Seven days later, a full week since my return from the abyss, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, I broke the uneven rhythm of my self-imposed vigil — primarily to shower, change my clothes, and eat a proper meal, but also to stretch our limbs and get some much needed fresh air into our lungs.

  That statement contains a little white lie. I do apologise. We didn’t break our vigil willingly; Praem forced us, of course. Raine was too indulgent of my every desire, Evelyn’s protests fell on deaf ears, and nobody else stood a chance. Zheng could have bodily lifted me up and carried me downstairs, but keeping me there was an entirely different kettle of fish.

  Perhaps they should have tried exactly that — a kettle filled with fish, an appeal to my appetite. I don’t think that would have worked either.

  There was no way I was leaving Maisie’s bedside of my own unprompted volition.

  We’re probably making it sound more dramatic than it actually was. It wasn’t as if I’d spent the entire last week shut up in that bedroom, looming over my twin, sleepless and fasting and driving myself to the edge of my own rude health. Far from it; I’d been taking showers almost every day, albeit rather rushed and perfunctory. I’d been eating properly, even if I was doing so hunched over in a chair. I’d even been sleeping, right there on Maisie’s bed — or on a plush bedroll on the floor, when I had the sense of mind to lie down by myself. My sleep was very spotty and sporadic, that was impossible to deny; I’d been waking a dozen times every night just to check on her, stare at her, make sure she was alright, to touch her and confirm she was still there, still real, still right in front of my eyes. Over the course of that week, even the tiniest noises of Number 12 Barnslow Drive woke me with a start, had me thinking it might be Maisie, parting her lips, making a sound, whispering my name.

  But it never was. Not yet.

  On the previous night, Raine had finally coaxed me back into our own bed for an enforced eight hours of proper slumber, sandwiched between her and Zheng in a bold attempt to make sure I actually stayed where I was supposed to be. Zheng caught me creeping across the floorboards in the middle of the night, trying to slip out of the room so I could go check on Maisie.

  Hence the new rules. On this day I was to follow Praem’s instructions, for my own good.

  It wasn’t as if we were being forced to leave Maisie all by herself; that would be unthinkable, I would never have accepted it, not even under the threat of Night Praem. Besides, this was no solitary vigil. Number 12 Barnslow Drive was home and community to so many residents that taking turns to watch over Maisie was very simple to organise.

  But still, as Praem ushered me out of the room and into the cramped shadows of the upstairs corridor, I kept peering back at the open door, ears pricked for a hint of Maisie’s voice. Our tentacles betrayed our desires, briefly drifting all to one side, preparing to bounce us off the wall and around Praem so we could scuttle back into Maisie’s room.

  As we passed the single window of the upstairs corridor, I felt our tentacles tense, our legs quiver, ready to leap at an angle so Praem could not—

  Praem grabbed a tentacle, gently but firmly. We yelped and squealed and jerked upright on the spot, eyes flying wide.

  “P-Praem!” I squeaked. “I wasn’t going to— I’m coming quietly, really! I’m doing as I’m told, I am!”

  Praem just stared at me with her blank, all-knowing, milk-white eyes. A stern maid blocked my path, brooking no excuses.

  We faltered; we, who had swum the deepest reaches of the abyss. “I … I wasn’t going to … I … ”

  “You will be a good girl,” Praem told me, her voice ringing like a little silver bell.

  I sighed, my subconscious plot rumbled without so much as a single attempt. Praem always seemed to know when I was about to do some squid-based mischief, even if we denied it internally, us Heathers split on the legitimacy of our actions.

  “I’m sorry, Praem,” I said, and I meant it. “I just want to check on her. Just once, before we go downstairs?”

  “It has been less than twenty seconds since you last saw your twin sister,” Praem told me.

  “I know, I know that, but … ”

  “Self care,” said Praem. “Or Night Praem.”

  I sighed a second time. I knew I was being unreasonable and silly. I needed to look after myself. What good would it do Maisie if I went unwashed and unfed? None at all.

  My eyes flicked to the doorway again. I just couldn’t help myself, not after ten years. “But what if she … what if she needs … ”

  “We will be informed,” said Praem. “Loudly.”

  We nodded, mostly to convince ourselves; we did not all agree on this, and the internal debate was not yet settled. All six tentacles wanted to scurry down the corridor and wrap ourselves around our waiting twin, no questions, no hesitations, no delays, not even for Praem. The part of me that we thought of as ‘Calm Heather’ cautioned us against hasty decisions, and suggested we just go along with the flow. She wasn’t always right, however, sometimes she was too easily convinced of doing things she shouldn’t, too much of a Good Girl, even when she needed to be bad. ‘Lonely Heather’ — who desperately needed a better self-definition, but was too self-conscious to decide — was deeply unimpressed with all this; our friends and family were right there! They were all as good as us, they could look after Maisie just as well, and we were being foolish. The abyssal leviathan who was no longer Guilt, she knew that we could not stand up to Praem in any case. The debate was moot. Get on with it. Go eat a fish.

  “Self care it is, then,” we said, forcing myself to turn around and march down the corridor. “Good girl mode. Just for you, Praem.”

  Praem already had a change of clothes laid out for me in the bathroom. I attended to all the matters I’d been ignoring since yesterday — I brushed my teeth and took a long, hot, proper shower, with plenty of scrubbing. I made sure to unroll and massage each tentacle in turn. I wasn’t yet sure about cleaning the gill-slits that sometimes appeared down my ribcage and the sides of my neck, so I made sure to fold them away for the duration of the shower, tidying up the other pneuma-somatic additions I didn’t need right then. We spent a couple of minutes playing with our chromatophores, making our skin glow and flare, until we could cast rainbows between the droplets of water; a poor substitute for the deep desire which lurked in my heart. I wanted to go swimming, of course, and a bath would only have made me sad. But swimming had to wait. The vigil came first, for now.

  I blow-dried and brushed my hair, moisturised my skin, and even trimmed my nails a little bit. By the time I was done and dressed I was practically vibrating with need.

  But I was not allowed to return to Maisie just then. Praem had been charged with the whole process, not just hosing me off.

  Praem herded me down the creaking stairs of the house, across the familiar floorboards of the front room, and into the warm embrace of the kitchen. My besocked feet picked up a little chill from the flagstones, prompting my bioreactor to turn up the heat inside my belly, but I eased it back down. We didn’t need the protection just then. We wanted to feel the house as it was, even if only as a distraction. We stretched out our tentacles and ran their tips along the walls, the edge of the wedged-open door, the rim of the table, and more.

  “Sit comfortably,” Praem told me. “Wait.”

