The crossbow didn’t quiver; neither did my kitchen knife.

  My sister is not very skilled at stand-offs — whether Mexican, British, Russian, or any other locally flavoured implicit threat of use of weapons. This is because Heather is perennially uncertain if she’s prepared to pull the proverbial trigger on actually doing the real hurt — not that she won’t do it in the end, if prodded and poked and provoked enough, though you can usually avoid destruction by backing down first, unless you’ve done something truly unforgivable. We’ve all seen her commit plenty of violence, but Heather and violence have mutual commitment issues — always flirting and giggling and blushing, sometimes waking up in bed together after an unexpected moment of passion, but never answering the unasked question of long-term cohabitation. She’ll trip over her own feet a hundred times before giving you a single straight answer on swinging a hammer instead of swinging the lead. She hands out final ultimatums like smarties.

  And before you try to be clever — yes, sometimes she’s right. I wouldn’t be here telling you this story if Heather didn’t believe in second chances (but that doesn’t mean I want to think about the most infamous recipients of those, so stop there or I’ll be the one with the hammer in my hand).

  Heather can afford to be promiscuous with mercy. She’s got a mountain of it.

  Do you think I’m flush with patience?

  I stared up the hill, at the suit of armour — a grey void silhouetted against the ceiling of cloud cover. The armour stared back down the hill, at me.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. If there was a person inside that tin can, then perhaps they were staring at Kimberly instead, captivated by her cuteness. Or maybe they were focused on Tenny and Casma, wondering why the two of them were holding hands. Or maybe that person-shaped hole was looking at the giant trees behind us (a much better option). Or maybe she had her eyes screwed up behind the visor of her helmet. Maybe she was hoping that we would all vanish if she ignored us for long enough.

  She, yes. Sorry about the spoilers, but I can’t be bothered with the pretence.

  “Put that down,” I said.

  No need to shout. My voice carried up the hill perfectly well.

  The armoured figure moved her head — the dome-shaped helmet rotated to the left by a couple of degrees, sliding across the massive ring of gorget. Was that a tilt, a turn, a shake of her head?

  But the crossbow stayed steady.

  Behind me, Kimberly hissed, “M-Maisie? Maisie, it might not understand us. I-I seriously doubt it speaks English. And it might not even care! It’s not shooting, so— so we need to run! We need to run, now, back into the trees. I-I have to get Tenny and Casma out of here, and I can’t leave you behind. Maisie? Maisie, please.” Kimberly’s voice turned away. “Tenny, Cas, start backing up. Get behind a tree, behind—”

  I raised the kitchen knife.

  Tenny went ‘brrrrrt!’ Casma murmured, “It’s okay, Tenns. The knife is for knifing. Maisie said so.”

  Kimberly made a sound like she was trying to pull out her own tongue.

  Knife in one hand, I stuffed my tea towel into the waistband of my skirt, then flipped half my shawl over my shoulder, showing off the bloodstain on my tie-dye t-shirt (which I was still mad about, but restitution for a ruined shirt would be extracted later). I pointed at the bloodstain, placed the tip of the kitchen knife over the wound, and raised my other hand to smack the end of the handle, like a mallet on a chisel.

  That got a reaction; the figure in armour flinched, as if about to rush forward.

  Nobody likes to see a pretty young woman ram a knife through her own heart.

  Well, some do. (And no, you won’t.)

  I hammered on the end of the knife three times, maintaining eye contact with the narrow slit in the armour’s helmet. The tip of the knife reopened the wound the Mimic had left on me, but the carbon fibre beneath did not even scratch. Point made and point buried, I removed the knife and held it out to one side again. Fresh blood was seeping across the stain, sticking the t-shirt to my left tit.

  The crossbow dipped by a few inches.

  “It understands,” I said.

  Kimberly whispered. “And it’s still pointing a weapon at us! Maisie, Maisie, the girls are right here, Cas probably can’t be hurt but Tenny is only—”

  I did not whisper. “Your crossbow bolts won’t cross me any easier than a knife can knife me. You might have some luck if you can hit my joints, if you’re a very good shot and not shot through with nerves. But you have to ask yourself a question, don’t you? Are you a lucky person, or very skilled? You’ll need both. Can you loose and load that crossbow fast enough to demolish both my knees, before I can sprint up this hill and stick my knife through your visor?”

  The crossbow lowered, then turned aside.

  The figure in armour descended the little hill. She kept her armoured hands on her loaded weapon, but also kept it firmly to the side (which was lucky for her, because if she didn’t, I was going to test that claim about my knees). She clanked with each step, though much less than I expected; plush padding probably kept the plates apart on the inside, while the twinned swords on her belt were expertly secured, and the pack on her back was well-packed for travel.

