wind would drop down just above the water and be carried as a river atop the river. It was felt best when standing over a crossing bridge so that you were in the direct crossfire. For a hot day like that one, it was a perfect way to remain cool, and I’d often sat on the bridges or banks and daydreamed as I was berated by the wind.

The ducks seemed to agree with the river’s pleasantry, too, for they were always floating up and down the lethargic-waved river. It was not a terribly deep river, nor terribly wide. It was perhaps 12 feet across, and you could stand to your chest at its deepest points. I used to see men fishing from the bridges, though I don’t recall ever seeing any success. Other times, I would see a father and son canoeing down the river, from an unknown origin to destination likewise. I enjoyed seeing so many ways to enjoy the river, and I maintain that the river is more than a source of life, but of great peace, as well. One shall always be satisfied when they are near a river, and they will never be for want of fun or food; one may draw power from the river, or clay for housing; one may travel and transport goods long distances, or disappear forever. The river is a source of first philosophy, and I suspect the terminal of thought as well. In the river we are born, and surely to the river we will go.

The Platonic River was quite long, and I never did walk its full length. When I would try, I would become exhausted or weary of my distance from home and always turn back. To travel the length of that river has always been an ambition of mine, and it has become one of my greater regrets that I have still yet to do so. With increasing age, one feels less and less inclined to do such things; the time moves much more rapidly, and dreams that once seemed quite attainable become as though on the other side of a flame. The young are quick and do not get burned so easily, but the old fall far more often into the flame, and writhe from their discontentment.

No, I shall not likely travel the length of that river. One may think that this being one of my greater regrets is a consolation, but I tell you that it is not. You come to find that, as you accept your relationship to sublimity, the manyfold aspirations of youth are exposed as fruitless trifles, and to experience the simplest of things, such as seeing the full breadth of nature, as is found in the river, is indeed quite lofty. If I could have enjoyed a single breath of my youth to the fullest, I might say that I did not waste my life. But I shall not say anything of that here.

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On this mid-May evening, I was hardly privy to the knowledge of the great unknown, and was rather a mere babe in truth. In infancy, we refer to the truth as the looming, for we have yet to fully realize its nature as reality, assigning it instead as what is alien and contrary to reality. It becomes the exception to life, and something to be striven toward and only ever seen in glimpses. But such are the misappropriations of the young and foolish, whose eyes and ears hardly see or hear. Let the reader understand that life leaves far more unstated than otherwise, and this is by design. We come to understand that the more the words, the less the meaning, so how great shall the truth be felt when we need not utter it! Oh, how little I understand that I cannot refrain from speaking of what must not be spoken… Let us dismiss this and return to my youthful self.

My mind wandered carelessly with the river wind. A large droll here and a long recess there, carried and pushed forward by gusts the whole way. My thoughts turned to Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum again. “I still find their statements entirely dubious,” said I to the ducks in my entourage, “and, though it pains me to say, I must find Mr. Ludlow’s suspicion highly warranted. He is not at all the kind of man I expected him to be! But what does this say about Mr. Langley if I find Mr. Ludlow to be of a character not entirely reprehensible? Must I agree that a friend of Mr. Langley’s is not abhorrent, but to be respected? Must I say that Mr. Langley is worthy of my ear? Is it possible that my assessment of Mr. Langley has been one of misguided prejudice?” I grimaced at the thought.

“No no no, that’s just ridiculous. Think, William! Think of all that he has done, from the very first moment you saw him—he had arranged for dinner to be earlier… though, I suppose Mr. Dorothy easily could have suggested it. Bah! Well, he had the entire house re-renovated and threw a party!… however, it is not as though this was of any personal cost. But what of it? It’s the principle—you don’t throw a party in another man’s house. But—oh bother! It was a surprise party in my honor, I suppose.” I stopped to glare at the ducks. “Well? What? No, I suppose I cannot think of anything he has actually done to try and slight me. What? This is ridiculous—ducks don’t know anything.” And I stamped off ahead of them.

Quack Quack

“Shush!” I turned and yelled. “I refuse to accept that I have been brash. I have acted sensibly and out of self-preservation. Nothing more. If Langley has been kind to me, it shall make no difference. A man gets precisely what he deserves, and if Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum believe the man is receiving justice, then why shouldn’t I?”

Quack

“It’s true that my retaliation was Dolores’ idea, but that makes no difference at all.”

Qua-Quack

“You really are annoying, you know that? Yes, I admit that I, not five minutes ago, was doubting my benefactors. I cannot make sense of what they’re saying. Should I, for that reason, doubt everything? Does that not seem incredibly rash?… But you are right, this does create room for Mr. Langley to stand justified. I could not call myself a man if I did not hear out the case. And perhaps I have been unfair to Mr. Langley—though I am sickened to say so. Even the wicked deserve audience, I suppose.”

Quack

“Fine. Then I must speak with Mr. Langley—and that irreverent Detective MacAvoy. How could I have forgotten? AH, the man makes my blood boil with his asinine skittishness and crazy eyes and unfounded accusation. The man knows nothing and shall know nothing. His denim betrays everything. What kind of detective wears denim pants? Does he want to be considered the fool? Yet… Mr. Ludlow raises an excellent point: why would Mr. Langley hire such a man? Does this not imply that Mr. Ludlow was not involved in the detective’s acquisition? And won’t this mean that Mr. Langley and Detective MacAvoy are previously acquainted? No, no, I am jumping to conclusions.”

The wind was getting stronger by the minute. It still felt good, but goosebumps considered my arms and neck their home. It wouldn’t be much longer until I had to abandon the river or else be chilled to the bone. The waves forming testified to this fact, though the ducks looked completely disinterested.

“But… it’s just like the waves! The wind, though invisible, has such an effect on the waves. And what had Mr. Ludlow said? Something about having a stake? I must find out what this means at once. I remember quite well Mr. Langley’s brooding while waiting for Mr. Ludlow’s arrival. That cannot be for nothing—certainly not! And the secret correspondence between Dr. Bleubaum and Mr. Langley… is this at all related? How—oh, why must this be all so secretive? I struggle to understand what is of such an imperative to hide.”

Quack Quack

It was officially evening. The sun was heavy in the trees, and I deemed it time to start rounding back, or get off the river at the very least. I knew not how the wind could be so heavy there and nowhere else. It was then that I remembered Mr. Pliny’s invitation to tea and hastened toward his home at once.

“Ah, yes, I had nearly forgotten. Perhaps, if he has invited me for tea, he will invite me for dinner too. I am sure that it won’t be a bother at all to the man. But where—oh yes. Oh, I don’t know. My nerves are far too worn to consider this any further. Just about the only person I need not speculate about is Miss Beadle, thus I shall take solace in her alone. But how old is Mrs. Langley, anyway? She must be a great deal older than Dolores, but she still looks quite young. Perhaps her thirties?…”

I speculated for a time about trifles such as these, very much against my will (curiosity is quite a powerful foe), before soon approaching Mr. Pliny’s door. I knocked and waited a while, then knocked again and waited a while. “A man his age could not be in the manhunt, could he?” I wondered. I knocked again, but grew impatient and began looking through his windows and eventually rounded his house into the back yard. He had a generally quaint house. It was certainly fitting for an old bachelor. A single story, perhaps four rooms in all, and a garden in the back. He told me once that he was of Italian descent, which meant that I wouldn’t find an inch of yard space not dedicated to the garden. Until the day of his death, he worked out there, and I never did find a single square inch of dirt without purpose.

“Good evening, Mr. Pliny,” I greeted the man. “I wondered if I might find you back here.”

The good-natured old man turned from some tomatoes and herbs and smiled. “William, it’s good to see you. I see your nose is improving. It’s not so purple as it was. Have you come for tea?”

“Yes, actually,” I replied, “and I was hoping for dinner too.”

He softly laughed and waved me over to him. “Alright, but you have to help me. Do you know how to pick carrots?”

I told him that I did not.

“It’s easy,” he said. “I’ll show you. See this? This is loose soil, so we can use our hands. You can tell when a carrot’s done because the crown will be showing, like this one. Okay, now watch here.”

The old man’s hands looked rough. He grasped around a long green stem coming from the ground, and held tightly around the base, then twisted and pulled up a surprisingly long carrot.

“Now you try. Be sure to grab it by the base of the stalk or else it’ll break and you’ll have to dig the carrot out by hand.”

I slowly imitated him and went to yank a carrot out of the ground. I pulled way too hard, however, and fell on my butt with just the stalk in my hand. Mr. Pliny was laughing and I initially felt embarrassed, but I was soon infected and laughing, too.

“That’s alright, William, you’ll get it next time,” he laughed.

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Open your ears! They’re speaking, and one must not miss a moment. The smallest detail is to be savored or else condemn us. Their voices were strong upon me, and my lucidity was acquiesced at once.

“Am I to understand you correctly?” Mr. Langley was speaking. “You cannot expect me to give in to such demands.”

“You understand well,” Mr. Belov said. I could hear the effect of his puckered upper lip that much more acutely from the door’s underwood. It was suddenly no wonder to me that he over-pronounced everything. “We do not expect you to ‘give in’ to anything. This would imply a choice in the matter. The conditions are clear, and you have nothing to do with them.”

I suddenly heard a slam against a table. “This is thievery!”

“Thomas,” a deep voice said that I thought could only be Mr. Ludlow.

“Don’t ‘Thomas’ me, you see what is happening clearly! These two-faced criminals have detested me for years. Is it at all bizarre that, upon my arrival and promotion of the truth, they disappear and the documents proving my inheritance disappear as well? Then, sure enough, they arrive with a lawyer the very next day and denounce my name and claim! This is nothing short of shameless thievery, and I will not stand for it.”

“Thomas,” Mr. Ludlow repeated, “I must admit, you are not in a good position. Coincidences do not commonly line up in this way. Neither do I approve of detective MacAvoy, and I must admit a bewilderment at your employing such a man. I do hope, for your sake, that this is not an act, but your history does not testify well. If I am being fooled, do admit it now.”

There was silence for a time, and I realized I was breathing very heavily.

“Mr. Langley,”—it was Mr. Dorothy—“you allege that we despise you. We do not. We make no formal or informal opinion of your character. We align our biases with that of Mr. Jacob Gorbachev as we have understood him. You are aware of the unorthodox union between yourself and Maria Signet, and you are aware of Mr. Jacob Gorbachev’s desire against the union during his life. His disapproval is strong enough that we cannot recognize your claims in any legal capacity. Nor does this past suggest the truth of your present circumstance, which, you must admit, is highly unusual. However, lie or not, upon the eighteenth birthday of Miss Dolores Signet, a failure to produce any true evidence of Mr. Jacob Gorbachev’s wishes will result in your express prohibition from any dispersal of inheritance—Maria Langley’s included.”

There was another slam and shout.

“Thomas!” Mr. Ludlow shouted. “You are acting like a fool. Compose yourself and act like a man when accused. You embarrass me and my association with you.”

“I will not contain myself when such injustice is in full display, John! This man,”—I can only assume he was pointing at Mr. Dorothy—“conceals his hatred for me under a veil of virtue and disinterest, but I tell you that I know him far better than any of you here, and he is well aware of Mr. Gorbachev’s feelings toward me. Why I have been left out of the will is a matter of the highest prejudice. I tell you, John, why would I be named the godfather of Mr. Gorbachev’s only male lineage if I am not to be trusted? If the man did not love me as a son, why would he dare to place me as overseer of such important progeny? This is the crux of it, gentlemen, and yet you are moved by personal prejudice disguised in false legality. I know not how your records leave me so far removed from the Gorbachev name, but I will not stand for it, do you hear me? It simply will not stand.—”

“That iz enough, Herr Langley!” Bleubaum shouted over the man. “Ve are avare of your relationship mit Herr Jacob Gorbachev. But it iz not fur uz to decide the nature of documentz zigned in our prezence by die very man. You unt I have our own past unt it haz been largely agreeable, but you untershtant vhy die vill haz been written az it iz.”

“Let there be no confusion,” Mr. Belov said, “that any admittance of evidence to Mr. Jacob Gorbachev’s wishes will be taken into due consideration. But you must understand that, at present, your words are no better than hearsay. Miss Maria Signet is determined to receive a portion of the inheritance—a fact the will makes explicitly clear. No mention is made of a Maria Langley.”

I heard footsteps toward the door and barely managed to scramble up and duck into a room across the hall before the back-parlor’s door was thrown open.

“So be it! You will get your ‘evidence,’ gentlemen,” Mr. Langley said from the doorframe. “I swear to you that. Your lifelong effort to be rid of me, Mr. Dorothy, shall not prevail. Your distaste for my name is all too apparent. Dr. Bleubaum—I am most disappointed by your apparent denunciation of our trust. I cannot express the betrayal I feel. Desire for reconciliation is beyond me in this moment. Mr. Ludlow, understand well that this is a ploy against my character and name. Recall the business we have shared and my desire for fairness at all points. You will see the truth of what I say easily if you commit this recollection to your mind. And Mr. Belov, I have no words for you aside from a hearty congratulations for being exactly what your profession prescribes: a wretch of crass legality and heartless conviction. I am sure there is not a shred of light in your eyes—how dark I fear your heart must be! That you gentlemen would dare mention Maria’s name, only to threaten removing her from the inheritance… I can find no amount of abuse to lay upon you, except that such an evil, I thought, was beyond the capabilities of men. But I suppose there shall never be an end to the shock that a man can sustain at the hands of evil.” As he spoke, his voice became louder and louder until it was a steady shout. He did not close his speech, but merely stamped away.

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I sat with my back to the wall and continued to listen as the three continued their conversation much more openly.

“I quite like that: ‘heartless conviction,’” Mr. Belov said. “I always strive to be impartial.” I struggled to imagine what a smile would do to his lip.

“Stop that at once,” Mr. Ludlow demanded. “What Mr. Langley says is compelling, and I must agree that this all appears highly suspicious. How do you answer him, Mr. Dorothy?”

“Mr. Langley has never been an obedient child. Mr. Jacob Gorbachev was, in my opinion, far too gracious with him, and it was my responsibility to look after the boy growing up. I can only say that I was more than relieved the day Mr. Langley finally took leave of us. His whereabouts, circumstances, and choices since then, as they have been related to me, have only ever been grievous to me. Why Mr. Jacob Gorbachev felt any attachment to the man is beyond me. But these details are unnecessary. The facts are not in favor of your associate, Mr. Ludlow.”

“And yourself, Dr. Bleubaum?” Mr. Ludlow ordered.

“I vill only say that Herr Langley’z character vaz improved mit age, unt vhen I hat die opportunity zu teach die man, he vas an attentive student unt hat many questionz. He left university early, however, unt I did not hear about the man again until very rezently. I perzonally alerted Herr Jacob Gorbachev of Herr Langley’z departure, much zu hiz alarm. Frau Maria Langley vas also a student, unt her departure vas also zoon dizcovered. Herr Jacob Gorbachev vas furiouz, unt that iz all I know.”

“If this is true,” Mr. Ludlow said, “this does not explain why Mr. Langley was named the nephew’s godfather. What have you to say about this, Mr. Belov? I assume you were the one to make the designation.”