  Praem had lunch all ready to cook, laid out on the kitchen counter — not just a sandwich with a few slices of cheese and lemon wedged into it, but the luncheon equivalent of a squid-girl-tailored Full English Breakfast. Eggs ready to scramble; two lemons for eating, one lemon for squeezing; a entire unopened packet of smoked salmon (a rather pricey gastronomic preference, the satisfaction of which I had Evee to thank for); half a tin of beans; a large flat mushroom to go under the grill; two tomatoes, equally for grilling; and a small cheese toastie, to be placed inside the ‘air fryer’ which the household had received as a gift from Jan.

  We, however, felt terribly restless as Praem bustled about the kitchen, partly with guilt for being waited on — which Praem really did not have to do, she wasn’t a servant or a maid, she was, in many ways, our daughter — and partly with the magnetic force of our gaze being drawn up toward the ceiling, our thoughts still lingering upstairs, with our twin.

  Instead of twiddling my thumbs and vibrating on the spot, I got up and helped tidy the table; breakfast and lunch stuff was still all over the place, so I set about getting the dirty dishes into the sink.

  Praem gave me a blank look. I raised both hands and all six tentacles with instant surrender.

  “I’m not trying to escape, I’m just … restless. Let me help? Just a bit of cleaning up … ”

  Once Praem was satisfied that I was not going to go sprinting back upstairs, she returned to the cooking,

  But a bit of cleaning up did not last long. After a few moments we were out of things to do. We pottered around the table once, then over to the door which led to the magical workshop. Nobody was inside except the pair of spider-servitors and Marmite, all clinging to the ceiling as usual, exchanging soft, brief touches of their face-mandibles. One end of the room was lit with the gentle purple glow of the semi-permanent portal to Camelot, and the table was littered with Evelyn’s books and papers and magical diagrams, all drenched in the heavy shadows of many closed curtains. I waved to Marmite and the spiders with one tentacle; Marmite waved back with a leg. I shut the door, trying to remember—

  “Oh, right,” I muttered to myself. “Evee’s still napping?”

  “Evelyn is napping,” Praem echoed, cracking an egg into a saucepan.

  Evelyn had been taking a lot of naps since my return from the abyss. The ‘submarine’ she and the others had sent to dredge me out had required a great deal of energy and exertion from her, and no small amount of pain. On Monday of that week she’d surprised everybody by going to see a doctor — an expensive doctor with a private practice, on Harley Street in London. She’d taken the train down, accompanied by Praem. (“First time in a couple of years!” Raine had informed me.) According to Doctor Rosalie Brunot — who Evelyn had seen several times in the early months after the death of her mother — Evelyn was simply exhibiting symptoms of exhaustion and stress, despite a battery of tests to rule out anything else. She was prescribed rest and painkillers.

  Real rest! the doctor’s note had said, underlined several times. Not sitting-up-in-bed-doing-paperwork rest. Intellectual rest. Do nothing for a week, then we’ll see how you are, Miss Saye.

  Evelyn had taken this poorly, but she took to the naps like a natural. We could all tell that she was already doing better.

  The house did seem oddly quiet, but that was to be expected. I had lost track of time over the last seven days, my normal rhythms of life subordinated entirely to the new processes of my twin sister. We — us nine, all a bit upside-down inside our own head for a moment — sorted through our slow catalogue of where everybody was. Evee was napping, Kimberly was at work, Lozzie had popped out to fetch Jan, and Sevens was off visiting her father — a task I had yet to fulfil, to thank him for his help in Cygnet. Eileen and her as-yet-unnamed daughter had not visited Number 12 Barnslow Drive, not quite yet, though we had plans hatching for something soon, when Maisie was ready. Zheng and Grinny were out who-knew-where. Twil had come over, she was upstairs with Tenny, taking a turn on the watch.

  And Raine …

  “Praem,” I said, a little confused. “Where did Raine go? I recall her saying bye, but … ”

  Without turning around, Praem said, “It is Friday.”

  “ … oh! Work!” I laughed at myself, feeling very silly. Friday afternoon at the student union bar on campus; term had not quite started yet, but Raine’s regular shifts had resumed, to coincide with the early-arrival freshers on their first days at campus. She was picking up a few more shifts before classes inevitably filled the schedule. “Yes, I … ” We sighed, rubbing a tentacle over our face. “Wow, we really haven’t been paying attention, have we?” We flapped our arms. “I’m so restless, now, I … you know what, Praem? I think I’m going to step outside for a moment.”

  Praem turned to face me, spatula in hand, blank-faced and staring with her wide and empty eyes.

  “I mean outdoors, into the back garden,” I added quickly. “Not Outside outside. You did say I should get some fresh air.”

  Praem stared.

  “ … Praem? What do you think I’m going to do, climb up the side of the house and scrungle in through Maisie’s bedroom window?”

  “A distinct possibility.”

  I laughed — giggled really, with one hand to my mouth. I felt so free. “I promise I won’t! I promise you. I’m serious, I need to walk about for a moment, breathe the air, stretch my legs. I promise, I cross my heart, on all the love I bear for you, that I will neither climb the side of the house nor make a spring with my tentacles and bounce up there, nor anything else. I’m going to walk around the big tree in the garden. That’s all.”

  “Promise accepted.” Praem turned back to her cooking.

  “Call me in when it’s done,” I said. “Thank you, Praem. You really didn’t have to do all this.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do not have to.”

  We — I, me, us — wandered over to the open door which led into the narrow little utility room, slipping out of the relative brightness of the kitchen and into the shadows between the washing machine, the door down to the cellar, and the broken-backed old sofa. I padded over to the back door, slipped on my shoes — left there from the previous time I’d done this exact same thing, a few days earlier — then opened the door and stepped out onto the patio.

  Chill air kissed my cheeks, ran feathery fingers through my hair, and cupped all six of our tentacles. We were dressed in only a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but our yellow blanket came quickly to hand, hanging from our shoulders as if it was part of our body. We never had to put it away or take it off ever again; whenever we showed greater truth in our form, the blanket took on the aspect of a wing-like membrane. But right then, outdoors in leafy Sharrowford, it was a warm blanket.

  We tugged it tight, to keep out the cold weather.

  We also checked our appearance briefly, making sure our tentacles were not visible, our skin was not a riot of colour, and we weren’t sporting any spikes or showing our tail, despite the desire to wiggle it in the open air. We wouldn’t want the neighbours to post on the internet that they lived next to a space alien, now would we?

  I shut the back door, turned to the garden, and took a deep breath of frigid air.

  Autumn had arrived early, in a blush of reds and yellows and brilliant oranges on the boughs beyond our garden. The big tree in the garden itself was holding on valiantly, but even those leaves were starting to turn. A riot of colour lay still as a painting against clear blue skies, cold and crisp, light and fluffy upon the rooftops of Sharrowford beyond. A few stray spirits crossed those rooftops, far away.