  She drew to a halt a little way off. Close enough to hear her breathing. Two sword lengths, I guessed, though I knew nothing about swords.

  Absent the sky for backdrop, the tin can was revealed as more than just grey-on-grey plates of not-quite-steel. The suit of armour had one hundred percent coverage — not even the palms or fingers were exposed, but wrapped in pale, supple leather. The narrow slit of visor gave the wearer a wide field of vision, but the inside was veiled with a thick mesh, hiding any eyeballs. The cut of the armour was curved and smooth, but it concealed the shape within. (Yes, I know, I keep saying ‘she’, but boob plate is for video games and isekai anime; nothing about the armour said ‘woman’.) Every available surface was covered with interlocking circular designs, etched into the metal, then painted over with a red so dark it was almost black; the circles ringed each mail-backed joint and stood out on every flat surface.

  I don’t know the first thing about magecraft (sorry Evelyn, but I need a harsher hand in teaching, you have to tell me off more often), but I knew magic circles when I saw them.

  The figure in armour rotated her helmet left and right, looking at the sorry group she’d run into. She paused on Tenny for too long.

  It was too late for Tenny to pull her wings around herself and pretend to be a human, even if she had perfected her disguise.

  “No,” I said.

  One hand left the crossbow — the right hand, the one for the trigger mechanism. Fingers spread, palm out. The universal symbol for ‘I do not seek to fuck with you.’

  “Good,” I said. “Better still would be that bolt off your bow. Unless you want to get unstrung.”

  The dome slid back and forth — a shake of the head.

  But she took the hint, even if she was pushing her luck. She lowered the crossbow until it hooked into a sort of rest harness attached to her belt. The crossbow itself was a confusion of gears and levers and a box which probably held more bolts. The loaded bolt was solid steel. The string was over an inch thick. I wasn’t (and still aren’t) an expert on the history of putting bits of metal through other people at high speeds, but I was pretty sure a medieval knight would find that crossbow rather unsporting.

  Kimberly was squeaking. “H-hello— hello! Um, we mean you no … harm? Right, yes. Uh— we come in peace. Oh, no, no, uh—”

  The figure in armour raised both hands and gestured three times — an arching loop, a thumb on the knuckles of a closed fist, and a pinching motion. Her armoured fingers made little clicks as she touched them together. Her arms rustled with hidden chain-mail — between the joints? Behind the visor?

  Nobody said anything. Tenny let out a tiny ‘brrrt?’

  The armoured woman repeated the three gestures.

  Kimberly said, “Um … is she trying to … ”

  The armoured woman hesitated, then tried a third time. Same gestures, same order, same click-click-clack of little metal plates

  Casma said: “We are being asked if we need help. Enquired at as to our needs of assistance. All that. And that’s all.”

  The figure nodded — or tilted her dome forward, which probably meant the same thing.

  Kimberly said, “What? Casma, what? H-how do you know that?”

  “It’s a sign language.”

  The figure nodded again. Her fingers flew through a longer series of gestures.

  Kimberly held up a hand. “Wait wait wait, what sign language? Not BSL? A language you know? A language from Earth?” Kimberly laughed — which was a bad sign, because nothing about this was funny, and the laugh was a weird involuntary titter. “What is it, American Sign Language? Is this an American?”

  “It did point a gun at us,” I said. “Crossbow. Whatever. Whichever.”

  Kimberly let out another difficult laugh, though my joke was barely worthy of the definition.

  Cute.

  Still couldn’t see the eyes behind that visor slit, no matter how hard I stared. I wondered how many eyes she had.

  The armoured figure had paused while we spoke. Now she resumed her signing.

  “No,” Casma said. “I don’t know what sign language this is, just that it is one, and one that I can read, which might be because I was made of reading? Anyway, she says — do we need help? She cannot escort us back to a … hold? Hole? Hale? But she is able to guide us to the next … retreat? This is difficult. She has food and water to spare if we need, but she cannot leave her path. She says she is not equipped for wood-walking. Only for open heath and … closed stone?”

  “She?” Kimberly asked.

  “Yes. Oh, she’s spelling her name,” Casma said. The figure’s fingers flew through a choppier set of motions. “M-u-a-d-h-n-a-i-t. I am translating into English letters. Muadhnait. Hello, Muadhnait.”

  Muadhnait paused to nod, then carried on signing.

  Casma kept translating. “She asks how did we come to be out here? How did three … ” Casma paused; I wished I could see what she was doing with her face — frowning in a simple way, probably, which would be refreshing. “Sapients?”

  Muadhnait repeated the gesture, then switched to a different one.

  “Humans,” Casma translated. “How did three humans come to be out here, unarmed and unarmoured? Oh, that’s a funny word. It means without armour, but it’s literally ‘to be exposed to corruption’. Hm. Interesting.”