I heard nothing, however, except a very inappropriate laugh from the lawyer. “Well, Mr. Ludlow, you assume incorrectly! I know nothing about the boy. Such is the knowledge of Mr. Dorothy.”

“That is enough, Mr. Belov,” Mr. Dorothy intervened. “Yes, Mr. Langley was designated the godfather of Master Gorbachev. However, I know nothing of the reason. I do apologize, Mr. Ludlow.”

There was silence for a beat. My own incredulity at the explanation, or lack thereof, filled my mind well enough. It was strange, but, for once, I did not believe Mr. Dorothy whatsoever. “The old servant has always professed to know everything of my uncle’s mind,” I thought. “Why should he now, for such an important detail—a detail left completely out of my life until just a few days ago, no less—evade the understanding of the man’s mind? I am shocked by you, Mr. Dorothy! Utterly shocked, and such that I have no basis for belief in you now.”

I felt a skepticism surrounding Dr. Bleubaum’s statements, too, and recalled what Mr. Dorothy had said about Dr. Bleubaum and Mr. Langley’s relationship: that their correspondence prior to Mr. Langley’s arrival was under an oath of secrecy by Mr. Langley’s own request. “But for what reason?” I worried. “And should that have bearing even now, after the anger and resentment of Mr. Langley has been expressed?” My mind was swarmed with questions, and I felt not at all satisfied by my benefactor’s answers—a sentiment that was evidently shared by Mr. Ludlow.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am afraid that this is all highly dubious, and I find myself deeply regretting that I have any stake in this game. I suggest that you begin to speak to me truthfully—you in particular, Mr. Dorothy.”

I was certain the old man’s eyes were indignant. I had never before heard anybody speak to Mr. Dorothy thus without being flung out a window. Yet, I heard no action transpire, but merely a deep breath.

“Mr. Ludlow, I will not condescend to ask if I have heard you correctly. Neither will I repeat myself. I have told you what I have told you. Whether you have a ‘stake in this game’ is of no consequence to me, and I highly recommend your imminent departure from my presence.”

Another silence ensued, and I knew not who to be worried for. I knew, from memory, how much larger Mr. Ludlow was than Mr. Dorothy, yet I had seen many strong men fall to Mr. Dorothy. I was shocked to hear cordial assent come from the old man’s opponent, however.

“As you wish, Mr. Dorothy, but we will speak of this again.” I heard Mr. Ludlow stand. “Thank you, gentlemen. I make apologies on my associate’s behalf.” And I heard his large steps go down the hall.

The three did not talk for a while, and I soon heard one of them get up and close the parlor door. I gained confidence to near the door once more, but I could not make out any words—mere hushes were all that graced my ears.

With that, I hastened away toward my previous mission of finding the potential threat of a girl.

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But I should say no more on the matter. I only want to make clear that, under no circumstances, should you place any prolonged confidence in me. I allow you to have but a small confidence for only opportune moments, but any global confidence you have must be abolished at once. I wish I could say I have abolished the same sense in me, but, alas, my ego is much too inflated to be able to keep that charade up forever; in fact, even saying I have no confidence in myself—that would only be a special kind of coping mechanism my ego employs to protect itself. Because, truly, I am far too prideful to rid myself of all such feelings, and I hardly know what I would do without any confidence whatsoever. Maybe one day I will understand how to control such a confidence and wield it well, but, as of now, it is rarely used in my favor.

My real reason for writing is that I have been inspired in a gross turn of events. I have long since felt the power of creativity flowing through me—that sense of pure originality, which only a real artist is able to control. I am, by no means, a real artist, yet still there persists that tingling feeling that I could be. I have tried to determine the source of this feeling, but anything I say is unprovable and only goads a sense of being special that I am strictly against. To be special is the worst and best thing you can be. You are left distinguished in an indescribable way from the rest so that all you can be is lonely and inexplicably important. If you are special, then there must certainly be some reason, which must mean that that there has been set aside some special purpose for you alone. The weight of such a thought is too much for perhaps even a confident man to handle, as that kind of elevation quickly confounds a man. The humble man may be able to handle it, but then as you pursue this grand purpose, you only trod further and further away until everyone is out of eyesight. True loneliness lies along this path, but fret not for the end of the path is sweeter than anything else; it is at the end of the path that your purpose is realized, and you are reconciled with God; and though you may have lost everything on the way, you gain that much and more at the end of this path.

As I mentioned, I have tried many times to put pen to paper, but my ideas always seem to trail off into some unseen oblivion wherein I am not allowed to follow. I try to follow the thread left behind, but its trail is so long that it withers and turns to dust before I can trace it anywhere meaningful. As a result, I am left with many half-pages with half-ideas and half-titles that hardly describe even an infinitesimal amount of a good writing. Even now, I wish I could confidently say that this will amount to something meaningful, but if history is to tell me anything, its traces will likely fade into an unrefined obscurity as well.

Perhaps that is part of this originality that I feel so intensely. Maybe it has been the case all across time that such a thing as profound as The Original (as our philosophers might put it) is elusive and slippery, never staying in one place long enough to get a good look at it. My issue is not in finding it—I seem to have a sense or intuition of where to look—rather, it’s being able to copy down what I see quickly enough. If I am to track down this—what should I call it? A thing? That hardly seems right, but I have no other choice at this moment in time. Perhaps a better idea will come to me later—thing and chase it through this landscape of my mind, I would not need to rely on that withered thread it leaves behind. I’m just toying with the idea in my head, but perhaps all its evidence is so useless because it is no longer original—nothing which is not presently original could possibly be original, after all, and so would be no use to the true artist. Perhaps I have a better intuition than I give myself credit for and I know what is worth following and what is not—or, more likely, I am just pretending to find some meaningful thought and passing it off as profound. But never mind that. It would seem that no trace of The Original (I cannot resist the urge to capitalize without truly justifying—I just love pretending to find something meaningful too much!) can ever lead me to find The Original for the reason of its, then, not being part of The Original anymore. So, from now on, I will abandon all such expeditions into that dull oblivion of tattered lines and idea-dust. Instead, I will fancy myself a hunter and attempt to chase this grand target, hopefully trapping it somewhere that I can selfishly gaze upon it to my heart’s content. Then, when I have had my fill and become fat off of it, it will escape me again and I will be left to a life of monotony in its wake. Sounds wonderful.

But, if I am to become like a hunter, I must prepare the proper provisions and learn the land. I must become proficient with my weapons and traps so that I may get the most out of my hunt. One might be led to think this requires a large amount of time and effort alone, perfecting some kind of craft, but such a man would only be partially correct. If you are one who is fortunate enough to have seen The Original, you need not worry about the particulars of your craft—The Original will fill you with that divine inspiration so that whatever you write will be interesting; truly, when you finally see The Original, any attempts at copying it perfectly will be in vain (such has been my mistake many times, as it quickly evades me when I look away) and you will be left with something uninspired, so you must settle for but a mere sketch. However, this sketch will always be better than anything else you’ve ever created, as all other things you believe you’ve created are but mere imitations of imitations (and possibly even those of imitations) of The Original. What is more important is this ability to capture, in a moment, what you have seen and then move on without questioning. You are hardly creating for yourself in these moments; rather, you are but an observer. Your skill comes not in creating—which I am not sure we are able to do—but in your ability to copy down and remember what you were shown.

Then it is a matter of endurance and faith. Endurance because it takes quite an effort to follow this creature (perhaps creature is better than thing? But this doesn’t seem right, either) and keep it in your sights long enough without getting too caught up in its tracks, which is the demise of originality in any craft. And faith because you must believe—truly believe—that such a thing exists. Whatever it is you are being told or shown by this entity (am I closer?), you must take at face value and trust, simply, that it is correct. If you take the time to track down The Original and then begin questioning what it shows you, then why did you even track it down to begin with? Don’t you know that your thoughts are hardly your own?—that they are only past utterances which you thought fit for the occasion? Why, then, do you think anything original presently rests within you unless you have it in your sights? But perhaps I am falling too far off the trail and I am only goading my ego once again.

Nevertheless, even if I am playing some kind of nonsensical game in the playground of my mind, it seems I can do nothing else but try and have fun with it. I would rather play, at any rate, than work; and if I can pass off play as working, then I can only be commended for it should I complete the job anyway. So, criticize my ideas and inadvertent subconscious high self-appraisal all you wish. If I should make something containing even an ounce of original expression or idea using such a crude analogy, then I will have no choice but to ignore all assailing comments and trudge forward in my hunt.

Then onto a matter of rules, if such a thing even exists. Actually, I really do hate the word “rule” as far as anything goes. Rules seem never to be universally applicable—and even that very famous philosopher believed that nothing could truly describe the whole world. I prefer to think of rules as useful guidelines. After all, how can I hope to make any progress unless I have some kind of principle telling me the generally correct way to go about my business? I can’t hope to hunt, for instance, without a “rule” telling me to follow the tracks and listen to the birds. Some rules are uttered, and others are not, but their usefulness is not to be questioned altogether. God is certainly not bound by the same rules He gives us—He understands (dare I say, Understands?) how things go, and so He would not need some rule to tell Him how. Any expert craftsman knows when to break the rules, but he could only get there, first, by an initial strict subjection to the rules, and then a playful attitude toward them. Nobody questions what the master does because the master always creates something better. Then what are these rules for hunting The Original? “Apparently,” you murmur, “you’re suddenly an expert on the matter, though you’ve never hunted.” And I will give you that—I am no expert, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried, and I have listened to what other people believe the rules are, though I am not sure they knew they were hunting. And, at any rate, something like this seems to run through my veins (I am saying all this out of an intuition that may be incoherent to anyone but me, but who else am I writing for, anyhow?). So, with that, listen if you wish, but know that I care not what you have to say, and I care not if you believe my advice sound.

Such a thing as The Original is, as I said, elusive. It cannot stay in one place for long due to its very nature. If it ever stayed put, then it would become what is Not Original, and that is strictly impossible. Then, if you wish to hunt such a thing, you, too, must put yourself in its shoes. Do not allow yourself to stop moving for a moment—do not give yourself time to think. Do not let yourself become distracted by the unoriginality of the world around you. After all, you do the same things every day out of habit (it is not your fault, and is not a blameworthy thing), and so you are constantly subjected to The Mundane, blinded from The Original. The Mundane is completely boring and there is no excitement. However, when you are at a party meeting new people—or any kind of exciting scenario like a concert—you cannot help but be assaulted on all sides by new experience. The one who does not let themselves enjoy such a thing is the one who loves what is constant and is holding on too tightly to what they know, but the excitement of the world comes in the unknown and the embracing of what is new and risky. With that, it seems counterintuitive to really call anything a rule when pursuing The Original, but truly the first rule is abandoning what you think is correct and safe (which is tried and tested and rooted firmly in The Mundane) and chase that exciting feeling you get when you encounter something for the first time. Now, this isn’t to say that The Original is completely without structure—no, let us not get confused with The Different (who can stop me?). The prevailing thing in The Original is not that it is always changing, though it certainly seems a feature, else two instances of The Original would be completely the same; rather, it seems that what makes The Original so distinguished is that there is something always new. The underlying structure may be the same, but there is something new and interesting involved that you just cannot help but play around with in your hands. It’s completely curious! But I am becoming distracted. The “rule,” then, is to be as playful as The Original is. You are a hunter, yes, but a good hunter is also a good role-player. You are able to play a certain part well and gain the trust of the things around you. If you are hunting for deer, you blend in with the trees. If you are hunting for ducks, you use duck calls. If you are hunting for The Original, you yourself must pretend you are original by letting go of all those mundane aspects of your life—you must look attractive so that The Original does not instantly run away from you.

In the same regard, this means you have to be committed to the hunt. You cannot expect to rid yourself of your mundanity in only a short period of time. This boils down to really wanting it. You can’t expect it to come to you when you’re still absorbed in the affairs, stresses, and distractions of life. You cannot allow The Mundane to creep into your life, in other words. “What time is it?” “Am I forgetting something?” “Has anyone sent me a message?” “Is my writing good?—is it original?” These are exactly the kinds of thoughts that threaten your hunt and drag you back down into the mundanity of your life, and they originate exactly inside of you. Simultaneously, however, you cannot expect to be on the hunt at all times. Perhaps a more skilled artist than myself (which I can hardly say I am) is able to keep it up, but such a thing certainly requires experience or inordinately innate ability—in which case, such a person would need not waste their time reading the comparatively terrible analogy I am laying out.

I tell you these things out of personal experience. In my past, I set out to write and I am instantly distracted every few moments because nothing comes to me. Slowly, I make pseudo-progress on the page, but it is all enmeshed in The Mundane. Then, because my progress is so slow, I force myself to sit there for hours while I try to meet some arbitrary quota, which only strangles any hope I have for real progress. Never set a quota in words. The only “quota” you need is a drive. If you have drive, then everything else will follow. Drive comes from really wanting it. Placing arbitrary restrictions on yourself is just discouragement waiting to happen, and, as we’ve established, such a thing is rooted in the mundanity of life. I cannot tell you how to get this drive—you just have to want it—but perhaps these “rules” will help you avoid the things which disintegrate drive. A few hundred words rooted in The Original is much better than two thousand by your own design. You will never match up to The Original, and that is okay. It is exciting, nonetheless, to try and understand and interpret what it is you’re being shown. As a result, it will be just as exciting for whoever reads (as, primarily, I enjoy writing) your work because they, too, may see bits and pieces of The Original and it will seem as though the story is truly living.

For these reasons, I do not advise you to try and adhere to any human standards of art. Human standards are only characterizations of rules believed to be found in The Original. However, The Original enjoys the luxury of a free structure. Any kind of rule we perceive is simply one form of what The Original is able to employ. Many past artists have seen these faux-rules in the stories they have been shown and employed them in their style—but that doesn’t mean they are to be followed to a tee. This means, and I strongly encourage this, that you should research as little as possible in the ways of style. If you feel that the chapter ends after 300 words, then that is where the chapter must end. If you feel that the standards of grammar do not suit the voice you are trying to achieve, then use whatever your fingers glide to and do not give it a second thought. Your book does not need to be a set amount of words long—many short stories are applauded and much more powerful than longer ones. That is to say, allow your story to speak for itself. The more restrictions and expectations you hold the story to, the more mundane it becomes—it is, all of a sudden, conforming to something human. As of right now, I am unsure how much say you have in the kind of story you find, though I feel that you are an integral part of the construction of the story.

But I talk too much at any rate. These rules are internalizing themselves in me, and what I ought to remember above all else is that I must simply keep writing. But now I have nothing to show for my efforts, save a small manuscript about something half-explained that perhaps nobody but me can truly understand. What words could I possibly use to give the idea justice? This was only an exercise of the hunt, and for a brief period of time, I felt I was keeping up with The Original, trying my best to copy down what I saw as quickly as I could. But now, I feel that the idea has left, and any further exploration will be an act of futility—at least for today. What I worry most of all is being unable to channel the same story and flow of ideas across multiple sessions of writing, but I suppose I should not worry too much or else I’ll become too distracted.

God Bless,

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In the years following, I found myself in a heated debate over the nature of surprises, accidents, coincidences, and, in general, those strange phenomena of nature where temporality and physicality clash to produce the range of psychic experiences we call “the unexpected.”