  It was September. A Friday. The academic year at Sharrowford University would begin in just over two weeks, on the first of October. I was enrolled for my second year of a degree in English Literature.

  This time last year I had been arriving in Sharrowford. I had believed myself fragile, alone, and insane.

  I filled my lungs, held the breath, and stretched out all my briefly-invisible tentacles, allowing myself a soft whine deep down in my throat.

  When I lowered my eyes to the garden, I discovered that I had some unexpected company. Framed by the overgrown grass and the riot of fascinating weeds in the flowerbeds, beneath the cool shelter of the shadow cast by the gnarled old tree in which Tenny’s cocoon had once lain, were two familiar figures, one standing, the other crouching, with something cradled in the latter’s lap.

  “Zheng!” I called, surprised to see her back in the garden so soon. “And … Grinny?”

  Zheng heard my voice and looked my way. She broke into a toothy grin, full of sharp glints in the sunlight. “Shaman! Come see our bounty!”

  Steeling my stomach against the inevitable sight and smell of whatever raw meat the pair had brought home this time, I stepped off the patio and onto the unkempt grass of the lawn, heading over to the tree.

  Zheng was standing, dressed in her usual baggy layers, boots covered in woodland mud, dark hair and reddish brown skin kissed hard by the cold sunlight. Grinny — the Grinning Demon who we had rescued from Edward Lilburne, now Zheng’s constant companion — was squatting with something held in her lap. She was dressed a little more neatly than Zheng, having expressed a fondness for tracksuits and jogging bottoms. She was still completely bald, head like a shiny egg, but somehow she made it work. Twin pools of blood-red eyes glanced up at me as I approached, framed by the curling black of her horns. Her mouth split wide to show rows of sharp teeth, proud of whatever prey she’d caught.

  “Good afternoon, Grinny,” I said, carefully bracing myself for whatever puddle of gore I would find in her hands. “I take it you two had a good … hunt? Oh! Oh my! Hello?”

  I squeaked in surprise, tentacles going everywhere.

  A tiny red-brown snout peered over the edge of Grinny’s arm, followed by two little clawed paws. Beady black eyes fixed on mine for a heartbeat, framed by a swish of dark red tail. The face vanished, trailed by the tail, as the owner of both scurried up inside Grinny’s tracksuit top. She burst into peals of laughter, cradling the surprise visitor inside of her clothes.

  I stood, mouth agape, eyes wide.

  “A rare find,” Zheng purred. “No, Shaman?”

  Grinny looked so proud.

  “I … um … I didn’t quite get a good look, was that … a red squirrel?”

  “Yes,” Zheng purred. “A little wanderer. A little lonely. But lonely no longer, perhaps?”

  I laughed as well, boggling at both of the demons. “How on earth did you two find a red squirrel this far south? Don’t tell me you’ve just sprinted to Scotland and back? Even you couldn’t do that, Zheng.”

  “I could try.”

  “Found him!” Grinny said. “In the woods! All alone!”

  “The puppy,” Zheng rumbled — by which she meant Tenny, “was educating the little one here,” (by which she meant Grinny,) “on the subject of English wildlife. This forlorn weakling had to be found. Sheltered. Protected.”

  “Greys would bully!” Grinny said, petting the squirrel under her top. The animal shifted a little. Grinny giggled, a wet and toothy sound.

  Zheng sighed. “I am not allowed to eat this one. A pity.”

  “Not eating!” Grinny snapped at her. “No!”

  “Just so,” Zheng purred.

  “What are you going to do with him?” I asked.

  “Look after,” Grinny told me. “In woods.”

  Zheng rumbled a wordless sound and placed a hand on the back of my neck. She gently drew me closer, then planted a kiss on my forehead. She smelled of blood and meat and earth, but her clothes were mercifully clean. I gave her a quick hug.

  “You’re not coming in?” I asked.

  Zheng shrugged. “The little one is restless. Your twin?”

  I shook my head. “You think I’d be out here by myself if she was talking? No. I’m in enforced self-care mode. Enforced by Praem, that is.”

  “Good.” Zheng grunted, raising her eyes to the house. “Here she is. You have strayed too far, shaman.”

  “Ah?”

  When I glanced back at the house, Praem was visible through the glass of the back door. She’d been about to open it and call for me. I raised a hand to let her know I was on my way.

  From the garden, Number 12 Barnslow Drive was beautiful. The cold sunlight soaked into the tiles on her roof, reflecting off the patches of blue tarpaulin, ready for the much-needed work to be done up there over the following weeks; roofing repairs were well overdue. Her dark windows were like heavily lidded eyes, dozing off in front of a fire. Her bricks seemed soft to the touch, as if they would yield like skin. All her little external details — her drainpipes, her door handles, the open palm of the patio, the glass of the windows, the flanks which led around to the front — filled me with a sense of belonging.

  I’d lived here for less than one twentieth of my life, but this house felt more like home than anywhere else.

  Except maybe the lightless waters of the abyss.

  “Don’t stay out too long, Zheng. Love you,” I said as I turned to leave, our fingers interlinked for a few moments. “And um, Grinny, good luck with looking after the squirrel. Let me know what you name … him? Her?”

  “Hims! Squirrel!” Grinny said with a wet cackle.

  Praem awaited me at the back door, her black and white maid uniform framed by the shadowy interior of the utility room. She opened the door for me and ushered me inside, greeting Zheng and Grinny with a stare. I slipped my shoes off, grateful to be back inside the familiar warmth of the house.

  Lunch was served, steaming softly on the kitchen table, filling the air with the scent of eggs and lemon and a seductive hint of smoked salmon; Praem had used the entire packet of the latter. I was salivating before I even got my backside into a chair, feeling like an aquarium squid at feeding time, wiggling all our tentacles with involuntary excitement.

  I was not allowed to pick up my plate and rush upstairs to eat in Maisie’s room, as I had taken all my meals in that fashion for the last week. Praem didn’t have to say so, and I was not foolish enough to ask. She simply stared at me for a few moments until I picked up my fork and got started.

  “Chew properly,” she said.

  “I will, I will!” I replied around a mouthful of lemon-drenched fish. “I promise! No rushing, I promise.”

  Praem turned away and set about cleaning the kitchen.