  Kimberly whispered, “Oh fuck me.” (Which she did not mean literally.)

  Muadhnait continued. Casma carried on with her translation: “Unarmed and unarmoured, in the company of a … ”

  Casma trailed off.

  Muadhnait repeated a particular sign three times — a hand upturned, fingers curled inward. Then she pointed at Tenny.

  “I will not repeat that word,” said Casma.

  I’d never heard Casma offended before (though I didn’t enjoy listening to Casma anyway, so go figure; perhaps I’d missed her being a pouty bitch when losing at Mario Kart or something). But now she was, and she managed to sound about ten percent as fussy and uptight as Heather could — which you will know is pretty impressive, if you’ve ever caught my sister in the vicinity of a bad swear word or overt discussion of a good fuck.

  “Three humans?” I said.

  Muadhnait’s visor slit rotated to look at me. No eyes to see. I gestured at the blood on my t-shirt, with my knife.

  “I am unstabable,” I said. “Is that a human quality, or a qualifier for human?”

  Muadhnait hesitated, then tapped her own armoured chest with two fingers. I smiled just a little; at least she had a sense of humour. Then she hesitated again, probably because I had smiled.

  “I know you can understand me,” I said, “because you’ve been responding to us. That person you’re insulting is my niece. Don’t do it again or I’ll put my knife through your visor.”

  Muadhnait hesitated again; her hands wavered, sign half-spoken.

  “Brrrrrt!” went Tenny. “Auntie Maisie take it easy, please.”

  Tenny’s trilling purr made Muadhnait flinch. She turned her helmet and stared at Tenny again.

  “No,” I said.

  Muadhnait quickly looked back at me.

  “No.”

  Kimberly shuffled forward, at the edge of my peripheral vision. “Yes, yes please,” she said. “Let’s not irritate her, please? Please, Miss— uh, Muadhnait, yes, we need help. Yes, we do. Look, I’m the only human being here, but we’re all together.” Kimberly waved her arms as she spoke. “All together, okay? And yes, we need help. How did you get here? A gateway? Or a— wait, Casma, what did she say, earlier? Where did she come from?”

  Muadhnait’s fingers flew again.

  Casma translated. “She says she came from … Low Second Crane-Seeking Hold? I don’t know what that means, it’s just words on a string. She has been four days on the road. She hunts a … ” Casma sighed. “There’s that word again. I won’t speak it, I’m sorry, but I just won’t.” Muadhnait switched to a different sign. “She hunts a … fairy? Yes, a fairy. The fairy has taken her sister, kidnapped from their home three months ago—”

  I bit the inside of my mouth.

  I did that because otherwise I was going to try to bite Muadhnait, and even I can’t actually bite through steel (my teeth are deliciously normal, unlike those of my sister). The taste of blood did not make me feel better. I didn’t interrupt, though; Muadhnait kept signing, and Casma kept translating. My anger climbed back to its feet, puffed out its chest, and pulled on the leash.

  It seemed that I was not the only kidnapped sister the Mimic had spirited away. Not even a while ago, but right now. Concurrently.

  Not only was she a liar and a cheat, she was also a slut.

  What was Muadhnait to the Mimic? What was this second sister? A dry run for Heather and I? A substitute, a pair of stand-ins she’d used to get herself fluffed up and ready for the main event? Or were twins and sisters and kidnapped siblings just her ‘thing’? Was this what floated her boat? Was I just another notch on her headboard?

  I tightened my grip on the kitchen knife. Oh no, I was going to be so much more than that.

  Having a crossbow pointed at us was amusing, (I’d never felt really threatened, could you tell?) The insult to Tenny was nasty, but we were Outside, and differences were inevitable, so I was willing to let it slide. (Though maybe I shouldn’t have.) But this? Some random who I had no interest in and no connection with had been dragged into my story. Or I’d been dragged into hers. All the Mimic’s fault. Muadhnait should have loosed her bolt when she’d had the chance; at least then we could have separated our narratives.

  But now? The chance was gone. I couldn’t just launch myself at her and stick my knife through her visor slit, not for no reason. (I know what I am, but I’m not a psychopath.)

  (Yes, really.)

  (Don’t.)

  And worse than all of that, when I looked at the blank aperture in Muadhnait’s helmet, can you guess who I thought of?

  If I pried that helmet off her armour, what would I find on the inside?

  Would I find Heather?

  Don’t misunderstand me; I didn’t believe that literally, though I’m not explaining this out of any care for how you rate my sanity. I didn’t believe for a second that if I lunged for Muadhnait and stuck my knife into the hairline gap between helmet and gorget, then cut through whatever padding she used, and pulled the metal dome off, that I would find Heather blinking up at me. No, I knew that I would meet the face of a woman I had never seen before.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  But in one important way, she was Heather. She was a woman on a quest to rescue her sister, who had been kidnapped by supernatural forces. She was fortified by magic, and helplessly kind to random strangers.