He posited that such phenomena do not actually exist—that anything and everything might as well be a surprise, meaning nothing is a surprise. To call something a surprise is a mistake perpetrated by cultural norms and a misunderstanding of the physical ordering of nature. He then said, with a great flourish, that not even our human misunderstanding is a surprise, “for the cosmic order hath ordained it so.”

Needless to say, I thought the man quite foolish, and, as I could not argue with a man who believed all things predetermined (such people are incapable of making up their own minds, and by their own definition!), I left the man to his smiles and arrogance.

Had he known the experiences of the beginning of my adult life, I am sure he would not have hesitated to throw all of his theoretical whimsy to the wind. I tell you, one such as myself has learned not to trifle with the definitions of words when I have found the experience of them in such great supply. We need only look at nature to understand that the experience of words is everywhere; all definition is supplanted by experience. Perhaps this is what the man meant, but I highly doubt it. For him, in his undeniable sophistry, everything is everything, which makes it nothing; but if one cannot see the absurdity of this, then I fear for that person’s soul.

This is all to say that I felt so very surprised when the detective left the backyard, for I had only a moment of reprieve before seeing Mr. Dorothy, Dr. Bleubaum, and a third man entering it.

I had learned from the experience immediately prior to fear unknown thirds, and I might have instantly put up my guard had I not been so dumb to understand what was happening. Truly, I am sure I recognized my two benefactors instantly, yet my understanding was jet-lagged. It was not until they were greeting me directly that I could see that they were, indeed, flesh and blood.

However, despite my surprise, their air felt cold and reserved up close, as though they, too, held lingering concerns over an event recently transpired.

“Master Gorbachev,” Mr. Dorothy began, austere as ever, “I am glad to find you. Do forgive our absence. We made search of you yesterday, but time was of the essence. This,” he motioned with hand alone, “is Mr. Belov. He was your uncle’s lawyer and will now be yours.”

Mr. Belov was slightly older than Dr. Bleubaum, slightly fatter, and slightly better dressed—but only on account of a hanging gold chain for a pocket watch. He almost seemed aloof, for his lower lip was just slightly puckered and he blinked frequently and slowly. However, his attention was evidently not entirely lost, for he made a modest bow of his head upon mention of his name.

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“Greetings, Master Gorbachev,” he said very clearly. No sooner, however, did he return to his vacant stare.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Belov,” I bowed back, not the least bit confident he received my welcome. “Excuse me, Mr. Dorothy, but what do I need a lawyer for?” My mind was fixated on the briefcase, and it felt that I had somehow entered into the logical conclusion of my conversation with the detective.

“You are right to azk. Ve have not been entirely truthful vith you, Master Gorbachev,” Dr. Bleubaum answered. He, too, seemed more timid than usual. “I regret die shock thiz may bring, but Frau Langley unt Fräulein Signet are your diztant relations. Az zuch, they are entitled zu a share of your uncle’z vealth. Herr Langley, however, informed uz yezterday that he haz documents that zuggest hiz entitlement zu your uncle’z vealth az vell. Herr Dorothy unt I deemt it bezt zu inquire legal advice at once.”

“We have made no mention of your cousins,” Mr. Dorothy continued, “out of no desire to deceive you. For years, we have unsuccessfully attempted to contact these relations. Furthermore, we were not aware of Mr. Langley’s marriage to Maria Signet until his untimely arrival.” The old man’s face appeared unusually grave. “This is a most disagreeable marriage and is entirely against the wishes of the late Mr. Gorbachev.”

I stared at the trio without reply. My mind was receptive to their words, but I could think only of the documents Bleubaum had mentioned. “What could he mean,” I worried, “by ‘entitlement’? I read the will and there was no mention of a Thomas Langley. What, was there a hidden clause? Or some stipulation that voided the will?—” But I managed only to utter an “I see” before Bleubaum was putting his hand on my shoulder.

“Master Gorbachev, pleaze aczept my apologiez fur die zeverity of your injury. I do not, however, regret my decizion. You must learn to control your anger—I vill not alvayz be around to control it fur you.” Bleubaum’s glare matched that of the night he hit me, and I could see he meant what he said and was particularly emphatic at the end.

“You seem well-meaning,” Mr. Belov suddenly spoke, again quite clear. His diction was evidently a priority of his. “Perhaps tonight, we can become better acquainted with one another. Until then, however,” he frowned and referred to my benefactors, “gentlemen? I believe we left an important discussion inside.”

Dorothy and Bleubaum exchanged a brief look.

“Of course, Mr. Belov,” Mr. Dorothy replied. “Master Gorbachev, do find time to calm down. You have stress written all over your face. We will send for you soon enough.” And the three each quickly bowed and left into the house.

I knew not how my nerves could keep pace with the events, and I dare say that they were not. I felt sick to my stomach and my head ached with another influx of anger.

“What is this secrecy!” I thought. “Is the title ‘Master’ worth nothing? I am certainly treated like nothing by usurper and servant alike—or am I wrong? But I am not wrong! My ears do not deceive me in this matter, nor do my eyes. I have received a direct confession of treachery: they knew of my cousins, yet said nothing; they knew of Mr. Langley long ago, and still—nothing. They exchange looks of bated breath and disengage from me more quickly than they arrive—do they think I’m without understanding or perception? Why have they bothered to speak to me at all?”

I impulsively glanced at the gazebo and whereabouts the case would be. “You must find my momentary peace and relapse into misery so very amusing, don’t you, God?” I thought, cursing the name. “But I will not fall so easily, you tormentor! God or not, you will not prove victorious this day—this I swear. I must find out what those documents are at once, but that wretched detective—why did I ever hide the case in such plain view?”

I turned back toward the house, unwilling to look at my ridiculous hiding spot any longer, and determined which room was the detective’s. It was two over from the Langleys’, which placed it nearly directly in view of the gazebo. Yet, to my horror, upon finding the room, I saw the detective watching me with the same skittish, wide eyes he left me with. I nearly gasped and I am certain I tensed up completely. “Had he seen me looking?” I panicked. “I hadn’t looked long, but… Stop—William, what has this man to do with you? He is nothing. No more than a liar. A cretin at best. Pay him no mind.”

I strained to relax and menace my own glare at him, but he stared all the same. I finally figured that it would be no use and that I had better just leave the whole thing as Mr. Dorothy said. The longer I remained in MacAvoy’s presence, the worse it was for me. Thus, I marched into the house and refused him any further satisfaction by my fear.

There were more pressing things, anyhow. I still had not the faintest idea where Dolores had gone, and it was of a greater necessity than ever that she go nowhere near that briefcase. I could not have her ruin the whole thing by some girlish curiosity or desire to toy with me.

Her room was first on the agenda, which I duly proceeded toward. However, I decided on a different route and, in so doing, neared the back parlor. At the time, I had no real design for this decision—it was quite haphazardly made—but, before I could pass, I heard murmurs coming from inside. The door was closed, but its undercut was large enough that, with a well-placed ear, I was soon the delighted eavesdropper of a private conversation between Mr. Langley and Mr. Ludlow with my benefactors and newly acquired lawyer.

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Did I call out to the girl? Were any moments of pause given in return? I should think not, but I can faintly recall nothing else aside from my stupidly standing there, suddenly alone and very perplexed. Even the air seemed to leave the room.

I do not think I was particularly convinced, either, of what happened, and I am sure I reasoned in every way that it had not happened at all, and that her sudden question was followed by only giggling—certainly mere innocent giggling! Embarrassment, or any quirk resembling, was hardly imaginable, particularly for the girl of such graces.

“But what am I saying? Such are simply the antics of a child,” I petitioned myself, hardly convinced of any supernatural affinity to circumspection, nor even of the ability of my own two eyes and ears. “It is only natural that a child should be the greatest of deceivers, yes? They hardly know the impact of what they say, and their playful ideas are just as quickly actualized as shock for everyone else. Only then do they ask their true desire—”

I assume that this is where my speculation ended—though my bias likely under-exaggerates—since my feet were suddenly released from their station and headed down the stairs in chase.

That I took such great pause before chasing the girl has never ceased to perplex me. What could have bewitched me so as to ignore the urgency of the situation? Was the meaning of the previous sequence of events not clear to me? I like to think that I was not nearly so daft, but, as those prosecutors of the penitent always say, “let the evidence speak for itself.”

I jumped down the spiral steps, several stairs at a time, and managed to relieve myself of the tower with all my vertebrae intact, then continued my frenzied dash downstairs, to back of the house, and into the backyard.

Upon, however, breaking through the doors, I saw no Dolores. There were rows of purple lilacs interposed with vibrant grass, properly attired in the evening sunlight, but I saw no Dolores. I saw a yard bespeckled with trees, as though a man once threw seeds out at random in rebellion against systematic design, but I still no Dolores. And there, in the corner of the yard, where a stone path escorted flowers of unique pairs to the gazebo, I saw one Mr. Langley, leaning over the gazebo’s railing and suddenly turning around at the aural disturbance; yet, beside him was no Dolores.

Instead, he was accompanied by the forbidding figure of Mr. Ludlow and an unknown man, shorter than both of them by a head’s length, dressed in a white button-up shirt, a black leather hat, and—to my bemusement—denim pants. These two men turned as well, and the unfamiliar man was suddenly waving me over.

Of course, I did my best to recompose by hailing the man in return and jaunting over a little more swiftly than I might have otherwise. My wits were torn, and I hadn’t a clue where Dolores might be, but I had sense enough to appear at least moderately pressed.

As I neared, I could see that the white button-up had, above it, a narrow, middle-aged face. He smiled very warmly with one side of his mouth and was the first to speak. The other two shifted uneasily behind him.

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“William Gorbachev, that’s correct?” he asked. I said that it was, and he put out his hand as prescribed by social convention. “I’m Detective MacAvoy. That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there.” He motioned to his own nose.

“Good afternoon, detective. Yes, I fell a few days ago. Sleeping has been difficult on account of the pain. I keep rolling over it,” I said, pretending to find amusement in my injury while digging my fingers into my palms. I tried my best to conceal my panic by fixing my face into something more stern and convivial. But the worry encroached in my mind that, with the light so well-angled, one might easily look through the gaps of the gazebo’s boarded floor. I am sure he noticed me tense up, and I am sure that the eyes of the darkened partners behind the detective were cognizant of my change as well. Mercy belonged to my nerves, and they bid that I would be tense so long as I stared ahead. Thus, so too was my handshake with Detective MacAvoy long and tense.

“Mm,” he started, a promising forbearance for myself. “Well, Mr. Langley and Mr. Ludlow are two men I have heard about but, fortunately for them, have never had to meet.” He smiled briefly at the two figures who, I had only just then allowed myself to look, seemed very tired and exhausted. I stared at them with the same nervous sternness as I did MacAvoy, and took no delight whatsoever in what I imagined their eyes to be saying.

The detective continued, looking back to me, “I’m to understand that there was a party last night, correct?”

“Indeed there was, detective. What is this about?” I asked, hoping to disguise any appearance of nervousness as concern. “I have been searching for people all day and have been left entirely in the dark.”

“No need to get upset, William,” he replied. “Everything is under control and nobody is hurt. If you’ll just answer a few questions, I’ll answer a few of yours. How about it?” The man’s head seemed to be in a perpetual nod and he stood uncomfortably still. I don’t know that he ever looked away from me, but one also got the impression that his tiny eyes were never looking at you to begin with. Always nodding and squinting; I don’t know that I noticed anything else so quickly about the man, and I was incredulous to think that was all there was to him. The contrast between him and Mr. Ludlow was particularly humorous in my mind, and while I wanted to derive some kind of peace from this, I was entirely too focused on remaining stern to accept anything other than my panic.

So, of course, I was very happy to oblige.

“That’s great, that’s great,” he repeated, patting me on the back and leading me away, much to my relief. But the man was tactically minded and turned back just before leaving the gazebo. “Do you two want to get some rest? Seems to me, you’re tired and could use it. We’ll be talking a while. How about it?”

“Yes, you’re right, that would do nicely,” Mr. Langley agreed. I was shocked to hear how deep his voice suddenly was, and wondered that exhaustion could really do that to a person.

So we left the gazebo, air returned to my lungs, and the pair of businessmen promptly headed into the house.

He spoke first in a brutal assault to my nerves, for he was suddenly quite skittish and hushed.

“I didn’t want them listening to us or anything—you know how it is. Can’t mix up witnesses and all that. Listen. I don’t care what happened last night, alright? You listening?” He snapped his fingers in my face what seemed like ten times and stared at me, frowning. His squint was gone. It was like he suddenly transformed into some kind of escaped convict. He stood crooked and kept looking around cock-eyed like someone was searching for him. He blinked chaotically and with half his face, and was always twitching his mouth.

“Listen,” he suddenly blurted, “I know you took the briefcase, it’s okay, it’s okay... I don’t care. I know you took it. I don’t know how, and I don’t care. Just tell me where it is and I’ll make sure those thieves don’t get it back.” He stopped dead and stared at me wide-eyed.

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“Wh-what?” I said. My mouth was suddenly very dry and my nervous system reared into my chest. I’m sure I must have appeared quite guilty. What did he mean? How could he know? It was ridiculous to think he knew anything—yet, he was speaking with such authority and about motives that were not at all implausible. It was a cold thought, and I felt compelled to stay silent and correspond with his stare.

“You’re nervous, I can see it all over your face,” he said, but suddenly spoke very slowly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone. These guys are crooks and we both know it. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, and I’ve been talking to them all day. Just tell me where the case is and we can tie this whole thing up in a neat little bow. How about it?”

It was true. I was very visibly disconcerted, and I became overcome with the worry that I was betraying myself, but I remained cool enough to reason that my innocence was maintained so long as I was silent. He seemed to see my tactic and met it with an increasingly imposing stare. I felt forced back into my neck and felt my vision narrow and narrow until, soon enough, I could shrink back no more. “What if,” I thought, “he’s not lying?”

I felt it imperative to speak. If I didn’t speak, I might burst or look away and be crushed under the weight of his accusing eye. The compulsion to utter the smallest affirmation was strong; indeed, it was ready on my tongue and felt like so very easy an option. I wondered if perhaps it was better to tell him—that perhaps he could help me do away with Mr. Langley. Perhaps he knew some crime that Mr. Langley was involved in, and, once it was revealed, the deplorable man with his deplorable case and that extraordinarily confusing girl would finally be gone.

Yet, some small part of me knew he had nothing and offered nothing, and I felt strongly pulled into a lucid state that entirely affirmed it. My panic momentarily waned and I felt that the situation was entirely below me. “Detective MacAvoy,” I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Stop talking nonsense. What briefcase?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Gorbachev! I see you. I know you,” he said, alternating back into his crookedness. “You’re a smart kid—Mr. Langley’s nothing. Mr. Ludlow’s nothing. You know that, and you’re angry. I know you, and you’re better than them. They’re pompous, and you know it. It’s only understandable that a smart kid like you would—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I interrupted, suddenly quite angry. “Speak sensibly or I will leave this instant. I don’t have the patience to talk to conspiracy theorists.” It felt powerful to name my own terms. “What right,” I continued, unwilling to wait for any further response, “have you to make such an accusation of me? From nowhere, you come, and now you insist upon my base character? You know nothing about me. Your tactics are lowly, and I am certain you betray yourself far more than I.” And I turned and hastened to my word, beginning my departure.