  We — I, me, us, nine of us coiled about each other inside one physical form — weren’t lying about that promise, either. We tried, very hard, to pace ourselves and eat with a reasonable degree of leisure, no matter how our eyes felt magnetically drawn to the ceiling, on the other side of which our sister waited for our return. As we ate, we pricked up our ears, trying to discern from among the myriad little noises of the house any hint of raised voices from up there, or the beginning of a triumphant rush down the stairs, or an excited trill from Tenny. We were being rather silly, of course; we didn’t doubt the whole house would know at the very moment of the slightest change in my twin’s countenance. Evelyn’s comfy nap would surely be interrupted by Tenny at full trumpet-blast volume, shaking the window panes and shivering the bricks.

  When Praem finished cleaning up the kitchen, she sat down opposite me, with her hands folded upon the tabletop.

  “You, um … ” I said, swallowing a mouthful of scrambled egg. “You don’t have to watch me eat, Praem.”

  “I do not have to,” she confirmed. “Yes.”

  I sighed, smiling ruefully at myself. “Thank you, by the way. For lunch, I mean. Thank you for all the cooking you do around here, Praem. I hope you know how much we all appreciate you. I never want to take you for granted.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m sort of hoping that over this coming year I can learn to do a bit more cooking myself. Things should be a bit quieter from now on.” I frowned at my own words. “Um, to put it lightly.”

  Praem raised one elegant hand and rapped a knuckle against the wooden tabletop.

  “Ah? Praem?”

  “Touch wood.”

  “Oh! Oh, right, yes.” I tapped the tabletop myself, hewing to the ancient superstition; I hoped my words had not jinxed us, though I struggled to imagine how any year of my future life could be as stressful and busy and difficult as the one which I had just passed through. Was that the voice of youthful naivety? Several of us agreed; that was too much of an assumption to make. Don’t tempt fate. “Touch wood, indeed,” I agreed. “Well said. Thank you.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “You are welcome.”

  I smiled across the tabletop, then set about scooping up the last few mouthfuls of this extravagant lunch.

  When I was down to just one spoonful of baked beans and a crust of cheese toastie, we heard a key turn in the front door, followed by the familiar click of the lock, and a sudden clatter from two pairs of feet.

  Praem stood up from the table, as if to greet guests, but by the familiar patter-stomp of trainers being kicked off, I knew exactly who had arrived home. My suspicions were confirmed a moment later by the soft cry of—

  “I’m hoooome! With Jannyyyyy!”

  —followed by the patter-step-skid of Lozzie bursting into the kitchen. Poncho all a-flutter, hair tousled by the wind, face a little red from the cold weather, she bounced over the kitchen threshold, then slammed to a halt and boggled at me.

  Praem said, “Welcome home.”

  “Hiiiiii Praem!” Lozzie chirped, then switched back to me again. “Heathy! You’re eating in the kitchen, in the kitchen!”

  “I’m under strict orders,” I said, swallowing my final mouthful of beans and gesturing at Praem. “And you know how Praem is, I can’t dare say no. I, um!” I stammered, suddenly blushing. “I mean that in a good way of course, Praem! Sorry!”

  “No offense has been taken,” said Praem. “I am flattered.”

  Lozzie crossed the kitchen in a series of little hops. She kissed me on the top of my head, then pattered around to Praem and hugged her tight, emitting a high-pitched “Mmmmmmm!”. Praem returned the hug.

  Jan appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes darting left and right, as if checking the corners for lurking fears.

  “Hello, Jan,” I said, unable to keep the slightly exasperated amusement from my voice. “Good afternoon.”

  Jan was not dressed in the armour she had worn in the dream, but she acted as if she was. Jan Martense, mage and mystery and self-made doll, was dressed in a two-piece pink tracksuit, with a white puffer jacket over the top, unzipped down the middle; this was not the gigantic armoured coat she’d worn upon certain previous visits to Number 12 Barnslow Drive, but it did match the style, despite terminating at her hips instead of turning her into a huge cartoon penguin. Jan had in fact worn that massive protective coat for the first three days of the last week, but eventually Lozzie had convinced her that the protection was not needed.

  But still, I spotted a hint of straps and holsters inside the coat.

  Jan met my eyes, jaw set, looking ready to bolt. “That … that woman, she’s not here again, is she?”

  I swallowed a sigh and turned it into a smile; Jan had asked that exact same question every single day for the last week, always the opening refrain of her regular visits. And always with the same answer. Some of us — three out of six tentacles — toyed with the idea of rushing up to her and tickling her under the armpits, just to make her relax. But that would be silly, not to mention an invasion of Jan’s personal space. The notion received a firm veto from the rest of us.

  “No, Jan,” I said. “Taika’s not here. Taika was never here. She came to Wonderland directly, she never set foot in the house. How many times do I need to say this?”

  Jan puffed out a breath she’d been holding, flapped her arms, and cleared her throat. “You don’t … you don’t have to keep repeating that last part. I know that part. I just want to make sure she’s not, you know … here.”

  “Jan, if you feel ridiculous, you only have yourself to blame.” I paused and cleared my throat as well. “Sorry, that sounded more harsh than I intended it to be.”

  Jan almost laughed. “I don’t care about feeling ridiculous. I care about not having to deal with that … person.”

  Lozzie disengaged from Praem and pattered over, slipping behind Jan and sliding her arms over Jan’s shoulders. “Jannyyyyy,” she purred, eyes closed in relaxation. “Taika’s fiiiiine, she’s not scary at all!”

  Jan swallowed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “You don’t know her like I do, Lozzie. I wish you wouldn’t … ”

  Jan trailed off.

  “Jan,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about that here. In Sharrowford, but especially in this house, you’re under our protection. I don’t understand what history you and Taika have, or what your disagreements are about, but she’s not going to lay a finger on you.”

  Jan shot me a sceptical look. “I’m not worried about getting shanked. Hell, I’d like to see her try. I’d lay her out flat. No, I’m worried about getting drawn into an interminable philosophical argument which should have been forgotten a long time ago.” Jan sighed, patted one of Lozzie’s hands, and made an effort to smile. “Look, let’s not linger on that. Let’s talk about happier matters.” Jan’s smile turned genuine. “How’s sleeping beauty? Any change?”

  I shrugged as I stood up from the table, my lunch finally all comfy down in my tummy. “Same pace as the rest of the week, I think. Do you want to come see her? Say hi?”

  “I most certainly do!” Jan beamed at me. She gently peeled Lozzie’s arms off her shoulders, but held her hand instead. “Let’s go see our patient.”

  Lozzie and Jan trooped out of the kitchen and back into the front room, hand-in-hand. On the first few days Jan had waited for somebody else to take the lead, but Lozzie had a way of enforcing domestic familiarity. I glanced at Praem for permission to join them.

  “Lunch is complete,” she said. “You may return.”