  Heather’s narrative double. The subtext wasn’t even subtle.

  And now I felt a tiresome kinship with her.

  Casma was still translating. “—she is on the road, making for the fairy’s … demesne? She does not think we should accompany her that far. The route is dangerous. Though not as dangerous as the … aura? Miasma? Area … of the woods. She cannot spare arms — oh, she means a sword, I think — so she recommends we move to the south. Along the cliffs? She is surprised that we—”

  I bit the inside of my mouth again, because now I wanted to turn around and bite Casma, because she could understand and I couldn’t, and that wasn’t acceptable, because Casma wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  Kinship without communication. I wasn’t even part of this conversation.

  I was fading into irrelevance.

  Muadhnait’s hands flew through signs. I watched her fingers, tuned out Casma, and unfocused my eyes.

  …

  Language is a pattern; patterns are regularity — in shape, structure, repetition, and so on. Clouds are also a pattern, but patterned by nature rather than human hands (literally, in this case) and cannot be reduced to a single part if you’re looking at the whole; conversely, the whole cannot be rebuilt from any one part. The cloud-pattern of the world cannot be reproduced from any single individual moment — it’s impossible and stupid to even try (and don’t think I don’t see those of you trying to do it anyway, you’re going to hurt yourselves, and I’m going to laugh at you).

  You’d need to account for every raindrop and tear and glass of orange juice and splash of petrol in the whole world in order to rebuild that pattern, which is not rebuilding it at all, but just doing the entire thing over from the ground up. And that’s why I don’t try, because I’m not my sister and I’m not going to assume I can hold even a single city in the palm of my hand.

  But languages are made by humans (or by other things, sure, I don’t need to be technically correct, only actually correct). And so, they can be reduced to rules, method, procedure, and structure. The pattern can be recreated from the rules, because the rules are just mathematics.

  I fucking hate maths.

  That was why I hadn’t tried to do this before, even though I knew I could. When Evelyn had spoken Latin at home or Zheng had rattled off a sentence of Mongolian, I didn’t bother trying to understand it myself. Why do maths when I could just ask?

  But now this was my story, and I was being shut out.

  …

  I watched Muadhnait’s hands and unfocused my eyes and widened my perspective until I saw enough of the pattern to rebuild it from a single piece.

  What did that cost me? A nosebleed, a headache? Another round of vomiting? You’re still too used to Heather if that’s what you were expecting (and you were, weren’t you? Come on, part of you was all ready for me to double up and retch until my tummy hurts. Sorry to disappoint you.)

  (Not sorry.)

  I spent another fragment of childhood memory on the recognition of patterns, which was the same thing I’d been doing for ten years in prison.

  Not like that currency was worth shit, anyway. I’d already melted it down.

  Muadhnait was signing: “I am surprised that you are travelling in the company of a fey. I will not ask why, but I caution you not to give the creature further attention.”

  “You mean Tenny,” I said, before Casma finished translating. “I already told you, she’s my niece. Do you need telling again, so you know when you’ve been told?”

  Everyone reacted with tiresomely predictable surprise. Casma hesitated, then finished her translation. Kimberly started to ask how I now understood Muadhnait’s sign language, but she trailed off for some reason I didn’t care to think about right then. Tenny went ‘brrrrt’. That was the only one which made me feel bad, because Tenny sounded afraid, but I couldn’t move my eyes right then.

  What Muadhnait had actually signed was more like: ‘You (general indicator) travel fey with (possessive) I surprise. Question-negative, (however) listen not I warn.’

  This was the reason for Casma’s hesitation with some words, and the reason I found it so easy to unpick the pattern. And it’s also the reason I won’t be subjecting you to the literal reality of Muadhnait’s sentences, because I can be merciful when I want to.

  Muadhnait hesitated again; she was good at that, as I was rapidly noticing. I found it very annoying.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can understand you now. Understand faster than you. Now answer the question or question the answer.”

  Muadhnait signed the symbol for a query.

  “What was that word you used earlier?” I said. “The word for Tenny, the one Casma wouldn’t repeat?”

  Casma cleared her throat. “Maisie, I don’t suggest we ask.”

  “Suggest not,” I said. “Muadhnait. What was the word? Show me.”

  “Maisie,” Kimberly hissed. “We need to accept the offer of help, we need to get out of here, not … not pick fights … please, Maisie … ”

  Kimberly was being very cute, but I kept her in my peripheral. That visor was still so empty. What was inside that armour? Heather’s face, copied onto cloth?

  Muadhnait hesitated — yet again, which made me want to bite her hands — then flickered that sign again, the upturned palm with the curled fingers.