To this, he evidently felt it appropriate to start laughing. I was in no mood to entertain him, however, more out of anger than anything, but he kept up his act and I felt bound by my own pride to turn and respond.

“What are you laughing about?” I demanded. “You are quite lousy, you are aware of that, right? … Stop laughing at once.”

“William!” he bellowed. “You’re very feisty, you know? Quite the soldier, and very loyal to a cause. So much power for such a young fellow. I applaud you, really I do. However,” he said, walking toward me and contorting his face into something that was neither a smile nor a frown, but some grotesque form of what’s in between, “you are not so clever as you think. I implore you to consider my offer. Sorry men deserve sorry sentences, you know, and the law and letter are not always a sufficient means of justice. Some of us place ourselves in more opportune positions than others for this very purpose. But I’ll let you think about it.” And he walked past me toward the house.

“I’ll be staying here a few days, at the invitation of the esteemed Mr. Langley,” he added, prim and proper at once. “Just two windows over from our friend. Au revoir.”

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I awoke late in the morning and relished peace for perhaps three seconds before remembering the events of the night prior. I groaned and attempted to fall back asleep, but the fire of anxiety in my heart had already begun burning. Its chief resource was today’s country outing, and my mind worked tirelessly to deliver its nearly endless supply of questions to the flame.

Thus, I shot up and hastened to dress myself.

“What if they have been waiting for me?” I worried. My chest was already tight and it was difficult to breathe. “It would be ludicrous to suspect anything on account of my sleeping in, right?”

Fortunately, I saw nobody as I went to wash, and I paid special attention to my hands and face, scrubbing and trimming each of my fingernails until I was sure there was not a trace of dirt. The hot water was particularly soothing, and in a way I had never before appreciated. It was not that it washed my anxiety away, but that I could focus on the scalding water and nothing more for a time.

I felt, under the heat’s influence, that the world was a dream, and I could imagine myself very distant and far away. It was good to get away, and I hated being brought back, whether by a sudden bad taste in my mouth, or my eyes catching their reflection in the mirror. But, by degrees, I found a slight peace in the burning water.

“Perhaps,” I half-joked, “I will find that Mr. Langley has gone. Maybe I will leave and the house will be just as it was, and Mr. Dorothy and Bleubaum will have returned and have put that man in his place. Yes, perhaps all will be well again and ridiculous girls and impromptu parties and slimy men will be gone, never to spoil my peace again.”

I could not believe in my fantasy, however, though I desperately wanted to. The world was not designed to work as we fancied; rather, it seems better the rule that the world forever works contrary to our liking. I struggled to find the sense in all my effort if the world would destroy me either way. I wanted to be angry, but I was drained, and I wondered that I even cared about the damned briefcase in the first place.

Alas, the time of scalding had come to a close, and I deigned it best to present myself downstairs should anybody be waiting. I could find but one silver lining in my present mood, and it was that I had not the energy to worry about betraying myself. Anxiety, though nestled well around my heart, would not be seen easily past my face’s thick coat of placidity. I worried, instead, of pretending to care enough and whether I might not act sufficiently shocked when the crime’s inevitable disclosure met my ears.

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However, despite it being nearly noon, I met nobody downstairs. There appeared not a trace of the party’s cleanup, nor of anyone at all for that matter. I could not find even a servant when exclusively seeking one out. This tempted me to anger, but the ignoble spirit gave up as I forwent the search. My mind went once again to Miss Beadle, then to Dolores, then to Dorothy and Bleubaum, but I truly wondered that I cared at all.

“What does it matter where anybody is?” I spoke aloud. “Isn’t this exactly what I wanted?” Yet, I was not convinced, as my imagination did not paint it nearly so drearily.

“Well,” I was practically yelling, “if there will not be anyone to make lunch, I will simply have to go out to fetch it myself!”

I waited for a response, but I heard merely my own echo.

Stepping outside, I saw that the Rolls-Royce was indeed missing, as were any and all other vehicles. It was beginning to get on my nerves that I was never told anything of where people intended to go, not even by note. This case was particularly irritating, for not even a servant was left! I took to remedying my irritation through the harsh pedaling of my bike. I was in no mood to go by foot on such a hot day, and I felt my hunger more acutely in my momentary reprieve from panic.

The ride did work to cool me down, as a pleasant breeze was working in my direction, but I was no less distracted by the inner machine wreaking havoc on my mind and heart alike. The route was quite familiar and rote for me, and it was of no great interest. There were trees, there was grass, there were mailboxes with their own gravel paths; it was all the same to me. I’ve found it a rule that we quickly stop caring, that the wonder of our youth isn’t long for our eyes—those once lighted eyes!—but rather that we’re darkened quickly by the sun and left to scrap for something new. And who could be surprised that all our envy of one another comes from the selfish ambition to forever find what’s new? We shall always kill each other for want of something new, yet the old is left but eighty percent consumed and for the birds to pick.

We let go of our childlike wonder as soon as it stops offering its immediate pleasure, but there’s a greater pleasure to be found if only we’d look deeper. This is what the looming provides, but you must not look!

Do not look.

If you look, its effect wears off, and we’re left more dull and horrendous than if we’d let it work its light through our features. I tell you, when you least expect it, you will find yourself seized. Some call it intuition, but I call it grace. Do not scorn the looming, for it has a mind of its own. Accept it, and you shall see! But I cannot speak any more of the matter, and I fear I have already said too much—the looming resists explanation!

As it were: In the heart of town was a deli that was a favorite of mine. You could walk in and they always had a new special and about fifty soups. A father ran the place with his whole family, and I always thought he was very nice, though his kids were incredibly rude.

On this unlucky occasion, one of his daughters was behind the counter. She was several years younger than myself and despised me. For what reason? I knew not. I tolerated her attitude, though out of necessity alone.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, looking incredibly lazy with all her hair falling to one side and over her face.

“Yes, it’s me, Samantha.” She hated it when I called her by name. “Where’s your father?”

“Out. What do you want?”

“Out? He’s never out. Is he sick?”

She was already groaning. “There’s some kind of manhunt going on—are you going to order or what?”

I perked up and tried to stifle my surprise. “M-manhunt? For whom?”

“You talk a lot,” she barked. She was especially mean that day. “If I tell you ‘for what,’ will you order and leave me alone?”

I happily agreed and pretended to ignore her mockery.

“Some rich guy put up a cash reward for finding a thief who took a suitcase or something. Basically everyone in town is searching for it. I’m surprised you didn’t know, Mr. Know-it-all.” She eyed me and frowned. “Now order something already and leave.”

I followed through with my end of the deal and got some kind of soup and sandwich. She looked to be the only one there, as she promptly disappeared into the back.

I felt uneasy.

“If everyone was out looking for this briefcase,” I thought, “then they must have no idea it was me. I wonder…”

“Do you,” I shouted back to her, “happen to know what the thief looks like?”

She gave no answer for a long time. I shouted again, against my sandwich’s potential well-being, and she trounced back to the front. “Do you want me to make your food or not?”

“Well, yes, but since you already know so much—”

“Fancy clothes and average height or something. He was at the rich guy’s party. Now leave me alone!” And she stomped back to my soup and sandwich.

I refrained from asking any more questions for fear of what might happen to my meal. It had been so long since I last ate, and I felt that a headache might be coming on. The meal did finally come, though it looked almost literally thrown together. I said nothing, however, but merely thanked and paid the unhappy girl.

I devoured the meal in due haste and, for the first time, felt that I might actually have nothing to worry about. “If everyone is out searching,” I thought, “of what concern is that to me? Am I not free for the day? Am I not at leisure to do as I please?” And I felt incredibly pleased, indeed. The world was suddenly mine again, and my possibilities were not limited to Mr. Langley and what he might do.

“For once,” I laughed (I was mounting my bike at this point), “it seems that I have the upper hand. What a dreadful way to spend the day, searching for a phantom in this heat! It might only be better if I could see for myself Mr. Langley’s anxiety. I really must thank Dolores for this—it was entirely her idea. I’m sure I’ll do so. Truly, could it have gone any better than this?” And I laughed to myself nearly all the way home—that is, until I saw the Rolls-Royce parked in front of the house.

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My pleasure was immediately snuffed and I wished that I hadn’t eaten. I took my time putting the bike away in the shed, and I found that its hot and stuffy air was preferable to meeting Mr. Langley. I stayed in there until I was sweating and could stand it no more, then trudged to the front door.

There was no sign, however, of any servant or any Langley, not visibly at least. The previous silence of the banquet hall—or rather, the dreaded location of Mr. Langley’s attempted coup—was softly rippled by what sounded to be the tears of a woman.

I slowly walked through the hall and listened, weighing my steps against my ears to lead me to their source.

“Miss… Beadle?” I speculated. “No, no… not piercing enough. My ears would have already shrunk back.”

But my pace turned towards the back of the house, and I soon found myself in a familiar hall just past the dining room. It would be Maria, then, behind the very same closed door that I had, but the night before, collected so much panic over.

She cried very lightly, and it reminded me of mist in a drizzling rain. It did not seem to me that she was holding back any of her misery, but her chokes and sobs felt somehow half-realized. I wondered that she must have felt very alone, sobbing as she was, yet still unable to overcome the convention of silence brandished on every woman.

I stood there and listened for a while, and I felt terrible for doing so. Not only did I feel responsible, but private listeners as myself were precisely those to be loathed. Where she felt solitude, I could only be an intruder. And yet, I still listened all the same, for there was intelligence in between her catches for breath.

“God, what are we going to do?—We’ll be ruined, Lord!—It’s all my fault...” There followed a long verbal silence, broken only by incomprehensible pleas and hyperventilating, until the same question, prophecy, and accusation were repeated again and again, leaving me only to induce its repetition ad infinitum.

I could soon take it no more. I left and returned to Maria her solitude before she could realize it was gone.

And yet, as bad as I felt for the woman’s sorrow, I could not help but feel a repugnant delight at being the cause of such severity. That Maria should feel this bad—I could only imagine and rejoice at what Mr. Langley might be feeling! Oh, how this so delighted me, I cannot relay in words. It was positively evil, I am sure of it, and yet all was entirely fair. More than fair, really. The punishment for treason—a bid for power, no less!—is always death, and if one should escape merely being ruined, then that was more than fair!

The trail of tears was thus covered over and accounted for by a swift trial of justice. Cold and hard and cruel was the gavel that sentenced, but this said nothing about me—how could it? I was no more than a victim, and I had brought the perpetrators to court: this is the duty of every upstanding citizen and the privilege of a king.

Of course, it is regrettable that a woman should cry—what self-respecting man could disagree?—but a convict always cries when they realize their schemes for wanton power and felicity are foiled. Let it be, I say!

I could feel bad for Maria in but one way: that I knew not the extent to which she was involved in the conspiracy. But, as surely as her name was Langley, she was an accomplice in the crime that was Mr. Langley’s importunate existence in the household.

“What could one say?” I posed to the banquet hall. “It is behind me, and I wash my hands of it. There it goes! Gone and far away, and now I shall wait—I will wait and see to what advantage this is of mine. Indeed, I will see much more than that soon enough. Because, while the sentence has been handed, the punishment has only just begun. Death by tension, death by twist, death it shall be for the one whom he will kiss! Just as Judas did as he felt was right, so shall I, but without false righteousness to bite.”

Quite pleased with my poetic inspiration, I thought I would enjoy a relaxing afternoon in the spire and read the day away. I was sure Mr. Langley would appear eventually, but no time was better than another, for I was sure he would only return upon having thoroughly given up.

“Only then,” I said, “when I see his despair rival that of Maria’s—only then will I begin to press my advantage.” And in this resolve, I sealed my peace.

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I ascended the spiral staircase up to my world’s-eye view in a mirth I do not believe I had ever known. I determined that I would not get distracted on my way up, as I wanted to take a long look over the town. Admittedly, I did not feel good that so many people searched for a phantom, but, then again, another man’s gambling was not my responsibility.

When I did reach the top, however, I was sorely disappointed to see those blonde curls of the night before standing where I intended.

“Hello, Dolores,” I said. I fancied it better not to surprise the girl.

She spun around, evidently surprised anyway. “You actually did it! I was only angry with you and saying nonsense—I didn’t think you’d actually do anything.”

I couldn’t tell if she looked shocked or displeased.

She continued. “Mr. Langley is furious and Maria is inconsolable. I really cannot believe you actually did it.”

I couldn’t help but smile in pride. “Yes. I could not be a coward any longer. Mr. Langley went too far too quickly to go unpunished.”

“You wouldn’t have done anything if it weren’t for me bruising your ego,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. “I heard all about it, anyway. You’re more luck than skill.”

“Admit it, you are impressed nonetheless.”

She looked skeptical, but I am certain I saw the slightest approval. “I’ll be more impressed if you don’t break when Mr. Ludlow gets ahold of you.”

“Mr. Ludlow or no, it will not matter. Even if they suspect me, I will simply lie. It is a trifle, Dolores girl, and I will not be intimidated,” I said.

“I don’t believe you for a second,” she laughed, jumping over and onto the couch, “but if you say so!”

“I do say so, actually, and I must have you admit that you are impressed.” I followed her around to the other side of the couch.

But she was incredulous. “What does it matter to you if I’m impressed? What, do you have a crush on me?”

“WHAT! Absolutely not, Miss Signet, and I kindly demand you to refrain from such nonsense. That is not it at all.”

“Oh yeah?” she replied. “Then why is your face so red?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh my,” she pretended to be shocked, “you’re more in love with me than I thought.”

“You’re deplorable, and I would fancy the deli-girl before even thinking of pursuing you.”

“Oh? So you like the deli-girl, huh?” She was getting a real kick out of this, I could tell, and I wondered how a mind such as hers got along in any healthy manner. “I bet you think about the deli-girl all the—”

“Stop this instant! I never have nor shall I ever even dream of Samantha or her poor posture.”

“Her name is Samantha, then!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “When will you bring her to the house? I simply must see her for myself.—What color eyes does she have?—Is she shorter or your height?—I hope, for your sake, she’s shorter.”

She was cracking herself up well enough by herself, and I might’ve considered myself of half a mind to leave her to it, but my feet were securely fashioned. It was my afternoon to enjoy, and I would not have any childish imposition of make-believe or otherwise be its untimely dissolution.

“Miss Dolores Signet, that is quite enough,” I said. “You are free to make jest all you like, but do find somewhere else to do it. I, at present, am quite at peace with myself, and I fear you are a leech and a cretin of tranquility. My fortitude simply cannot bear it! I am not above begging, and will do it gladly if it should mean your imminent departure.” At close, I tried to look as stern as possible, but she merely laughed in my face all the more.

“You really are a walking thesaurus, William,” Dolores said, getting up. “Where did you learn to talk to pretentiously? Fine, I’ll leave, but it’d be a shame if I left and happened to let slip something or other to Maria… or to Thomas” She was all smiles and treachery, all the way down, looking anywhere but to myself and with arms and legs crossed.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said slowly.

“Oh, but wouldn’t I?” she replied equally paced. “I’m dependent on the Langleys, after all. So, in a way, you’ve stolen from me, too.”

“You don’t care about that and you know it! It was your idea in the first place.”