  Jan and Lozzie were already halfway up the stairs by the time I caught them; Jan had paused to leave her coat by the door. Praem trailed behind, attending to some other matter, probably intending to go wake Evee shortly. We emerged into the upstairs corridor, passed several of the bedrooms, the open door to the bathroom, the clean, clear, sunlight pouring through the single window, and made our way almost to the corner.

  That was where Praem had cleared out a room for Maisie.

  Lozzie and Jan went in first. I followed, still with a hitch to my heartbeat and a catch in my throat, despite an entire week of this routine.

  The room — on the same side of the house as Evelyn’s bedroom — did not yet contain very much of note. Maisie did not yet own anything, with no books or clothes or plush animals or any possessions with which to express and define herself. But we’d done what we could to brighten up the space; we didn’t want her to awaken to blank walls and empty shelves. The bed covers were a riot of pinks and lilacs, donated by Evelyn, watched over by a pair of plush sheep detached from the mass of Evelyn’s collection. Several yellow drapes hung from the walls, borrowed with great enthusiasm from Seven’s new room at the rear of the house, reflecting the bright and cheery sunlight that poured in from the window, filling the room with a familiar yellow glow. The floor boasted not one, but two nice thick fluffy rugs, currently accompanied by a bedroll on which I had been sometimes sleeping. A bookshelf stood opposite the bed; the books within were rather thin on the ground for now, mostly second-hand copies of novels I recalled from our shared childhood, along with many of my own favourites. A desk had been rescued from one of the old rooms at the rear of the house, though we couldn’t figure out what to put on yet, so it seemed a bit sparse. The only important thing on the desk was a small plate with a pebble in the middle — The Pebble, the one I had pressed into Maisie’s fist at the end of the dream.

  One of the rugs was currently occupied by Tenny and Twil, both sitting cross-legged on some cushions. A chess set lay discarded to one side. A spread of playing cards formed a wall between the two.

  “Hey hey hey! Hey there Jan.” Twil broke into a grin when the three of us bundled through the doorway. Her wolfish ears stood up and her tail started wagging; she had retained those pneuma-somatic additions after the dream of Cygnet, and preferred to keep them present, at least when she wasn’t out in public. “Is it that time already? Time for the regular check up?”

  “That time again,” Jan said. “Twil, Tenny.” She nodded at the pair in turn, passing them by and striding over to the bed. “Maisie, hello. Only me again.”

  Lozzie flopped down, arms over Tenny’s shoulders, peering at the playing cards in Tenny’s hand. Tenny returned the hug with half a dozen tentacles. “What’cha playing, Tenns?”

  “Winning!” Tenny trilled, a big smile on her face, tentacles wiggling everywhere. “Brrrrrrt!”

  Twil blew out a big puff, but she was still smiling too. “Yeah, no kidding. It’s Blackjack, sort of. I won two hands, but I think Tenny learned how to count cards after that. I’ve got no hope here.”

  “Maffs!” Tenny giggled. “Can go back to chess if you want, Twil? Beat you harder?”

  Twil rolled her eyes. “I like you better when we’re playing Minecraft.”

  Lozzie giggled, hugging Tenny, rubbing her cheek against Tenny’s face. Twil made some clever quip, grinning when Lozzie giggled all the harder. Tenny revealed her hand, and won, again.

  I passed by, lingering only to briefly touch tentacles with Tenny, following Jan over to the large, comfortable bed which dominated one side of the room. It was not flush against the wall, but pulled out slightly, so that any observer might make a complete circuit of the bed, to peer at the recumbent occupant from any desired angle. This process of regular examination was becoming less and less necessary, but Jan had silently determined that she wasn’t going to stop the inspections, not until the process was well and truly complete, without any doubts left. I understood why, even if it was only for her own sake, but I appreciated the expert opinion.

  Lying on the bed, with the covers pulled up over her chest, her eyes closed in something akin to repose, was Maisie.

  She looked exactly like me — minus my various abyssal additions, my six tentacles, my chromatophores, and the lines of all my habitual expressions etched into the curves and muscles of my face. She was tiny beneath the covers, so very petite, just like me. She had my narrow jaw, my dark lashes, my neat nose, my curled lips, the softness of my cheeks, all of me, reflected.

  The only major difference was the same one which had been revealed upon her rescue. Her hair was extremely long, currently coiled across one side of the bed, to keep it out of the way.

  She was no longer thin with metaphysical malnutrition, no longer pale and drained by a decade of isolation, sensory deprivation, and imprisonment, no longer slack with inner exhaustion. I had to remind myself that she had technically never been any of those things in the first place, that had been the language of a dream, the language of a Cygnet Hospital which was never real. Maisie’s physical form in that place had been only memory and metaphor. This — her, in that bed, right in front of my eyes — was the real thing.

  She was dressed in plain pajama bottoms, borrowed from Evelyn, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, borrowed from me.

  A fragment of yellow cloth was wrapped around her right wrist, satin-smooth, tied into a bouncy little bow. Sometimes only I could see that sliver of yellow fabric; sometimes it was plain for any unaltered eyes, visible to all. Sometimes it was made of silk, sometimes cotton, sometimes a kind of unnatural gossamer which faded beneath the sunlight. But it always came back. This was the fragment of my yellow membrane which I had gifted to Maisie in the dream, the piece of me which had helped carry her to the surface of the waters. Nobody had even voiced the prospect of removing it.

  And, cradled in her left arm, pressed gently to her chest, just over her heart, was the Praem Plushie. Another survivor from Cygnet.

  Maisie was breathing, slowly, softly, as if in a very deep sleep.

  She’d only been breathing for six days. On the day I had returned and first laid eyes on her, she hadn’t finished growing an approximation of her lungs.

  I sank into the armchair by the head of the bed, careful not to dislodge the book resting on one arm.

  “Hello,” I said to her sleeping face, both brightly and bravely. I did not have to fake any fraction of my tone. The mere sight of her filled me with hope and cheer. “I’m back! I was only gone for a little while. I mean, you heard what I said before I left, you know what I was doing. Lunch was great, Praem is an excellent cook, I can’t praise her enough, really. I can’t wait for you to try her cooking. You’re going to love it, though I don’t think you’ll need quite as much lemon as I do. Oh, and I popped outside, too! I mean, uh, not ‘Outside’ outside, not to another dimension, I mean out into the garden. Zheng was out there with Grinny. They’ve caught a red squirrel! Not to eat it, but to … protect it? I think? I have no idea how they found one so far south. But it’s kind of heart-warming, actually. Maybe a pet, something to care for, maybe that’s what Grinny needs. I hope it helps her.”