  I couldn’t quite read it. Freak, monster, oddity?

  “Again.”

  Again didn’t help. I sighed.

  So did Muadhnait, inside her armour. I heard the puff of breath beneath her metal layers — and then something like a murmur.

  “You can speak,” I said. “I just heard you speak. You’re not mute at all. Speak up.”

  Muadhnait shook her head, then signed: “Silence — vow.”

  I almost laughed. “You’re not a knight or a warrior. You’re a nun. Aren’t you? You aren’t? None other. The magic circles on your armour. The unflinching charity. You’re a kind of nun.”

  Muadhnait hesitated.

  “Can you break your vow for emergencies?” I lifted my knife. “Because one is emerging.”

  Muadhnait signed, “Speak — danger.”

  “For you.”

  I didn’t care about any of this as much as I made it seem — I just wanted Muadhnait to sweat, to see how she’d react, to push her buttons until something went beep. Would she cry out in a soft and feminine voice, or refuse to break that vowed-on void? Yes, I was being petty and angry, but Muadhnait could take a little petty anger, because she was wearing several dozen pounds of metal and hiding literally everything else about herself.

  Was there even a human being inside that armour? We were Outside, after all. Anything could be lurking behind those plates. Even a squid-girl.

  The nun thing was a guess. A good one.

  Muadhnait signed quickly, “I apologise. I retract the word. I prefer not to speak. It is not safe for me. I apologise. Your business is your own. I apologise for the offense, I—”

  And then her hands flew apart — and she spoke.

  “Hark!”

  Muadhnait went for her crossbow.

  Oldest trick in the book, right? Look out behind you while I go for my weapon. Please turn around and be startled by something which is not there while I shoot you in the back. ‘I am very stupid and cannot think five minutes ahead, and should probably not be attempting this trick while an unshootable doll is standing within close range and holding a kitchen knife with enough length to reach the middle of my cranium.’

  And I would have put the knife through her visor, too. I would have done it. I would have. Believe me.

  But then Kimberly screamed, Tenny went ‘Brrrrrrt!!!’, and Casma said, “Oh dear.”

  A hooting cackle erupted from above us — “Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!”

  Then a scrabble of claws on bark, a crack of leather wings catching the air, and the faint scent of old, grey, dry mud.

  I turned just in time (with a smile on my face, a big smile, oh yes I did) to see my new favourite slut launch herself from the nearest titanic tree trunk.

  My Mimic had come back.

  She must have turned around mid-flight, then crept up on us through the trees as we were talking. Couldn’t keep herself away.

  She dived like a bird of prey. Spindly limbs unfolded in layers like opening petals, all lined with great black thorns. Billowing wings stirred up gusts of air which reeked of fallen leaves and lichen on stone. Big cartoon teeth snapped and slavered, dripping saliva in a frothing rage.

  She dived — at Kimberly.

  I was so fucking disappointed in her.

  (Not you, Kim. You weren’t at fault. Do you know that you’ve never disappointed me and never will? That’s right.)

  “You’re not meant to be here, wretched witch!” the Mimic shrieked. “The lich-girl is mine!”

  She was wrong about that; other way around.

  Kimberly is not very good at running away from things. (Ironic, right?) She tends to panic, trip over her own feet, and freeze up. Not her fault, it’s a survival strategy which had served her very well for a long time. Which is why she panicked, tripped over her own feet, and froze up. And screamed.

  Cute.

  The Mimic was going to land on her, but then I was going to land on the Mimic, so the whole encounter was going to come out as a win for all of us.

  Except the Mimic.

  But then the crossbow went THWANG (yes, that is the only way I can properly represent one and a half thousand pounds of draw weight being released all at once), the bolt went shhhhhhsk, and the Mimic went “Gwaaaah!”. She had to jink out of the way to avoid being run through with an arm-span worth of steel. An elegant dive turned into a carnage of flapping and flailing. Kimberly kept screaming, what with the Mimic only about six feet in the air above her. Tenny let out a sound so loud it made my chest vibrate. Casma was saying something inane — “Shoo, shoo, shoo.”

  Muadhnait leapt forward — before I could move. Even in armour and carrying a pack, she uncoiled herself like a spring.

  None but a nun in dull grey armour, interposing herself between the beast and the maiden (sorry, Kimberly, but it’s true). One of those two swords at her belt was suddenly in her hands, steel blade slicing through the air. The Mimic went ‘gwak’ and ‘gwark’ and flapped upward, the backwash from her wings buffeting us with the

  smell of dead moss.

  By the time I stepped up next to Muadhnait, the Mimic was already rising toward the distant treetops. She spat vague insults behind her, but the words were lost in the rustle of leaves and the creak of the gigantic trees.

  I considered shouting ‘slut’ at her, but Tenny and Casma were right there. They didn’t need to hear that kind of language.