“Was it?” she said, barely pressing a finger into her cheek and acting disgustingly innocent. “Now, why would I say anything like that?”

“You are abominable, Dolores,” I said. “I don’t believe you for a second, though it sickens me that I may be the only one. What do you want?”

She finally looked at me and grinned. I wondered that she might’ve looked more evil than myself not ten minutes prior. “Now you understand. Just tell me two things,” she said, standing up to level her gaze and looking far too confident for her own good. “The first is, do you think I’m pretty?”

I cannot relate just how affected I was by this question. I felt my vision momentarily fade and my entire body recoil. The audacity! Was I breathing? No, I can bet that I wasn’t, and on account of the earnestness I felt that the question was posed, since she stood there, no longer grinning, but with only the subtlest smile. “She isn’t serious,” I thought, “is she?”

Her dress was much simpler today than it had been—though I hadn’t noticed until just then. It was quaint, I thought, only quaint—truly! But that I should be the judge of the wearer’s prettiness? Would that not make me a judge of her beauty, as well? And what would it mean to admit to such a thing? A trifle, surely—but I feared being taken with the earnestness in which I believed she asked. Would she ask next if I liked her? What ridiculousness! It couldn’t be.

“Perhaps” I reassured myself, “it was blackmail, and this was yet another ploy to have something over me.” Yet, she did look in such earnest. Could she really be asking? And what if I answered in the negative? Perhaps she would be angry and accuse me to Mr. Langley. But...

This all flashed in my mind in an instant, and I knew not what to say and just stared at her in a stupor. I thought I saw her confidence falter for just an instant, and she looked suddenly red. Of course, the girl’s composure was all regained in as much an instant, but the impression was already made and set into my vision.

“I’m just kidding, William” she quickly said. “I don’t care about that. I just wanted to see the look on your face before asking you where you hid it—the briefcase, I mean.”

“The briefcase…? Oh, yes!” I responded, barely speaking before my vision returned. “Yes, where I hid it—under the gazebo—” Though I instantly regretted saying anything at all. I had intended to lie! Of course I had—what business had I in telling the truth to a child? I felt my face flush with heat and I don’t know that Dolores said anything before she was suddenly gone from the room.

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My jaw was tight, but no amount of rubbing or massaging alleviated the ache in my gums. I could not sleep and would not. So long as I heard shouting and running from under my window, I permitted fear to rule over my waking mind. That they should find the briefcase and condemn me at once—it was the greatest possibility!

For each pair of footsteps that went by, my heart screamed that my time had arrived, that they had found it and it was better to give myself up. Because of course, if they found the case, what should they do but look up? Any imbecile would understand that the robber hadn’t run away—no no, not at all! It would be entirely obvious that they had hidden themselves. Who would have had time for anything else? A thorough search of the perimeter would be made, if it were not already underway (in which case, my fate was sealed), and then they would search the house, starting with my very room.

But what if the house was already to be searched? I jumped from my bed and ran to lock the door. Then unlocked it. “It would be suspicious,” I reasoned, “if my door were suddenly locked.” But I still had to get out of my clothes, which were covered in dirt. If anyone saw me like this, I knew not how I would defend myself. Perhaps that I’d also been searching?—But never mind that, what was I thinking? New clothes were necessary!

I promptly changed and stuffed the clothes far back into my wardrobe to be dealt with later. I felt disgusted at my hands. They were filthy. I tried to wipe them off with my clothes, but, even relieved of dirt, they felt completely filthy. I’d tracked and rubbed dirt everywhere in my haste and I was still clinging to the keys.

“What was I to do with the keys? I could hide them with the clothes,” I thought, “but what if my room was searched while I was gone? I might explain the clothes, but there would be no explaining this. These would be the only evidence they’d need to”—my trembling deadened to a daze. “...to what?”

“What,” I questioned my wardrobe, “could they even do? Can a master steal from their own house? Or does not each tenant implicitly agree to the master’s supreme authority?”

But I knew no one would see it this way. I was to be considered a criminal, and of a crime much worse than thievery. I felt as a king condemned, dethroned and punished, subjected by the same imperative of servantry belonging to those such as I was meant to rule. It simply would not do—it must not!—and so how could I be expected to act any less shrewdly? It was good to incite this uproar, and I felt that it could have occurred in no better way.

“Yet,” I contrived, remembering Mr. Pliny’s words, “what can be expected of one being caught conspiring for the crown? Rightful or not, the punishment must remain the same. Treason shall remain forever treason, and its punishment must be forever death.”

I chanced to look at a Bible on my desk. I never read it, but it was a necessity in my studies with Bleubaum. He was a devout Catholic himself.

“What had he—oh, what was his name?… David! Yes, what had David done when that king of Israel wanted to kill him? Didn’t he spare that tyrant? … Or cut the king’s robe when he might’ve killed him? What had he done next?”

I was tempted to open the book to check, but my fear at making a sound let alone shining any light strictly voided this option. Only the darkness promised to conceal me, and so it must not be disturbed. I would simply have to look some other time—“But what of the confounded keys?” I yelled at myself.

I looked wildly about the room, but my eyes found no rest. For each spot, I could think of a scenario to reject it. But then, what if I didn’t hide the keys at all? I needed only the one, and for merely one purpose. It would be far too risky to keep anything in my room—all I required was the briefcase’s contents, and then I could dispose of it without any suspicion. For that, however, I would have to retrieve the case, and it had to be that very night.

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Thus, I stooped by the window and listened for a while, only allowing myself to watch when it seemed the night had quieted. Unlike before, I could not risk being seen. I was sure that the whole town was aware of the purported crime.

“Perhaps,” I wondered, “there are people out searching the town?” I had hoped to dispose of the case in the river, but I feared the park was far too open a space. “By bike, it would not take more than forty minutes around—no, it’s just no use! Any fool riding a bike at this hour is sure to be stopped. That was true, but then, what if I never left the property?

Before I could think any further about it, I was descending the Oak tree. I wondered if I should feel bad for making an accomplice of the tree, but I reasoned that the Oak was my servant in all things. If it had not extended its kindness to me, I would never have escaped and Mr. Langley’s tyranny would have begun its indefinite reign unchallenged. For that, I vowed to the Oak that I would not fail in wringing justice from this cruel night by any means necessary.

The case was untouched and was better hidden in the bushes than I had imagined. I concealed it as best I could against my chest, and wrapped myself in a black coat. It hardly looked natural, but I needed only to get to the backyard.

As I followed the manor’s perimeter, I stopped at its corner and peered into the yard. It was very dark that night and I saw no lights. Nonetheless, I hurried to the edge of the yard, which must have been several hundred feet from the house, and followed the tree line’s additional cover of darkness. My hands still felt so grimy, which no amount of wiping on my clothes alleviated, but I soon came to my destination. In the corner of the yard was a small granite memorial for my uncle, and near it was a gazebo that he apparently often passed his final days in.

There, under the gazebo, however, was a small hole. I presumed that it was dug by a rodent, but it exposed enough of the gazebo’s underside that I thought, with a little digging, I would certainly be able to hide the briefcase. And this is precisely what I did. The ground was surprisingly light, and I was able to push away enough dirt to squeeze the suitcase and keys under the jagged wood’s ends. I pushed the dirt back as best I could and tried to rub my hands clean in the grass, but they still felt filthy.

Nobody saw me, as far as I could tell, and I returned safely to my room and crawled into bed. My jaw still ached, and it felt to be spreading into my eyes, but at least I was safe.

“Why, if this is right,” I whispered, “do I feel so awful? Why has this suddenly happened to me? … God, I don’t speak to you much... Do you even exist? Why have you done this to me? What am I supposed to do? Prove you exist to me, prove this moment that you exist—I will not waste my time speaking into the air.”

I listened for an answer, but heard only the same creaking of the house as always.

“You mock me. You must find my suffering funny, don’t you? Well, I have had to take matters into my own hands tonight, and you have brought me to it. Do you understand? This has been forced out of me by necessity. David did the same. But you were with David, weren’t you? Why, then, aren’t you with me? Do you hate me? That’s it, isn’t it? You simply hate me. That’s why I feel so filthy and so… angry. But my hands are tied. I cannot do anything else. So you must either answer me this moment, or you will prove yourself a fraud.”

Yet there was only wind.

“Fine,” I said. “You will have no part in my life. If you will not accept responsibility for me, then how can I have anything to do with you?” And I violently turned to the opposite side, forgetting my nose and stabbing it against my pillow.

“AH—God,” I cried, “why do you torment me! What have I done? I have done nothing wrong, and yet you clearly get a kick out of my misery. At least I am not as Mr. Langley is: all falsity and duplicity. At least I am honest. Am I not honest? Prove me wrong, if you can, but then you must claim responsibility for me. If I am wrong, then there must be recompense—any good man must admit that—and it will be as a servant to you. I don’t care. Those are my conditions, but I doubt you. I doubt you will do anything. Why am I even wasting my time?”

And I do not remember any more of that night.

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I knew not which room was Mr. Langley’s, but the festivity of the party still seemed in full effect. At least, the near-constant echoing of laughter and music had not become any less constant. And it did not take long for my discouragement to set upon me. Perhaps not five rooms into my haphazard search, a passing clock informed me that midnight was encroaching, and what if Mr. Langley retired early?

“This is senseless,” I said, taking pause in an empty room. “There must be a better way.”

Thus, I took to pacing, as it had proved the only prevailing strategy of my past.

“There is no clear pattern to the rooms that tenants have previously inhabited—at least, not that I can tell,” I muttered. “But what might I bet on?” I rubbed and contorted my face in thought, squinting and shaking my head as though I disapproved of the answer. I had the hunch that Dolores’ room would be far from the Langleys, if her opinion was to be trusted. I took for granted that it was, which incited thought of her room, inciting remembrance of her dress; then I remembered the blood; then my nose; the fall; dinner—“The fork! Mr. Slimy’s—I mean, Langley’s—fork that never was, and on account of the impudent man’s untimely fetching of gloves.”

Forgetting my previous affinity for exhaustion, I made haste toward the dining hall where I’d first seen him. I was not surprised in the least at his choice of room—I knew those rooms quite well. They were agreeable, I admit, but were exactly what a man like him would pick! I was unquestionably annoyed, too, for the dining room was directly behind the banquet hall. This, of course, meant witnesses and worse: that Mr. Langley could appear at a moment’s notice. I weighed the likelihood by the heaviness in my chest, and heavy indeed it was. But I was not to be fazed.

“Trifles,” I declared the complication to be. “It would not matter if even Mr. Langley were right outside the door; I would still find my way in—certainly! I must not allow myself to be trounced for the fourth time today.” And, satisfied with my pronouncement, I dismissed my unease.

However, as I neared the hall and saw more recognizing guests, feigning my own cordiality in return, I felt acutely unprepared.

“What will I do,” I worried, “if I’m recognized going in and out of Mr. Langley’s room?” Scenarios crowded my ambition. “What if a guest accuses me? Or sees me and gets Mr. Langley? Or”—this I dreaded most—“what if Mr. Ludlow sees me and decides to take action himself?”

The corners of my nose contracted in self-defense as I looked for any other way.

“What if I wore a mask—” But there was no use in hiding my face. That would only attract more attention.

“Maybe I could—” But to create a distraction wouldn’t do, either. I only had a suspicion of which room it might be, but there were two other possibilities at least.

“What if—” But it simply wouldn’t work! There were far too many guests and just waltzing through the door would attract too much suspicion.

“But what if I never entered through the door?”

I instantly diverted my course and made for the backyard. It was certain and decided; there could be no further complication or question: I would go through the window.

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In my haste, I never considered that there might be guests outside as well, but I was undeterred and, upon first touch of pavement and grass, found my ill-due consideration unpunished. Not a soul was present, and to my greater pleasure, only one of the rooms I suspected as Langley’s was lit.

Bushes lined the manor’s perimeter, which were only slightly bothersome, but I made haste through them and ducked beside the window in question. It would do no good to sneak in if eyes awaited me, so I peeked first through one side and then through the other, careful to understand the room in its entirety. There could not be blind spots! Upon first look, however, my spirit was tried. The door lay half open, and I saw that guests passed by at random intervals, sometimes stopping to look in.

“Confounded man!” I said. “That you would leave your door wide open, and for what? Vanity? To boast?” But I reminded myself of the time rain checked my displeasure.

I must interject here that the thought of entering through the door had been entirely forfeited from my mind. That I didn’t simply go inside and enter through the door, knowing of its unguarded and open nature, is a mystery to me. However, in defense of my younger self, there was no knowing how many guests stood in the door’s hall, nor how much time I had to divert course once more.

The window, fortunately for me, was unlocked, and it was opened by degrees until I finally committed, in one motion, to raising it all the way. I was skeptical of my fitting through it, but I thought it just wide enough if not tall. More worried was I about getting to the door—what choice had I but to close it? And I bargained with myself for lack of time. Guests came by frequently and, though I tried my best to listen, their warning was five seconds at best and nothing at worst.

My breathing became increasingly shaky and my hearing felt dull. Darkness felt to be closing in, and I knew I had not much time before it would compel me to act or flee. I debated abandoning the mission, but could I ever be reconciled to myself if I did? “A coward’s errand!” I accused the prospective self. “That—that I will not be.”

I worked myself up to climb through more than once, but, believing I heard footsteps or laughter impending, I withdrew behind the bush each time.

“What is this disobedience!” I scolded myself, “the quicker the better. You must go now. Just get through the window. Get through the window. Get—”

And, before my limbs could disagree, I was hoisting myself through. It was futile to wait for opportunity—there was no such thing!

My arms were steady, but I was a quarter of the way when I thought I heard people entering the backyard. My legs took a volition of their own and squirmed to get inside, urging my chest and arms to flail likewise. The hierarchy of bodily power was toppled, and I was flung off balance onto the floor. My body had enough sense to spin onto my back (evidently preserving my nose from any further harm) and I felt suddenly that my heart would smash my ribs apart if I didn’t stand up right then.

My feet were numb. As were my hands. As was my face. But I did not hesitate to drive myself toward the door. Its closure was my singular and unthinking focus. The previous weight that knotted and tore up my stomach became a foreign concept—some distant idea, bearing nothing on the present—the present became all there could be and all that was.

This focus so overpowered me and soothed me that I fear I will be accused of being a liar if I say I began to smile; I felt so oddly calm at walking toward the door: neither too fast nor too slow. Any concern at being seen was so far removed from my mind that, when a guest did happen to pass by—an older gentleman with a curly gray mustache—I was able to smile and greet him.

He said that it was “such a refined speech” I gave for a boy my age, and I, feeling such a wonderfully humble actor, thanked him and said it wasn’t much.

He insisted I take the compliment and asked if I was planning to go to university.

I said I had honestly not thought much of it, to which he interrupted and said “Good! A boy like you should not waste his time getting into the world.”

I thanked him and told him I must be retiring for the night, to which he approved of my prudence, and I closed the door.

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The room was not at all organized. Suitcases and boxes were piled in the corners, and the desk already had so many papers sprawled over it. I had mind to note the arrangement of papers so that I could put things back in their proper order, then began filing through them.

I had no idea what I was looking for. In all my worrying about getting into the room, I knew not what I would do once I was in. Not a single thought troubled me, but I knew if I could discover just one thing about Mr. Langley without his knowing, then I would be significantly advantaged.