  As I spoke to the unresponsive face of my sister, Jan took a circuit around the bed. She pulled out her mobile phone and started comparing Maisie’s sleeping form with the catalogue of photos she’d taken over the last twenty four days, checking on her from all different angles. She lifted a handful of Maisie’s hair and felt all along the length of her left arm, fingers sinking into the skin. She peered into Maisie’s ears, gently peeled open an eyelid to stare into the depths beneath, and carefully pulled her jaw down to examine her mouth and tongue. Jan used a timer on her phone to measure Maisie’s breaths, and even put one ear to her chest, listening to the strong, steady pump of her heart.

  I’d done that a dozen times this last week. I couldn’t help myself.

  As Jan drew near the end of her check-up — which I knew was approaching, because we’d done it so many times now — I said: “Jan, are you certain she can hear us?”

  Jan paused, eyebrows raised, then pulled a smirk. “Now who’s repeating needless questions?”

  “I just … I like to be sure.”

  Jan patted Maisie’s right hand. “I’m sure she can hear us, Heather. When I was in her position, my senses came back a lot faster than my fine motor function. I could hear blurred sounds for … well, for a lot longer than Maisie’s been lying here. I can’t guarantee she’s following the exact same process of bodily inhabitation that I did, but yes, I’m certain she can hear us talking.”

  I frowned up at Jan, sitting on the edge of my chair. “Senses came back faster than motor function?”

  “That’s … what I said, yes?”

  “Then how do you explain the … running … thing?”

  Jan sighed. “I don’t. Heather, come on, putting souls into physical vessels isn’t exactly a production line process. She’s one of a kind. Bespoke. It’s her body, she may have had to do some … adjustments. I don’t know. Okay? And it’s not happened again. Relax. She knows you’re here, she knows she’s cared for.”

  “I keep worrying that she was panicking or something … ”

  “She probably was,” Jan said. “I know I did. But then she calmed down. She knows she’s in safe hands, Heather. She can hear you.”

  I nodded, then reached out and briefly touched Maisie’s right hand, where it lay on the bedsheets.

  “So, uh,” I tried to ask, nodding at Jan’s mobile phone. “Any change?”

  “Actually no,” Jan said, gesturing at ‘our patient’. “She’s not changed from yesterday’s check-up, not at all. I don’t spot any further changes to the surface of her skin, no new pores, nothing added, not even a hair. Her breathing is normal, heartbeat’s normal. She’s got saliva, earwax, and I think I could even hear a digestive gurgle or two. Good for her.”

  “Oh,” I said, alarmed. “Does she need to eat? She won’t starve, will she?”

  Jan shook her head. “I doubt her digestion is actually functioning yet. And she’s showing no signs of dehydration, she doesn’t need to intake water, not until all this, you know, comes online, as it were.” Jan shook her head. “Frankly I’m surprised she’s still sleeping.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Could something be wrong?”

  “Nothing serious. The doll-joints still show when you look closely, but that’s something she’ll have to learn to consciously adjust, she’s not awake enough to change it. So, yeah, I think her pneuma-somatic layer is done. Twenty four days! Tell you what, Heather, I am jealous.” Jan almost laughed. “Took me … well, a lot longer. I’m glad my craft work could spare her those difficulties.”

  “How much longer?” I asked, squeezing my hands together, twisting my tentacles into knots.

  Jan glanced back at Lozzie and Tenny and Twil, to make sure all three were engrossed with the mess of the card game. When she spoke again, she lowered her voice.

  “I haven’t a clue. It took me a lot longer than this, in my own body.” She waggled a hand, her own doll-joints showing at wrist and knuckles. “But then I wasn’t exactly undergoing the transfer in optimal conditions. I was face down in a bad place, all by myself. Half the time, I thought I was actually dead. I had to rush, if I wanted to survive. I was up on my feet long before I was physically complete. Maisie here, she doesn’t have that pressure. She’s got a lot of advantages. She might simply be taking her time, in the knowledge that she’s safe to do so. It might be better that way. She’s skipping right over a lot of the problems I went through. No blindness. No spinal pain. No failed digestion. Not even the thing with my sense of touch being all upside down. And she’s got actual physical remains, that’s boosted the process in ways I never could have done myself, and—”

  Jan must have caught a look I hadn’t known I was wearing. She halted and cleared her throat.

  “S-sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to seem worried.”

  “It’s alright, Heather,” Jan said with an awkward smile. “Maisie’s doing great. Just give her time. Who knows, she might wake up in a day or two. Might be a week. But she’s in there, and she’s made incredible progress. I’m sure she’s just comfortably getting on with it.”

  “I hope she is comfortable, yes.”

  Maisie — my sister, my twin, my mirror-half — was, for want of better and more accurate terminology, ‘anchored’ inside the doll-body that Jan had engineered for this express purpose. Maisie had spent the last twenty four days instinctively building her outer layers and inner details from pneuma-somatic flesh, the hard and physical kind, the same kind of flesh which Jan had once desperately draped over her own emergency-escape body, the same kind of flesh that clothed Praem’s wooden core. Now she was complete, but not yet ready to awaken.

  I had missed the dramatic moment of transubstantiation, the moment of Maisie’s return to the physical; I’d been busy swimming through the abyss. In a way I was glad that I had missed it — I don’t know if I could have kept myself together in the moments after the collapse of the Cygnet dream.

  According to everybody else, the collapse of the dream of Cygnet Asylum had been horribly confusing, ejecting everybody back out onto the then-still blackened ash of Wonderland, complete with memories and knowledge of where I’d gone, but no sign of myself — and no sign of Maisie, even though they knew she should logically be present.

  It was Eileen who had solved that mystery. As the great lid of the Eye had rolled back above Wonderland, Eileen had appeared among my very confused friends. She had prioritised constructing her own body, as rapidly as she could, because she had a delivery to make.

  Eileen had presented to my friends a carefully cradled handful of fire-blackened scraps.

  A few fragments of human bone, scorched and charred.

  Maisie’s mortal remains.

  According to Eileen’s rapid — and mercifully pun-free — explanation, Maisie’s soul still clung to those chips of carbonised bone.

  I had seen those pieces of bone, but I had not touched them. A picture had been taken, for the sake of my own knowledge, in case I needed closure. I don’t know how I would have reacted to cradling those fragments in my own hands. But I hadn’t needed to. Jan had worked fast, even disoriented from the dream and terrified out of her wits to find herself in Wonderland. Before the others had even regained their bearings, Jan had opened up the doll-body and added the bone fragments to the core of the magical mechanism, among the crystal innards which were meant to contain Maisie’s mind and spirit.

  Maisie’s ‘soul’ (again, for want of better terminology) had quickly settled into her new vessel.