  The Mimic dwindled to a ragged dot once again, then vanished behind the vast canopy far overhead.

  “Auntie Maze?” Tenny purred. “You okay?”

  “Mm?” I’d been breathing in and out so hard that Tenny got spooked. “Yes, Tenny.”

  I dragged my eyes down from the sky and the threat of clouds, to where Muadhnait should have been standing, right beside me. I was about to tell her that next time — and there would be a next time — the Mimic was mine.

  But the armoured nun was busy helping Kimberly back to her feet, like a fallen princess rescued by a shining knight. Kimberly’s pale little hand was dwarfed by the metal gauntlet. Kimberly was shaking all over, eyes wet with the edge of tears, panting for breath, hair all stuck to her forehead.

  Cute enough to make me vomit.

  Casma said: “How exciting. Kimberly, you have been rescued.”

  Kimberly stared at Casma, blinked several times, then looked at me and flinched in slow motion. Which was very cute, but not what I wanted right then. Muadhnait let go of Kim’s hand and went to retrieve her crossbow. Good, I thought, at least she’s not cupping Kimberly’s chin and asking if she sprained an ankle when she fell.

  “Just straight back to business with you,” I murmured to myself. “Nun business, none of your business, hands off my busy-ness.”

  Kimberly started to sob — just three times, sudden and hard and wet. She clutched at her own chest, one hand curled claw-wise. “I don’t want to— don’t want to be here. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No, no no no no—”

  Tenny went to give Kimberly a hug. Kimberly clung to her like she was a life-raft. Tenny used a lot of tentacles.

  “Muadhnait,” I said. “Muadhnait. That Mimic — she’s mine. If she comes back around again or rounds back on— if she back rounds on us—” I had to pause. “She’s mine. Do you understand?”

  Muadhnait stared at me for a moment — or at least pointed her helmet slit in my direction. Then she slung her crossbow over her back and signed: “That is the fairy who took my sister. She will harass us all the way to her demesne. You cannot defeat her with just a knife.”

  “You’re here to rescue your sister,” I said. “From the castle. You don’t want the Mimic herself. The fairy. Right? Or wrong? Right? Wrong?”

  Muadhnait hesitated, then signed: “You seek to slay her?”

  I shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “With that knife?”

  “Sure.”

  More hesitation.

  I hesitated, too. I could tell exactly where this was going, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to happen. Muadhnait seemed reluctant as well, hands paused in mid-air. Perhaps it was Tenny’s presence that put her off, or perhaps she thought we were all just fairy trickery, a group of young women placed in her path to confuse and confound or maybe even seduce her. That’s how I would do it, if I had to distract a Templar Nun (or Abbel Nun?) from her quest. Throw a clutch of distressed damsels at her feet and see how long it takes to peel her out of that metal shell so she can get some cunt.

  “But we’re not damsel enough for distress, are we?” I muttered under my breath. “Un-stressed and with barely one damsel between us. Tch.”

  Muadhnait’s dome-shaped helmet rotated a few degrees. I wished I hadn’t said anything. She brought her hands together. “Help — perhaps — we—”

  Kimberly spoke before Casma could start translating. “Maybe we could help each other!”

  Muadhnait stopped. I stared at a blade of grass. Casma said: “That’s just what she was saying. Jinx. Now you have to link pinkies.”

  Kimberly was trying to look very brave and very adult, despite the tears smeared on her cheeks and the grey-pale colour of her face and the way she really obviously wanted to sob again (which was all very cute, but sort of ruined by what she was doing.) Tenny was still half-holding her in a hug, six tentacles around her torso. Tenny’s face peered over Kimberly’s shoulder, watching Muadhnait with a pouty frown.

  “We— we could help each other,” Kimberly repeated. “We both need to go the same way, we both—”

  “No,” I said.

  Kimberly glanced at me, wide-eyed with surprise. But I stared at one leg of her pajama bottoms instead, making eye contact with a printed galaxy swirl on her shin.

  “M-Maisie?” Kimberly said. “Didn’t you say we need to deal with the … Mimic? Is that what that thing was? That was the thing that brought us here, right?”

  “Yes. But.”

  Kimberly waited. “But? Maisie, if there’s something … ”

  Casma said: “There’s nothing real.”

  I looked back and round and up, found Casma’s pink eyes there, waiting for me. She smiled at me because she thought she was helping, then stopped smiling because of the way my eyes made her eyes feel. At least I hoped that was why. She hiked the ends of her white sleeves over her hands and put the ends of the sleeves over her mouth, eyes looking hurt in a complicated way.

  Which made me feel like a great big terrible shit, because Casma was a child.