None of the papers seemed important, however. The documents were largely invoices and indecipherable letters of commission. It was not at all clear what these commissions were for, only that the orders were very large and that some of the dates were nearly half a year old.

The desk proved useless, and I put the pages back in about the same way I found them. I scanned the floor and the boxes, and I saw that a black leather suitcase was tucked away under the bed.

“Aha!”

I scrambled to the floor and retrieved the case, setting it on the bed.

However, I found that it was locked by a key—a key that, I assumed, was on Mr. Langley’s person. Trembling was returning to my hands, and I felt my throat being pulled back down into my chest, but I was not going to let a trifle get in my way.

My vision narrowed as my focus scrambled across the room looking for any corner, any hint, any detail that might betray the key. I found a pile of coats, but their pockets produced nothing. I slashed through drawers and wardrobes, and upturned the rugs and the bed sheets, but there was still nothing and the room was beyond repair.

Then there was laughing right outside the door. On impulse, my arms sprang for the knob, but I realized I couldn’t lock it or they’d know someone was in there—yet it was too late. I had already locked it. The knob turned and the laughing stopped.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. She tried the door again, then I heard shuffling, an exchange of voices between herself and a man, and the knob was tried again much harder.

It didn’t sound like Mr. Langley, but I couldn’t be sure. My heavy breathing filled my ears and I wondered that they might be listening since I could hear nothing but myself. I quickly cupped my hands over my mouth and nose and backed away from the door.

“I think someone’s in there,” the woman said. “I remember leaving the door open.”

“No, it’s alright, I might’ve done it by mistake,” the man responded. “I have a key somewhere… now, where did I put the blasted thing?”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in your jacket?”

My attention spun toward the pile. There was a man’s jacket on top—Hadn’t I looked? But there was no time. I crept over and revealed a hidden inner pocket that had a set of keys on a ring and I formed a tight fist to keep them from jingling.

“I really cannot find it,” the man said, incredulous.

“I’m telling you, dear,” the woman persisted, “I remember leaving the door open. What if someone’s in there?”

At the end of the key ring was a tiny brown key. I tried it and the suitcase clicked open.

“—Didn’t you hear that?”—she was relentless!—“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that!”

There was silence and suddenly pounding on the door.

“Hello?” It was the man’s voice. “Hello? Who’s in there?”

I opened the suitcase and there were far too many papers and folders of papers to pick anything. My hands were rendered inoperable from shaking and I felt I might pass out. It was almost definitely the Langleys—it just had to be. Who else could it be? I counted myself a complete idiot for even wondering, but there was no time—the man’s knocks were getting louder and the knob kept being tried. I quickly shut the case, and it was much louder than intended, but I didn’t care if they knew someone was in there—they already thought as much.

Pound. Pound. Pound—“HEY. OPEN UP!” Pound. Pound. Pound. POUND, POUND

Case in hand, I made for the window. My legs were suddenly weak and I was falling the whole way over, but I was able to throw the case out into the bush and push myself through, falling onto my face into the dirt.

They must’ve heard me struggling, however, because I recall hearing the woman yell “THIEF” and screaming for people to go outside. I was writhing with pain from my nose, but had no time to collect myself. Digging my wrists into the mulch, I sprang up, grabbed the case, and darted into the darkness.

I could hear people begin to flood into the yard and start yelling and running after me, but as I rounded the house, I saw the oak tree leading up to my room and the window—I was thanking God—I’d never closed. Without thinking, I threw the suitcase behind the bushes and somehow scrambled up the branches without tripping over myself. I managed to crawl into my room and brace myself against the floor in time to hear men running and yelling past, off into the street.

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We—that is, Dolores and I—hastened away from the Langleys and the imposing Mr. Ludlow. Up the stairs and down the halls, the laughter and music became dimmer and more ephemeral as we went, as though a ghost of the party had already begun haunting its outskirts.

I couldn’t understand why, but this produced such a sorry feeling of nostalgia for me. The world suddenly seemed to be left so far behind that even loss was beyond my reach. And though I could try to grab hold of it, I knew that with each attempt, it would only be further away. All I could do was look down and down into some narrow street view of my mind, where it was cool and sunny, where children played and realized peace far easier than their parents, and where I could only watch and enjoy and remember. All the old can do, I imagine, is remember, and I felt the peculiar sense of being very, very old indeed.

Then an odd thought occurred to me—one I thought without really thinking—that I was the cool sunny day, and I was the child in play, and that I could remember and live. This was my sole lot in life. And it was wonderful, and it was fleeting, and it was all there was.

The thought bloomed and withered in seconds, however, and my focus resumed on the girl ahead of me. She guided me onward with one hand and was very evidently excited, leaning forward and practically tugging me, smiling the whole way. I supposed that not all our joyful spirit was left at Mr. Langley’s feet.

I asked where we were going, but the girl’s answer was to laugh and run away from me. Naturally, this was a challenge I readily accepted, and so I took off after her. Initially, I kept up pretty well, and whenever she’d sneak a look behind her, she’d scream and laugh and try to push me away. It was in the bends of the hall that the girl triumphed, however. She was simply much more agile, and I realized it was because she wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Cheater!” I yelled, struggling to find the same kind of traction. I am sure we made a complete mess of the rugs, and I am confident I knocked over a few of those dinky door end-tables (a fact I have no remorse over).

But once she had the lead, there was no overcoming her. She was very quick, and especially around the bends, and soon the only trace of her was the echo of a girl who had won. I came to a walk and realized for the first time that alcohol only reduced my awareness of exhaustion—not its accumulation. My lungs were suddenly a vacuum, and no amount of sitting or panting or begging for breath seemed to bring relief. “My… God…” I gasped. My new station in life was against the wall in shifting positions to find my breath, yet no orientation brought more relief than the other.

Then came Dolores, poking her head around the corner.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” she felt the need to say. “I got pretty far before I noticed you were gone, Willy.”

“Please… stop… calling me that.”

“How about… Will?” she pressed.

“NO! My name is William or Master Gorbachev… Those are your options.”

“But Mr. Langley called you Will and you didn’t say anything,”—an observation she was visibly gloating over me with.

I glared at her. “I followed you didn’t I?... That was the deal.”

“Not all the way. Get up!” And she grabbed my hands and hoisted me away from the wall, much against my will, and led me once more.

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By the time we reached her destination, oxygen had returned to my vision in meager supply, though sufficiently enough to remove its tunnels. We were apparently at the door to her room, and she seemed giddy with anticipation.

“Alright!” she hopped, “When I open the door, you have to come in quick. Okay?”

My eyebrows questioned her, but my tongue agreed and we performed the ritual. Upon completion, a yellow streak flew directly toward us. I involuntarily ducked and hid my face, much to Dolores’ amusement.

“You’re so skittish, William,” she said, emphasizing her end of the bargain.

“I have no need for your remarks or quips, girl!” My irritation was brandished very quickly. “I can judge for myself what is skittish and what is not, thank you.”

“Lighten up. Do you think I like being called ‘girl’ every two minutes?” But she didn’t wait for me to answer before lightening up herself and directing me to the aforementioned yellow streak, who was perched atop a big brass birdcage near the window. “Look! It’s Mr. Canary, my canary!”

“How original,” I said, though I was actually very impressed with the bird. He was no bigger than my hand, bright yellow, and was hopping around his cage cocking his head left and right and sounding little tweedles and twuddles.

“Watch, he sings and does tricks.” She whistled at the bird, and he started performing loops in the air and making song. It was very pleasant, I thought, and I told her the bird was cute.

“His name’s Mr. Canary,” she said. “You really don’t like calling people by their names, do you?”

“A bird,” I retorted, “isn’t a person.”

“That is completely aside the point, and you know it!”

“Fine. Mr. Canary is very cute.” The thought of her continuing to call me ‘Willy’ was a dreadful one, so I thought best to conform and let her have her way.

The room, apart from the bird, I thought was also cute, albeit overwhelming. It was notably organized despite her recent arrival, and, had one been oblivious of this fact, they would have thought she’d been there for years. Colorful blankets and paintings were strewn across the room, a desk was covered in many books and bird toys and tubes of paint, she had a table perfectly covered with makeup products (or so I assumed, but I could not fathom having need of such a large variety of tiny bottles!). The bed had far too many pillows on it, the wardrobe was nearly brimming with clothes, and about a million shoes—each surely for their own purpose, none of them being for a party—were set on a rack beside the door.

I noticed, too, that her dress from the night prior was hanging by the window, stained with hints of blood.

“Your room is lovely,” I said.

“Oh! Thank you,” she replied, looking away.

I believe she blushed, but then I was in no spirit to flatter any further women that evening, especially not Miss Signet. Neither of us spoke for a moment, and I was overcome with the need to say anything at all to fill the silence. I thought the alcohol’s effect must have diminished after our hallway excursion, as I felt uncomfortably sober all of a sudden.

“So, where did you get Mr. Canary?”

This was evidently the correct question to ask since her eyes lit up and she began to talk very fast.

“I got him in France! I went there a few years ago with some friends of mine—well, they’re not my friends anymore, but—anyway, and we weren’t in Paris, but some other city… I don’t remember the name of, but it doesn’t matter—anyway, we passed this little pet shop and it just looked so cute I had to go in. Then, I saw Mr. Canary there in the back and I just knew I had to get him. The other girls didn’t want me to, but they were snobby anyway and I think they didn’t want me to carry him around the rest of the day. I didn’t care, though, and I got him and I’m glad I did because he’s been a better friend to me than those girls ever were.

“But after that, I went back home to the Langleys. Thomas wasn’t very happy with me for getting a bird, but I didn’t care. Maria liked him and convinced Thomas not to get rid of him. I was very sour for a while, and wouldn’t leave Mr. Canary because I thought Thomas might get rid of him if I left—I think Thomas didn’t like how much he sang, but that’s because he doesn’t like music. I don’t like him at all. I’m only living with him because Maria got convinced to marry him after our parents died.”

“How,” I managed to butt in, “did he convince her to do that?”

“Well… I really shouldn’t say,” she hesitated, but then leaned in and whispered, “Maria tells me it’s not like that at all and that she really loves him, but I think she’s just scared of admitting she made a mistake. When our uncle was alive, he was very protective over Maria, and it seemed to me that he didn’t want her and Thomas to marry. Of course, I was very young at the time—Maria’s much older than me—and when our parents died, I think she was very vulnerable. They suddenly eloped not long after that, and I only knew because I saw the ring. Thomas seems nice, but he has a short temper. Don’t make him angry.” She looked very distant for a moment, but returned and promptly asked, “Your parents also died when you were young, right?”

I wanted to know more, but felt obliged to answer. “Yes. I don’t know anything about my father—he died at in the Great War, apparently—and I didn’t know my mother very well.” This seemed to evoke a kind of sympathy in her. Her face seemed warmer and more relaxed than before, and she seemed to be searching my face very intently. I suddenly didn’t know how to stand or look, but I knew I had not the wherewithal to watch her stare at me. It produced a fiery feeling in my forehead and cheeks and I had no choice but to look away.

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“I’m sorry,” she softly said, “I didn’t know my parents very well, either.”

“Is that your dress from yesterday?” I pointed to the window, looking for any way out of her gaze. “It looks like there’s still blood on it.”

“Oh. Yes, I wasn’t able to get it all out. I’m sorry, by the way.” And she buried her cheek into her shoulder.

“Huh? For what?”

“For flicking you in the nose... twice.”

She also seemed embarrassed, and I wondered that it should affect her so much to apologize. I decided it best to press the advantage, remembering the whole purpose for my being there.

“I will forgive you,” I said, “but you must do one thing for me.”

Dolores looked skeptical. “What?”

“You must tell me what you know about Dorothy and Bleubaum, like you promised. Remember?”

“Ugh. Why do you have to spoil everything?”

I honestly knew not what I was spoiling, and my face said as much.

“You’re so ignorant, you know that?” Her face was doubly red now and she looked to be actually angry. “I was trying to be nice to you but all you care about is yourself. Well fine! They went to the city for some lawyer or something. I don’t know, okay? And what does it matter, anyway? They’re gone and you’re here. What I do know is that Thomas and Mr. Ludlow are going to make a fool out of you tomorrow. And you know how I know? Because they’re already making a fool out of you. What kind of ‘Master’ lets another man come into his house, redecorate everything, and throw a party without permission? You’re being a coward! When are you going to stick up for yourself?”

I was floored with her sudden temper and tried to answer her accusations, but I felt feeble in doing so and could make no defense before she told me to leave.

“And if you’re not going to stick up for yourself,” she added, “then why don’t you act like the coward you are and look through Mr. Langley’s stuff? Or Mr. Dorothy’s? Or Bleubaum’s?” Then she shut the door in my face and left me to my hot air and shock.

My eyes were burning with indignation, yet I could not answer her claims in any simple fashion. “I was acting a coward?” I thought. “She has no idea the agility that these social gymnastics require, I—” but then I remembered my most recent disappointment: the introduction to the party. “That was different,” I argued. “There were many other people there, and my desire is for discretion—yes, discretion is necessary in this elegant man’s game. I cannot go about making public accusations and creating uproarious division. That is not at all…”

But the stream of consciousness eluded me.

“That is not at all what?” There did not follow a conclusion. Mr. Langley had shown no discretion in his dealings with me, after all, and hadn’t he coerced me into agreeing to the party? Had I ever agreed to anything at all? Or hadn’t I merely submitted? “Dear Lord,” I muttered, “like a dog, I rolled over for him, didn’t I?” I searched my mind for any alternative, replaying my memories before my very eyes, but could make but one deduction.

“‘My godson,’”—these were the egregious words that echoed in my mind.

“That he should claim me so boldly right then and there! And that I did nothing at all to void his public declaration. Was I such a fool? Had my lack of fear,” I wondered, “kept me from seeing clearly?”

Alone, I suddenly felt the weight of the whole night, and my previous merriment sickened me. How could I have been so jolly when my surroundings were nothing but a reminder of my own failings? I cursed my previous lucidity, condemning it as no clear vision at all, but a mere facade! And thus my stomach knotted into my throat and brought my vision low. The halls darkened and I could not stand any further inaction. “What had Miss Signet suggested… that I raid Mr. Langley’s room?” I was surprised to feel such sudden delight at the prospect, and I no sooner acquiesced to the evil as the only way forward. “If a coward I am,” I justified, “then a coward I shall be.”

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By some miracle, the house was put into order and the tsunami of servants largely disappeared just before the first guests arrived. The halls were alive with fresh breath, but were now unnecessarily cluttered. I very much preferred the way things looked before the sudden and unduly decorations. There was but a single silver lining, which was that I discovered an appreciation for the liveliness that the house’s oak, cedar, and mahogany instilled; a liveliness that was now entirely hidden with many rugs, tables, vases, paintings, tapestries—with whatever rubbish those who are contrite and attention-deficient strive to cover every inch of open space with. These halls were narrow enough as they were! Not every door needed a confounded end table to pair, and while the sight was slightly humorous at first, it quickly became absurd and to the point of an irrational frustration. I knew not how to contain this anger except to focus on what I might say at my great debut.