  I had also missed most of the process by which she had built her pneuma-somatic outer layers. For the first few days — while the others had split their time between watching over her and preparing to dredge me from the abyss — Maisie had been nothing but a lifeless, faceless, seemingly empty doll, made of grey-on-grey carbon fibre. Slowly she had begun to take shape, first as a ghostly outline, still featureless and vague, but with increasing detail by the hour. After a week she had been solid enough to touch her skin. At ten days, everybody had agreed it was time to dress her in some clothing. Between the twelve and eighteen day mark, the process had turned rather gruesome — her facial features had to solidify from a shiny surface. I had missed most of that, but Jan had pictures, taken for entirely proper medical reasons. The pictures showed eyes like pinpricks, ears like twists of mangled flesh, a mouth formed from a lipless slash, and hair like bristles. Over time my own face had emerged from the warped lump of pneuma-somatic clay.

  A few of the others had been surprised that Maisie did not have tentacles, like we did. But why should she? She had not traversed the abyss. She was not a Heather, not us. She was Maisie.

  Over the days I had watched her, Maisie’s skin had gone from a shiny, unyielding, too-perfect surface, to real human skin, with pores and little hairs and even a few moles. Her fingernails had finished emerging. The hair on her head had taken on full solidity. She had gained a pulse and a heartbeat and oils on her skin. She had started breathing, at which I almost climbed the walls in excitement. Sometimes her fingers twitched or her eyeballs moved behind the lids.

  But still, she wouldn’t wake.

  Some of the others were worried she’d had a bad experience.

  Back at the five day mark — another milestone I’d missed — Maisie had done something that Jan had not predicted, nor prepared for. She had surprised everybody, in a way that was meant to be impossible.

  She had gotten up and sprinted for the front door.

  This had come as a bit of a shock to everybody involved, especially because Maisie hadn’t yet taken proper shape. She’d been nothing but a glossy, smooth, ghost-like illusion, wrapped around a skeletal doll made of carbon fibre. She hadn’t possessed muscles or eyes, with no way of navigating or locomoting. According to Jan, the whole thing had been achieved via willpower alone, pneuma-somatic motion, like a spirit bound to a lump of matter.

  She had reached the front door quite quickly, before anybody could properly react. She’d gotten down the garden path, over the front wall, and out into the street. After twelve paces at a dead sprint, Zheng had finally caught her and bundled her back into the house.

  Luckily nobody had witnessed this doll-jointed apparition loose and wild on a Sharrowford street; the whole episode had unfolded at about five o’clock in the morning, when few prying eyes were awake to see.

  Maisie hadn’t resisted being returned to her new room; in fact, she’d gone completely limp, just as she was before, as if the escape attempt had been some confused bodily reaction rather than an actual plan. Everybody was concerned she might try it again, or that she was suffering somehow. Jan was encouraged by this — it was a good sign, technically — but also shared in the others’ concern. They had redoubled the watch inside her bedroom, and made sure the Praem Plushie was propped in her arms at all times.

  We — me, I, us — were worried as well.

  But beneath that, we were also very proud. Our sister, our twin, our Maisie, full of life and energy, even if she now knew she had to wait before expending it on running about. We felt so proud of her, of what she was achieving — becoming herself.

  Jan reached over and gently patted my arm, as we both stared down at Maisie. “She’s got the best care anybody could hope for, Heather. And she’s a lot more comfortable than I ever was.”

  “Mm,” I murmured.

  Jan cleared her throat, briefly glancing back at the others, before returning her eyes to me, down in the armchair. “Raine mentioned in passing that you called your parents again, yesterday?”

  A sigh escaped my lips. Jan had phrased it as a question, but I didn’t want to think about that right then. I wanted to focus on Maisie.

  Jan waited a moment, then added: “It might be pertinent to Maisie. That’s the only reason I ask. Raine gave me the gist, but, you know.”

  “The second attempt, yes,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “It didn’t … they didn’t … ”

  “No luck?”

  We shrugged, unable to face this now, not with Maisie herself needing so much attention. “They’re trying their best, but they only partially remember. My mother, she’s … she’s got that notebook where she wrote down the truth, and she believes the stuff written in her own hand. But it’s like a dream for her. My father, he tried to sound stoic, but he’s … oh, I don’t know. Both of them know Maisie exists, they accept it. But without any physical evidence, no return of her things, of proof she was ever alive, it’s hard for them to tell reality from a dream. They need something more.”

  “They need to see her,” Jan said.

  I nodded. “They do. When she’s awake. When she’s finished growing herself. Not like this. We don’t know if she’d even want that.”

  Jan nodded, slowly. She didn’t say anything, neither argument nor agreement. After a long moment she gently patted me on the shoulder, then wandered over to where Lozzie was cooing at the card game between Tenny and Twil.

  “That was Jan,” I said to Maisie, leaning forward. “I mean … you know that was Jan, of course you do. Why am I telling you that?” I laughed softly, then settled back into the armchair, getting comfortable. We didn’t intend to get up for anything for the next while, not until we needed to use the toilet. “Do you want us to read to you some more?” I picked up the book from the arm of the chair and touched the bookmark. Watership Down. We were only a few chapters in. “I do hope you’re enjoying it, Maisie. I know it’s a heavy one, but it’s still one of my favourites, and I can’t help thinking it’s a bit like … like … well, you know.” I sighed. “Though, if you’re getting tired of it, we could switch out to something else. We’ve got all the books in the house to choose from, after all. I don’t mind reading something I’ve not read before, then we can both experience it for the first time, together! Praem’s good at suggesting books, she’s been reading so many this past year. Or we could always read The Hobbit a second time. There and back again. Just like you and me.”

  I trailed off, staring at the mirror of Maisie’s face, at her eyelashes against her cheeks, at the slow rise and fall of her chest, the long brown tail of her hair lying on the pillow and across the sheets.

  The Praem Plushie seemed to stare at me for a moment. I nodded and smiled to her; good job watching over Maisie, Praem.

  Behind me, the card game was abandoned, and the others asked if I was okay by myself for a bit — I wasn’t really listening, but I gathered that Tenny wanted to show ‘Lozzie-mums’ and ‘Jannary’ something exciting on her laptop, while Twil needed to stretch her legs and fetch a snack, and probably sneak off to see Evee, once Evelyn was awake. Of course I was okay! But I wasn’t by myself. There were nine of us in here, and Maisie was right in front of us.

  The others went off. Twil paused to squeeze my shoulder. “She’ll be up and about in no time, Big H. Lookin’ forward to it.”

  “Me too. Thank you, Twil.”

  “Back in a bit!”

  “Take your time,” I told her. “No rush.”

  A few moments later, it was just us and Maisie, and the gentle play of sunlight across the wall. The little noises of Number 12 Barnslow Drive filtered through the walls and the floorboards — the murmur of distant voices, the tap of footsteps on the stairs, the occasional creak of old beams. The house herself seemed to lean close, cupping us between her hands. I could have napped, right there in the armchair. Our tentacles were coiled softly about us, relaxed and unhurried.