  Kimberly was prattling on to Muadhnait: “Thank you, for saving me, thank you, thank you so much. And y-yes. To answer the first question you asked us, yes, we do need help. We’re travellers, and we’re lost. The fairy, that thing, it brought us here. We need to get home.” She gestured at Tenny, Casma, me. “I’m responsible for these three, and they’re just kids. I need to get them home. We’re not from here. Do you understand? Not from … here … ”

  Kimberly trailed off.

  Muadhnait signed, “Yes, I understand.” (Casma was still translating, but I’m not going to tell you this every time or we’d both get terribly bored.)

  Kimberly just stared, mouth hanging open.

  Tenny said, “Kimmy-Kims? Brrrrt-rrrr?”

  “Oh,” Kimberly said. “Oh, goddess. I’ve just realised what we’re looking at.”

  “Metal?” I said. “A metal nun.”

  Kimberly asked Muadhnait, slowly and clearly: “Are you a mage? Are you from Earth? I assumed you were like us and this was all one big coincidence, but … ”

  Muadhnait signed, “No, I am no wizard,” and then, “Earth?” She had to spell the word.

  Kimberly swallowed. “She’s from here.”

  “She is!” Casma said. “From here. She’s right there, I mean. Standing in the place where she is.”

  “Oh,” Kimberly said. She sounded like she could barely breathe (which was interesting, but I didn’t have time to focus on that right then). “She’s from here. She’s … I mean, I heard a human voice under that armour earlier. She’s a human.” Kimberly made a visible effort to pull herself together. “We’re not … from here? Do you understand? We’re not from this … dimension. Plane. You … understand?”

  Muadhnait went still for several moments. Her helmet rotated back and forth — looking at each of us in turn. I raised my eyes and stared into the visor-slit. Still empty.

  Then she spoke a word: “Outsiders.”

  Awe-struck, half-hushed, muffled by metal. Her voice was low and rich, and a little bit afraid.

  Her hands resumed signing; perhaps the one spoken word had been involuntary. “This explains much. You are Outsiders—”

  “N-no,” Kimberly protested. She gestured at the ground. “This is Outside, we’re from Earth.”

  But Muadhnait kept signing. “But I cannot afford lengthy explanations, nor guide you back to my hold. I must rescue my sister, and I must push on to the next suitable resting place before sunset, with enough time to build a fire before nightfall. The fairy might attack us again. She will try to delay me long enough for darkness to bite my heels.”

  Kimberly stared, eyes wide. Tenny let out a soft little ‘brrrt’. I felt a weird smile at the corners of my mouth and tried not to let it out.

  “Oh,” said Casma, after translating. “Is night dangerous?”

  Muadhnait stared. Then signed: “Very. I am sorry. You are Outsiders.”

  Kimberly squeezed her eyes shut and made a soft little keening noise. Tenny looked at me with an expression I could not meet.

  And Casma — Casma broke something. She walked up beside me. “Maisie. We should join up with the lady. If we can’t get home—”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I know you know. And you know I know. We both know. No?”

  I looked at Casma again. Casma looked at me. We both endured the look. Her eyes were very pink and very afraid in a very complicated way.

  Kimberly stammered: “W-we should travel with the— with Muadhnait, yes. Maisie, come on. We can’t get home, we can’t— I don’t even know how to build a fire! I don’t know how to— we need to call H-Heather, and we can’t do that until we deal with the Mimic, we need—”

  “Fine,” I said. “Fine fine fine.” I looked at Muadhnait. “We should travel with you. Give us the Mimic. We’ll give you your sister.”

  Muadhnait nodded, then signed an affirmative. She glanced at Tenny once, but didn’t say anything about her (which was the right choice). Instead she signed: “It is four hours walk to the next possible place of refuge. None of you are dressed for travel. We should leave now.”

  Kimberly nodded and tried to look sensible in that way adults do when they want to get sorted out, but there’s nothing to sort. Tenny took Casma’s hand again; the two shared a look, and I was glad they did, because they weren’t looking at me.

  “Casma,” Kimberly said. “Are you going to be alright walking without shoes? Your feet can’t be that hardy, you’re so … well, young.”

  Casma raised one foot; the soles of her white tights were ruined by the mud, but she nodded. “I’m good at walking. I once walked all around Wonderland five times in a day. Mother thought it was silly but I enjoyed it. I’ll be okay, Kimberly. You’re very sweet. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Kimberly nodded. “Uh, t-thank you. A-and Tenny, I know you don’t need shoes, but—”

  “Brrrt-rrrrt!” went Tenny. She had a proud look on her face. Her feet were better than hooves.

  “Right, right,” Kimberly nodded. Muadhnait was already setting out, settling her pack and her swords and stepping away from the group. “Maisie?” Kimberly was saying. “Maisie, you should really put that knife away, if we’re going to be walking along. Y-you know? It would be dangerous, if you … tripped or fell or … please?”