Of course, I had already prepared myself in a tail-coat tuxedo, but I did little to cover up my blue-purple bruising—though I hardly expect any amount of makeup would have reconciled my appearance to the crowd. Conviction gripped tightly around my heart that any friend of Mr. Langley’s would be just as slimy and base as he. I had no desire to appeal to the contemptible—Let them whisper! Let them scheme! That I should stand justified to myself alone would be recompense enough, and only then would I walk away satisfied.

In this, I felt most assured of myself and extended my previous confidence to the crowd. “I shall be reasonable,” I muttered, “as to be reasonable is all a man can be. If they should be unreasonable, a claim I highly bet upon for those so immorally associated, why should this impact my own clear mind? I shall not repeat my mistakes with Mr. Langley!—A crowd does not have eyes, there will be nothing inhibiting my judgement. Fear of the unrighteous promises nothing but death, even for the most exalted. Thus,” I concluded, finding myself very near the banquet hall, “my very presence shall speak louder than my words, and I will dare not to stoop down to the hollow recesses wherein Mr. Langley and his associates most certainly reside.”

The banquet hall was the principal feature of the house—that by which the manor made its first impression. The front entrance was arranged under a large crystal chandelier over a checkered marble floor. Two rounded staircases were on either side, and their banisters melded seamlessly together at a balcony that overlooked the hall.

This is where I would be making my introduction. Many hallways extended into the cozy (and now especially so) confines of the manor from ground and balcony level alike. The area below the balcony and connecting the two staircases was walled and slightly elevated above the rest of the floor: this is where the deplorable Langley portraits were hung, and from where the stringed-band would be playing. I entered from the balcony level and saw Mr. Langley watching over his brood—that is, all of his honored guests. I could hear the band attempting one final go at tuning before the conversation of the crowds became too loud, which it very quickly did.

“Master Gorbachev,” Mr. Langley greeted me. He did not seem in as convivial spirits as earlier, however. No smile adorned him; he held a closed position with his shoulders and hardly looked at me; far more interested was he with the inpouring of guests and, what I could only guess, the feeling of a poor turnout. I stood near him, pretending to be interested, and I tested my theory by remarking about how agreeable the turnout really was—for there were a great number that evening—but he made no expression or glance in my direction. Finally, he acknowledged my existence as more than a mere disturbance, and contorted his face into something that I suppose he meant to be congenial.

“Ah, do forgive my brooding,” he said. I suspected that he forgot my physical condition, for he hesitated and fixed his face. “—I have only been expecting someone in particular. But never mind that, we must greet these good people at once!” Then, turning to the crowd, he made call in a loud voice. “Hello, hello!” and he repeated this several times until all gave their attention.

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I must here intervene in the exposition to say that, upon seeing everybody looking up at me, I found my resolve just slightly tried; for it seemed that the crowd did indeed have eyes. Many of them, in fact. So many, that it was scarcely all I could see—eyes everywhere you looked, all at you, all waiting, expecting, imposing themselves and their ideas of performance upon you. My chest felt suddenly squeezed and I am certain I was shaking, though quite involuntarily.

I recall seeing one woman with exceedingly excellent features—she wore a white dress with a white feather in her hair, and it was from her especially that I could not seem to look away. There was a softness to her eyes that pulled you in and made you lose your words—yes, like a complete fool, I am unafraid to admit—and she possessed the most slight parting of her lips. It infuriated me that I could not look away from her, and particularly that she did not seem to be affronted by my extraordinary bruising; in fact, I believe she took pity on me, which had the frustrating effect of increasing my infatuation all the more. Hardly anybody cared, for that matter! I heard not a peep or mutter or single hint of shock—merely an undivided attention, all directed to the balcony on which I, now very meekly, stood.

“My good companions,” Mr. Langley boomed, “I cannot describe my pleasure at seeing so many fond memories all congregated in one room. Some of you, I have known all my life, and, of you, I cherish most dearly in my heart; others, I have been graced to have only met recently, but the time has been advantageous to us so that an intimacy is felt beyond reasonability. It is now my privilege to introduce you to this home built by the wonderful Jacob Gorbachev, a man I am sure we all hope to one day match in esteem.

“But more wonderful than this is the reason for my inviting you all tonight. While this house is beautiful and reminds us of what Jacob Gorbachev has left behind, far greater are those descendants to whom we have the honor of celebrating! Since, standing beside me, is a boy who has overcome the blanket of obscurity, tempting fate to push him beyond and into the empty throne of Jacob Gorbachev. That those infamous footsteps can only be continued by this boy is no surprise, either! For it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you: William Gorbachev, the nephew lost to time, and my very own godson!”

He effected such a great applause for such a great showing of faux sentimentality. I thought the man entirely inauthentic, and I am certain I expressed visible displeasure at his addendum to my title, but this seemed to be a sentiment shared by little but me.

In his final words, he grabbed me by the shoulder and brought me close to him to present me in sacrifice to the applause. My spine shivers to this day thinking about how uncomfortable this made me—those fingers each impressing just slightly too deep into my bicep, his foot just slightly too heavy on my own, his every movement jostling me just slightly too much.

It was impossible to tell if these were acts of violence toward me, as if to threaten some kind of compliance, or if they were really just careless acts of the moment—an over-consumption of the frivolity of the crowd. I knew not, and I had not enough time to decide before being goaded to speak by the man.

But, while I thought he might release me, that he might step away into his destined darkness while I spoke, he did not.

I was bound to his side, and as I awaited his departure, his departure never came. The foot remained as heavy as before; his squeeze remained as impressed as before; his breath, just as hot. I was deadlocked and had no choice but to speak, attached to the man of sudden mirth and conviviality.

And it was in this—by all appearance—innocuous binding that my words suddenly failed me, and I knew not what to say and only that I was already speaking.

“Good evening,” I projected, “it is under no normal circumstances that I speak to you tonight, a fact which Mr. Langley accurately testifies to.” I paused a beat to test for any increased effect from Mr. Langley, but he seemed ecstatic at my speaking, so I pressed on. “It was but seven years ago that I became aware of my uncle’s existence. Before that, I was passed between boarding schools with no greater care than is given an old rag. Among my kind, I was despised and envied; among others, I was ridiculed for my untimely orphanage, producing in me a resolve to rise above reproof. Hindsight now treats this feat as strictly impossible, but this was learned with difficulty by my own experience. The result was that, in each school I attended, I somehow came out with fewer friends than when I went it.” Several of the men smirked or chuckled, and the feathered woman (whom I particularly catered for) looked quite piteous. “But one day, I was taken out of school, something I simply dismissed as but another transfer, yet fate would not have it so! There, up in the boarding director’s office, was a man by the name of Mr. Dorothy who informed me of my deceased uncle, this house, and the life that I was to lead from that day forward.

“I dare say that not a single person in this room can imagine the bewilderment I felt that all-too ordinary morning, for it has certainly been carried with me to this day and up to the present moment. Indeed! I must think that my shock will never cease, for it was only just yesterday that I myself learned of my relatives.” Another beat, but there was still no increase of force by the darkened man to my side. I wondered that anything might shake the figure.

“To be sure,” I continued, “the force at which I was struck by this revelation is of an unmistakable severity, for I was felled in shock, and I am now what you see before you.” I motioned to my nose and the crowd was moved, and so too seemed Mr. Langley, indicated by the ease of his grip. But this was not at all what I wanted to say. Why did I mention my appearance? Where was the twist? The accusation? I realized that it would not occur and I decided then that my scheming had been for no purpose, in no small part due the feathered woman, but also that I could not tempt myself to villainize the crowd any longer. I hastened to complete the speech.

“It is with a glad heart, then, that I welcome all of you here tonight. Thank you.” The crowd clapped, but I didn’t care. I was so sorely disappointed and felt Mr. Langley had gotten the better of me again—or rather that I’d gotten the better of myself. My cowardice! The things that flooded my mind for what I might’ve said… that I might’ve incited a mob against the man, if I so pleased—to accuse and prove him a usurper, a fraud, a man of undeserved title! He was no master of the house, and certainly no godfather. The matter would have been simple, and what would he have said? Nothing, that’s what. I was sure that veneer of smiles would have vanished, and I was sure his character would have been displayed fully and testified against him handily enough.

I had wanted nothing to do with the party in the first place, but my annoyance made these feelings particularly sore. My desire was for seclusion, except that I was still obliged to dance with Dolores.

The music had begun and there was already much laughter and dance. The people seemed to be enjoying themselves, and I was not so far cynical as to disdain the pleasant sight of women and men making merry. Yes, despite the treachery I felt in my breast and the contempt for the symbolic banner being flown in the house, I must say I was able to enjoy myself at least a modicum’s amount.

It would not be long, however, before many strangers came and introduced themselves to me. Older men who testified greatly to my uncle’s character, younger women who fluttered eyelashes at me, those my age who held me in disdain or the highest honor, and any variety of people feeling all varieties of ways about me. I am not sure I have uttered so many pleasantries in my life as I did that night, and I quickly became very jaded indeed at the sight of another likely fan.

More than one drink found its way into my hand and, though I did not care for drinking hardly at all, I indulged more out of politeness than desire. The effects, unfortunately, were very much unintended, and affected me nearly upon the first drink’s contact with my lips. All the while, I was searching for Dolores so that I could have my dance and be departed.

I searched and sipped and alternated in this fashion until my steps became lighter and the perimeter had been searched at least thrice. But, finding myself without luck, I soon became fixated on the menagerie of color from spinning dress and dance. Sways and laughter became my own, in time, and I felt quite suddenly at ease. I wondered to myself why I didn’t drink more often, for life seemed so much more agreeable with a warm belly. And this assertion was brought to its logical conclusion when I found the feathered woman and, suddenly emboldened, asked her to dance. She all-too-happily obliged, and we joined the menagerie, spinning and laughing and making merry with all the rest.

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It was in this spinning that I caught sight of those green eyes and toothy smile with a gap. “Dolores!” I shouted without really meaning to (practically everyone was shouting). The feathered woman and I found this quite funny and we made another spin around.

“William!” she called back with a dumb face. I believe she was making jest at me, that brute!

And I believe we repeated this two or three more times, the feathered woman joining me for the final few, before the song was over. I then bid her adieu and I believe I kissed her hand (I really cannot remember; everything was moving very quickly at this point in the night).

My voice felt very smooth and my legs like a child’s. I called out again and jaunted over to the colorful array that was Dolores, for she was no less exorbitantly dressed than the day prior upon her arrival—and perhaps more so. The song began and it was some kind of waltz that neither of us knew, which we found far funnier than it actually was.

I know I was acting like a complete fool since I called out “Dolores!” once more in the same volume.

“Willy!” she repeated, clearly testing me.

“Deplorable girl,” I said with the same stupid smile and a slight slur. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Because I know you hate it —” she said laughing in between spins. Her hair was in braids and her back and collarbone were exposed. I remember feeling embarrassed to think that she looked very pretty.

“Are you really playing coy with me? — ” I said in the same interval of spins. “I’ve honored your wish to be called Dolores.”

“And I thank you,” she said, “but calling me a ‘deplorable girl’ — isn’t helping your case.”

“I contend that there is nothing — in all the world that could help my case,” I replied.

She giggled, which pleased me far too much. “You may not know much — but perhaps you’re right about that.”

“Well,” I persisted, “what — can I do to make you stop calling me that?” I really did mean it, though I couldn’t stop laughing.

She looked to think for a while—a feigning of ignorance, I am all too sure of it—before playing around by saying she didn’t know.

“What! I am certain — you do! Tell me at once and it shall be — yours. I am quite adamant, Dolores.”

The song ended.

“Well,” I pursued.

“You never ask nicely,” she said, looking everywhere but at me, “but fine. Let me show you something and I won’t call you ‘Willy’ anymore.”

It was immediately agreed, and she took my hand to lead me out of the crowd. However, as we left the inner circle of dancers, Mr. and Mrs. Langley suddenly appeared in front of us and earnestly sought our momentary detainment.

“Master Gorbachev,” he said, very evidently delighted. “I am pleased to see you making yourself so comfortable. As with you, Miss Signet.” His address to the latter was noticeably less favorable and Dolores’ smile ceased for the first time all evening.

“You caught me in a terrible state of brooding earlier, William,” Mr. Langley continued. “I had been hoping to see an old associate of mine before the introductions, as I said, but my joy is now complete that he has finally arrived. I am honored to introduce you to Mr. Ludlow, a dear friend and business partner of mine.”

Mr. Ludlow was an exceptionally tall man—nearly a head above Mr. Langley—and was completely bald. He wore no pinstripes, but wore a tuxedo, which he filled out considerably well. His face was very angular and graven, but not skinny, and he would not speak evidently preferring Mr. Langley say everything for him. I felt an irrational and momentary intimidation at the man, and offered a comparably weak handshake.

“I was hoping,” Mr. Langley continued, casually putting his hand on my shoulder, “that we could go for a ride in the countryside tomorrow—you, me, Mr. Ludlow, and, I suppose Miss Signet if she feels so inclined. I would invite Maria, but she has not been feeling well lately.” He flashed a look in her direction, which I thought she deflected. “How does that sound, William?”

It sounded awful, but I was in no spirit to say no, and especially under the pressure of Mr. Ludlow’s silently imposing presence. Dolores seemed quite perturbed as well, but I gave Mr. Langley the affirmation he sought, as I felt there was no denying the man.

“Attaboy, Will,” he said, turning to his friend. “See what a spirited fellow we have, Mr. Ludlow? I am sure that you will take a liking to him quickly—Alright, you two run along and have fun now.” And we obeyed at once, leaving our previous gaiety behind.

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In time, I was beckoned out of my room by a continual commotion out in the hall. New servants, who seemed unwittingly branded with the morose “Langley” look, flooded the halls. They did not speak except to say “pardon me,” or “how do you do” (never, of course, awaiting an answer), or else nod with an inscrutable scrunch of chin and eyelid alone, employing an especially haughty and reserved attitude if you stood in their way for even a moment. Some carried boxes, knick-knacks, stools, rugs, and chivalric accoutrements; others coordinated larger feats with bureau, grand piano, king-sized bed frames, and wardrobes to match; top-of-the-line ovens, refrigerators, an anchor, and, to my great chagrin, two giant oil paintings of Mr. and Mrs. Langley to be placed in the banquet hall—articles that I was not aware of until after the events to be related below.

The two were painted in their typical pinstripe black, and obviously followed the direction of an artist who did not believe in joy. Mrs. Langley enjoyed the faintest smile, but of a more sorrowful and weak demeanor. Her hair was put up and had a very lovely blue-purple flower atop a weakly-tilted head. Mr. Langley had no smile, however, and seemed to look directly past whomever should dare to behold his image, yet not entirely off into the distance. It was as though something were right behind you, and to this alone he looked in a silent and expressionless assent. Though, in assent to what, his eyes—such dark and wide eyes—did not betray. Other than this, he was a very clean, respectable kind of man, and wore a black rose for a boutonniere.

It was a mystery to me that they were able to get so much through those narrow halls, but I was most perplexed as to where everything came from so quickly, the servants included.

“You,” I demanded one out of the plenitude, “tell me—”

“Excuse me, sir,” he interrupted, “but I am in a great hurry,” and he tried sauntering off.

“SIR?”—I was affronted!—“You stop at once, I demand you!”