  I let out a contented sigh leaning back in the armchair with the book in my lap.

  “I hope you’ll come to love this house as much as I do,” I said to Maisie. “Not that you have to, of course. I have no idea what your tastes or feelings will be like, not exactly. You might not even want to stay here. Maybe you’ll want to live with mum and dad, or maybe … ”

  My throat tightened around those words. It wasn’t time for that, not yet.

  Maisie was home. Maisie was safe. Maisie would be awake, quite soon.

  I opened Watership Down to where we’d left off. “Shall I keep reading, then?” I asked. “I shall, I think. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, here we are. The opening of chapter five. It was getting on towards moonset when they left the fields and entered the wood. Straggling, catching up with one another, keeping more or less together—”

  For several minutes I concentrated on the words of the story, putting all material concerns out of my mind, sinking into a familiar old fiction that I had read half a dozen times already. I spoke clear and soft, and I even did the voices, letting the narrative fill the room. I did hope Maisie was enjoying the tale, even if it could get a little dark from time to time.

  “They followed him through the fern and very soon came upon another, parallel path—”

  “Heather?”

  It is a strange thing, to hear yourself interrupted by your own voice.

  For a split-second I had no idea what was happening; my name, pronounced in my own voice, interrupting my thoughts and my words. We had become used to such things, of course, for we were nine-in-one now, a spread of little Heathers on the inside. But this was not an internal interruption. It came from beyond us, impossible, absurd.

  The book fell from my fingers and into my lap. My eyes flew wide. My mouth probably hung open, making me look rather silly.

  Maisie’s lips were parted, wide enough to whisper.

  I shot upright in the chair, leaning forward, leaning over her, my own breath held tight for fear of interrupting the next word. When she didn’t speak on, I thought it must have been a hallucination.

  “Maisie!?” I whispered, as if we were children again, hiding under the blankets “Maisie, are you … are you awake? Maisie? Was that you?”

  Her fingers twitched; her lips moved. I reached forward, my own hand trembling so hard I could barely feel when I slipped my fingers around hers. Two tentacles joined us, curling about her wrist. All of us, all nine of us, poised over her, waiting for a response.

  “Maisie?” we whispered. “Maisie?”

  Her hand tightened on mine, fingers coiling inward. Her eyes shifted behind the closed lids — then the lids peeled back, lashes fluttering, muscles squinting against the light.

  Maisie’s eyes — my eyes, seen in a mirror — turned and looked at me. Deep and dark. Richest brown.

  We were speechless. She was not.

  “Of course I want to live here,” Maisie said. Her voice was weak and dry, like my own voice had gone on a long journey and could not quite fit into the throat it had once occupied. “I want to stay … wherever you are, Heather. I don’t want to go anywhere away from you.”

  We are not ashamed that we started crying, not in the least. Tears ran down my cheeks, and into the smile on my lips.

  “Welcome home, Maisie.”

  And then—

  I am afraid that this is where I must leave you, at least for a short time, dear listener, dear reader, dear however-exactly-you-are—experiencing my words and thoughts, this rough record of my deeds, inscribed upon reality with all the unreliable contours of an imperfect memory.

  Don’t be afraid. This is not where my tale ends, not exactly, but it is the point at which I cease to be the most relevant one to tell it. I was never the centre of the universe; it only seemed that way, for this busiest year of my as-yet young life.

  Does it feel odd to be so directly addressed? Don’t be surprised. You’ll make us all giggle! You can’t seriously think that I wasn’t aware of you this whole time. I’ve learned a trick or two from Seven-Shades-of-Sunlight, and another one or two from some of her siblings, and the less said about the methods of The King in Yellow, the better. The less I explain, the safer you will be. All you need to know is that you have my gratitude.

  At the start of this account, I told you — yes, you — not to come here, whoever or whatever you are. To Sharrowford. To Barnslow Drive. To me and mine.

  If you’ve made it all this way, perhaps you’ve seen how I changed, during this most busy year — from a scrap of quivering humanity, isolated and lonely and turned against ourselves, to what we are in the aftermath of our journey, nine-in-one, one-as-nine, Homo abyssus, sat beside the bed of our twin sister. Perhaps you have some sensible reckoning of what we are, and what we are capable of, and who stands at our side in turn. Perhaps you’ve seen that we don’t have to be so afraid of each other — those of us who inhabit this supernatural underworld, by choice or otherwise, with or without quests and great tasks of our own, those of us ‘In The Know’.

  So, it is with open hands that I amend my previous statement.

  You’re welcome to visit Sharrowford. Under my protection, or the protection of Evelyn Saye, or perhaps under the protection of other entities who you may wish to invoke. There are plenty to choose from, after all.

  Tread lightly, be polite, and you will be very welcome.

  But I can’t promise it won’t be busy. My story may be complete for now, but there are so many more to tell, here in Sharrowford, for those of us In The Know, for those whom I hold close. And that is why I must leave you, for a time. I must leave the boards of the stage for those better suited to tell their own stories.

  Which stories, you may ask?

  I suspect you have some inkling of the answer to that question; you’re not a fool, if you’ve made it all this way. I’ve not exactly been subtle. Even here, at the end of ‘my’ story, we are still surrounded by many who deserve their own chance to grow, not least Maisie herself. Tenny needs an education, if she is to have a future. Zheng is still caged by circumstances that I, sadly, have not been the best to address. Twil, just about to start university herself, leads such a busy life sometimes. Kimberly, Felicity, Nicole — there’s a love triangle I do not wish to interrupt, if it counts as a triangle at all. What of Eileen’s daughter? No, I won’t tell you her name, that would spoil the surprise, I’ll let her do it herself! What of the King and his other children, not least the irascible Heart, who you may remember quite well. Ah, and then there’s Jan, with far too many secrets of her own.

  I can’t even list them all, because I don’t know! I’m not an omniscient eyeball in the sky, and these aren’t my stories to tell.

  But we’ll be here. Maisie and I both. We aren’t going anywhere.

  See you soon, observer.

  Heather and Maisie, reunited at last.

  on the 15th of March; for public readers, on the 29th of March!

  Heather will see you soon, observer!

  the first is a long ramble of reflections on writing Katalepsis, with some stuff about plans for Book Two and the future; is a sort of official Q&A post, though I don't know if the latter will see much use. Feel free! If not, then the comment section here is always open as well!

  Heather's journey otherwise? Eileen, alone in her archives? Maybe so. But with all of you, she was never alone. Thank you. You have my deepest gratitude.