  I looked at Kimberly, which made her expression do a funny thing.

  “But you run faster with a knife out,” I said.

  Kimberly didn’t get it, but her gormless look was also kind of cute. (You don’t get it either, do you? But I don’t know if you’re cute, not unless you show me. Do you want to see if the knife helps you run faster too?)

  “Never mind. Mindless. Bad joke,” I said, and wrapped the knife up in the tea towel again.

  Muadhnait was striding off — away from the sharp and sudden border of the giant’s forest, her gently clanking footsteps arcing toward the open heath and the rolling hills beyond, her dome-like helmet pointed toward the distant pennant of the castle on the headland, a black slab half-hidden behind banks of ghostly fog. Past her grey shoulders and over the lip of the cliffs, the still and silent obsidian sea gripped the horizon.

  Tenny and Casma began to follow her, holding hands, whispering to each other. I turned to follow as well. Kimberly trotted to catch up.

  “And, uh, Maisie?” Kimberly murmured. “Why don’t you have any socks on?”

  My bare feet felt lovely on the scratchy grass.

  “They got muddy.”

  “Do you … do you want my slippers?” Kimberly asked. “I’m on my feet all day at work, usually, so I’ll probably be fine with the walk, but you … ”

  I looked away from the castle and the rolling hills and Muadhnait’s iron-shod back. I met Kimberly’s eyes. Almost made her stumble.

  “I’m made of carbon fibre,” I said. “Did you forget that?”

  And Kimberly — she smiled.

  Hesitant, shaken, raw with adrenaline. She smiled.

  It was probably the worst thing she could have done, because it gave me stupid ideas.

  “Of course not,” she said. “It’s kind of hard to forget that. Just … you’re … younger than me, and it’s the right thing to do? I think?”

  I stopped for a moment — not long enough to panic Kim, not long enough for Muadhnait and Tenny and Casma to get too far ahead. But long enough to say something really fucking stupid.

  “We’ll deal with the Mimic,” I said. “Mimic her deals back at her. If you know what I mean. And then the lanes will be free and the leap will come. Heather will be right here, because she always is. And we’ll be home again before you know it.”

  That was a lie on so many levels that I don’t even know how to count them, even in retrospect. Can you count them? You can probably have a go, though I suspect you’ll miss quite a few. Kimberly missed them all, which was my intention, because I was acting unwise.

  “Uh … r-right,” Kimberly said.

  “So keep your slippers, Kim. I’m made of sterner stuff.” But then I held out my free hand, to the side, toward her. “And you can take this as well.”

  Kimberly hesitated. “I … I thought you didn’t like— Heather was— was really clear, you don’t like being touched? Was that not—”

  “I don’t. But Heather isn’t here.”

  Kimberly took my hand.

  And off we went.

  …

  That’s how I’d like to end this part, but the Mimic’s words were still rattling around in my empty skull.

  You thought I’d missed that, didn’t you? Or perhaps you missed it too. I knew Kimberly had. Adrenaline, shock, fear, perhaps all of those had kept the words from her short-term memory. Or perhaps she was too preoccupied with all the unrelated danger to the rest of us. But she would replay that moment soon, and the words would come back to her. Tenny and Casma were both too smart to have overlooked the implication. Maybe Tenny would sit on it for a while before she thought to mention it, now we were all swept up in Muadhnait’s path.

  But Casma was holding it back on purpose. I was certain.

  Was she doing that for my sake? Did she know how much I wanted all this?

  I wasn’t sure if I liked that idea.

  What words am I talking about, you ask? The words that undermined my whole argument — that we could just deal with the Mimic and then wait for Heather, because obviously the Mimic had brought us here, and obviously the Mimic was blocking our rescue.

  You’re not meant to be here, wretched witch!

  If Kimberly wasn’t meant to be here, then why had she been brought?

  But right then, Kimberly’s hand was in mine, and the road ahead was wide open.

  A nice little fantasy, right?

  Until nightfall.

  doll, a moth, a little eyeball, a nun, and a mage all walk into a bar. What's the punchline? I wouldn't dare speak it out loud, because the doll has a knife.

  Maisie continues to steal my outlines and cut them up into tiny little pieces. But that's very fun because she's having a whale of a time. But maybe the others aren't. Especially Kimberly. Poor Kimberly. She just wanted to enjoy her day off. And I hope you enjoyed the chapter, dear readers!

  this fan of kitchen , wrought from, well, a real knife. (That's four separate pictures, just to be clear! Four different angles of the finished artifact.) (This rather unique fanwork was made by The Vixen Viscountess!) Thank you so much, this is an incredible thing to see out there in reality!

  Maisie would say thank you too, but , well, you know how she is.

  Mimic. There's no road. And it's not made of yellow brick. Hope you like walking!