“Master Langley is but in position to demand us,” the servant retorted, “and he has demanded that we make haste, for tonight we have guests.” And he tried to saunter once more, the sauntering fool.

“You shall stop and you shall listen when addressed,” I roared, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around myself. I am, to this day, surprised I did not hit the impudent man when I saw his stupidly upturned lip and stitched eyes—yes, that look of angry amazement is not one I shall soon forget. “I am Master of this house,” I continued, spitting rampant and caring little, “and you shall address me as ‘Master Gorbachev’—not ‘sir’ or any other mere title of pleasantry that denotes servitude. Now, such is the extent of my grace that I do not believe I heard you correctly a moment ago, for I am afraid I heard the impossible utterance ‘Master Langley.’ Pray tell, what auditory hallucination or lapse of mind have I had, house servant, and what have you really said? … Do not keep me waiting!”

The idiot had not words for me in that moment, though I am sure it was not for lack of a dictionary understanding of expletives. He struggled to mutter a few unfelt apologies—that he was “sincerely sorry” for the confusion—but hastened to say that I had heard him correctly when he mentioned that contemptible combination of name and title. Grave, I dismissed him, and I made directly for Mr. Dorothy.

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Yet, my wits were not completely abandoned in that moment of rage, but I am sure they were not as intact as I desired. Any lucidity or calmness of mind I had felt prior had so quickly vanished that its effects were nearly—but not entirely—negligible. Since, from that iridescent daydream, I was able to maintain at least one fact with unyielding confidence: Mr. Langley, though not to be trusted, must neither be feared. I would not defraud myself of a single second of life by stooping to fear such an ignoble character. It mattered not what he wanted out of me, whether it be my wealth, my house, my servants, or my life—Mr. Langley would not have my peace. The consequence of this resolve was such that, when I happened upon the loathsome man in the banquet hall—no doubt enjoying his lofty position of tyrant—I was not at all in wonder as to what I might say.

“Mr. Langley,” I emphasized, “quite the army you have. If it were up to me to determine from whence they came, I would only be forced to guess that you summoned them from the dust, man that you are.” I vainly smiled from behind my blue and purple, and I’m sure that Mr. Langley hesitated a reciprocal smile upon seeing my abject appearance.

“Ha-ha, you are right, Master Gorbachev,” he replied, in his strange signature cadence, “It is nice to speak after so tragic an end to dinner. I cannot help but feel responsible; that is not news one is oft-pleased to hear. For this burden I have laid, I felt it fitting to shoulder the cost of renovating your home. But, please, do not be alarmed, many of these servants are merely the movers.” Then, believing himself sly, he put his hand on my shoulder and asked for me to walk with him. I uttered a highly inspired consent, and we went out into the backyard to avoid the commotion.

“Master Gorbachev,” he said, “let’s cut to the chase, yes?”

Evidently, he was waiting for me to agree. My anger was increasing in degrees, but I did not want to betray my emotion with any visible acts of recompose, so I makeshifted an affirmation by grunt, and accompanied it with a weak smile and nod. Little prepared was I for the great theatrical one-man show that was Mr. Langley. I have often mused over the ensuing performance and analyzed it myself for its rhetoric, since never have I been so consciously aware of my being lied to and manipulated (for nothing but ardent lack of tact or style), yet compelled all the same. Perhaps it was his odd cadence or drawl—hypnotic in a way unknown to science—or perhaps it was the way he looked at you with his huge, dark eyes. You looked at him once and you couldn’t look away, and you nearly found yourself agreeing with him before you knew what he was saying. Worse, you knew the whole time that his eyes were snares, set to bait, but you couldn’t help but look and stay looking.

“Prudent man,” he pleased himself to say, though, whether it was addressed to me or himself, I am unsure. “Your uncle was a good man and a great mentor. I followed long in his footsteps, and I have still hardly risen from his shadow. It’s to my understanding that you have never met him, and that is a great shame. All who have met your esteemed uncle have agreed they were instantly improved as men upon handshake. I can attest to this fact and more. I must confess that I was terribly wretched before meeting your uncle—or, should I say, his meeting me—and I have never understood the compassion he showed me, nor have I ever admitted of my deserving it.

“He had, what all would agree, a supernatural ability to understand anybody, and I cannot think of a single time his advice led me astray; rather, it was always when I followed my own way that I suffered. Before him, every decision I made in life was short-sighted, selfish, greedy, and in a spirit of hatred for my fellow man. He took me (seeing in me what, I cannot say) and molded me into a generous creature, showing me that the greatest investment is not in ourselves or in business or in commodity, but in men. For this reason, your uncle can only be exalted as the men of men, a title everyone would readily confirm; for this reason, I can only claim being a lowly peon, or a worm, or a lout whose singular claim to goodness is that I am a firsthand witness to this great man.

“Such has been the case since his death, Master Gorbachev. I have experienced much grief, and this is the primary cause for my unforgivably late arrival to the post of godfather.” He noticed my unease at his last word, and emphasized a smile and squeeze of the shoulder, leaning in eyes first. “Take heart, Master Gorbachev,” he said slowly, “I have not come to impose myself on your liberty. Your features resemble your uncle’s far too much to consider such an evil. My design is clear, and my motivation is but one: to perform the final request of your uncle by guiding you on in this life. As he guided me, so I shall guide you; as he considered me a son, so shall you be a son to me. I do not expect your immediate acceptance of me—indeed, it took me years to accept even your uncle—and I would not hold you in contempt if you held me likewise for my delayed arrival.”

At this, he turned away and broke our eye contact. That sneaky man! The preponderance of that gaze! At its abrupt denial, it created in me such sense of loss that I immediately felt compelled to speak. “Oh, Mr. Langley, do not trouble yourself over such a trifle. I have been very much absorbed in my studies and I am sure that our times were better spent troubled in our own affairs.”

My appeal was a success, and I was given the treasure of his undivided attention. “Master Gorbachev,” he entreated, making a sickeningly compelling display of affection, “you really do remind me so much of your uncle! Virtue, I suppose, is not easily extinguished, even for such a large generational gap. For this exact reason, I have endeavored to surround myself with all of his kin, though limited they are. I speculate that great disaster follows in the wake of the most righteous men, and I believe this the preeminent cause of such a limited pool of descendants, but I digress.

“He was much like a father to me, and I much like a son, and it was to my great pleasure to marry one of his nieces. I refer, of course, to Mrs. Langley. She—I make no assumption of your knowledge, and I beg your forgiveness if this news is troubling to you—is the sister of Miss Signet: a girl by all accounts whose potential… for lack of a better term—viciousness—is made up for in beauty, as I am sure you can see. For this less-than-ideal example, we must conclude that not all can be well-rounded, and I earnestly believe, as a general rule, that the first child has all the advantage in life. Such is the case, after all, for my Maria, who possesses both beauty and prudence, a combination far outside the capabilities of most men to wrangle.

“But, Master Gorbachev, such a feat has only been possible for myself because of the far exceeding wisdom of your uncle: a wisdom that I hope to awake in you (for I, having no ability of my own to pass on virtue; know, rather, that it is within you already).

“Then my appeal to you, Master Gorbachev, is not for your admission of me as your father, but that you may allow me to bring forth your uncle in you. I am already aware of your affinity for authority and your intelligence in its application, and I am certain that, when I was your age, I had not nearly half the foresight as yourself.”

By now, we had rounded the backyard perhaps three times, and I felt that he might continue talking forever. Yet, I felt drawn closer to him upon each pass of the gazebo, and slightly more at ease with each break onto the stone path and back onto the grass. With each word—he must’ve known he was talking gibberish, humble appeal after humble appeal, that snake!—he drew me further into a false security that grew in proportion to the time spent in his huge eyes. I dare say, I don’t believe I blinked a single time in the span of that conversation. And, if I did, it was entirely undesired and completely taken advantage of by Mr. Langley, always getting closer and closer before taking his eyes away, then closer and closer and again away. By the end, I wondered that he could trick anybody to do whatever he wanted if he talked long enough.

“That sounds excellent, sir,” I said, half-aware of my own opinions, fully dull to my anger, and just conscious enough of my own anxiety to interject. “I would be greatly indebted if such a gift could indeed be brought forth in me. I should consider myself exceedingly lucky to have your acquaintance.”

All smiles, he thanked me—almost to the point of embarrassment—and pressed me on one final point. “Master Gorbachev, you have been exceedingly patient with me, and I desire to be, above all, of an utmost transparency with you. Tonight, I have arranged that a party should occur to celebrate this reunion of kin; indeed, I shamefully confess that I arranged this prior to my arrival, though from the greatest intention to surprise and honor Mr. Gorbachev’s home and his descendants. William Gorbachev,” he said, consummating his speech with a grand flourish, “it would bring me considerable pleasure if I could introduce you to speak at the start of the event.”

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Oh how I hated that man! Nothing could be more disagreeable to me. He was well-aware of my present appearance, and I was as sure then as I am now that he aimed to publicly humiliate me. But I would not let such a trifle as my appearance trouble me, and I was sure that I would far exceed his expectations. My irritation thus turned to a certain devilish delight, which I put to use in a hearty smile.

“Why, Mr. Langley!” I said, reveling in my own duplicity, “There has not been a party here for years, and now you come and bestow us, quite out of nowhere and without the least hint of motive, with a generosity as this town has certainly not seen since my uncle. You really outdo yourself, sir, and I will happily oblige you.” At this, I bowed far too deeply and for far too long, so much so that I thought I might’ve foiled my own designs and revealed my irony; but, if I did, its understanding did not appear on Mr. Langley’s deceptively joyful face.

We thence departed from one another, and I resumed my search for Mr. Dorothy, yet no matter where I looked, it seemed that the old man could not be found. Neither could I find Dr. Bleubaum, though I cannot say I looked very hard, as his eyes still haunted me. Unsettled and frustrated from perpetually cramming myself against the walls to get around Mr. Langley’s “movers,” I contrived to find Miss Beadle, whom, to my surprise, I found tucked away and silently crying in her own quarters.

“Miss Beadle!” I said upon opening her door and alarmed at the sorry sight. “What has happened? Where are Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum?”

She was crying against the window and, when she turned to see me, let out a terrible wail. My ears unconsciously braced. “Master Gorbachev! Oh it’s j-j—just terrible what’s happened. By God, the cruelty!” The distance between us was covered seemingly instantly, and she hugged me a long time, easily defeating the defenses of my left ear.

“Oh, Master Gorbachev—they’ve g-g—gone! The Masters of the house have gone—kicked out, I fancy—oh Lord, I d-d—don’t know why else they might have g-g—gone!”

Any attempt at calming her down was always followed by this same bout of wailing and explanation, and twenty minutes must have gone by before she was sensible enough to tell me, in more precise terms, what had happened.

“Master Gorbachev, please forg-g—give me, but all I know is that Mr. Dorothy came looking for ye—we was all looking, but ye weren’t to be found. He was not cross—but who ever can say with him—and when ye weren’t found, he and Dr. Bleub-b—baum went out. Mr. Dorothy said he spoke to Mr. Langley, a-a—and he seemed himself disagreeable, the both of them, t-t—truly. The Masters went out a-a—after that, and,” she broke into another wail, “without a word! I have only a fancy that th-th—they found Mr. Langley quite disagreeable, since not soon after, the house was fl-fl—flooded with these b-b—barbarians who be saying ‘Master Langley’ and mentioning a party for Mr. Langley’s rich friends, as if there be something to c-c—celebrate!”

I thanked her and did my best to console her, but my ears could only take so much before I expressed an exigent departure. My sympathies were poured out in her door frame, however, and I took resolve to find Miss Signet, figuring she may know more—and may speak more clearly—than poor Miss Beadle.

Attempts were made to ask the torrent of servants “where Miss Signet’s room might be located,” but I was brushed off and treated with reproach by nearly all. However, one especially morose and quite tiny fellow gave me my deserved time of day and told me he’d seen a girl “tossing about in the attic.” I thanked him and he said his name was “Tommy.” I assured him of my greatest confidence and took his word as law.

I reached the attic in record slow time, as the servants were akin to geese crossing a street, and I did indeed see Miss Signet “tossing about,” which amounted to jumping from table to stool to box in, what looked like, an intense game of “the floor is lava.”

“Miss Signet,” I announced myself.

Her focus was undivided.

“Miss Signet.”

“Yes?” She said, quite unabashed by my present. She did not look up, but precisely jumped to a chair and clung to a support beam.

“Miss Signet, I have received your letter. I thank you and I accept your apology in light of it.”

“Thank you,” she said before jumping once more. “So, do you believe me now?”

I was not beyond admitting my pride, and I attested that I did, but told her that that was not my purpose for being there. “Miss Signet, you are aware of what is presently happening in this household, correct? Please do not play games. I do not have time.”

She beamed a toothy smile and obliged me by hopping onto the floor. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“And do you know the origins of the phrase, ‘Master Langley,’—a contemptible utterance that is running rampant through these halls?”

“I do,” she said.

“Then please, do not be difficult, Miss Signet, and immediately offer all your knowledge of the aforementioned.”

But, as though seriousness were not an affect she could maintain for long, she began circling and swaying around me on the tips of her toes. “Well,” she said, curling her already curly hair with one finger, “someone can’t throw a party in someone else’s house, can they?”

I admitted that it would be highly imprudent.

“And Mr. Langley’s throwing a party, yes?”

I admitted that I had first-hand testimony he was.

“And has anybody told him he couldn’t?”

Embarrassed, I said that I did not believe anyone had.

“Then,” she concluded, taking a seat with crossed hands and a high brow, “I guess that means he’s master of the house!” And she smiled at me in a most reproachful and annoying way, tight-lipped and batting her eyes.

This was a highly devastating blow. I realized my foolishness at once, and saw that Mr. Langley had securely pressed the advantage of the morning and was miles ahead of me. And Mr. Dorothy! Could it be that he had been looking for me to warn me? Or perhaps that I could help him in denying Mr. Langley his magnanimous generosity? But that couldn’t be. Mr. Dorothy has never been one to be thrown around. Maybe—

“Miss Signet,” I pressed on, though admittedly shamefaced, “what do you know about Mr. Dorothy and Dr. Bleubaum’s leaving?”

She wouldn’t answer.

“Miss Signet.”

“Dolores,” she simply responded.

“You perpetual test of my patience! Dolores, then. Need I repeat my question?”

“Why should I tell you when you’re so rude?” the girl harrumphed in my general direction, and took to walking about me again. “Maybe if you weren’t so pushy, I wouldn’t push back. Ever thought about that, blue nose?” And she stuck her tongue out at me.

I tried to put her name-calling aside, neatly categorizing it as further evidence of her childish nature, and promptly sighed. Very deeply. “I’m sorry, Miss Signet—”

“Would you stop calling me that!” she interposed, “I am not a title. My name is Dolores.”

“Fine!—I’m sorry, Dolores. Would you please—”

“Yes,” she answered, finally acting reasonably, “but later. I need to get ready for the party. Maybe if you dance with me, I’ll tell you more.” And she winked and made way for the stairs, her hair bobbing with each haughty step.

“Hold on, will you?” But she was of the type to do as she pleased, and, as she pleased, she did, which was to leave me entirely and utterly frustrated, and in need of donning the proper attire for a party.

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