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A
glass and steel tower reflected back the early morning sunlight glimmering out
on the choppy waters of the bay. High on the 30th story, the lord of the tower
stood with his hands clasped together at his back, posture stately and rigid. In
the office behind him, vassals quietly filled the coffee carafe and laid out assorted
fruit and pastries. The lord of the tower longed for syrniki with jam in lieu of the
sticky danishes and too-soon-stale doughnuts, but he kept these thoughts to himself

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in front of the staff. Wanting was a weakness in and of itself, and one did one’s best
to avoid weakness where others may observe it.
A few lesser lords and ladies came with paperwork, which the lord of the tower
signed in a neat hand, lacking any flourish. Severance packages, cost breakdowns,
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and financial reports — dull, dull, and duller still. Dame Amici held out a beautifully-
illuminated scroll ceding four blocks around Collington Square Park to Viscount
Pomerain de Beaumayne. The lord of the tower wrinkled his nose in distaste as he
scrawled his full name and title in the most ostentatious fashion he could manage.
“Oh, don’t make such a face, Sevastyan,” came his sister’s voice behind him. She’d
been the one who insisted on all the silk rugs. Baroness Zhanna Ved’ma of House
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Varich preferred to have her presence remain unannounced until she chose to reveal it.
“So kind of you to worry about my face, so that I may focus on more important
matters, Zhannochka,” said Baron Sevastyan.
Baroness Zhanna tsked. “Nevazhno, brother. I can see your deeply important work
takes precedence over a conversation with your only sister, whatever the topic.”
Baron Sevastyan waved Dame Amici and her scroll away. He briefly pinched the
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bridge of his nose, cursing their mother for the inconvenience of burdening him with
a younger sister.
“It is done now, Zhannochka,” he said. “What do you need?”
“I thought you might wish to know that the security upgrades on the vault are
complete, but if I am taking up too much of your time…”
Baron Sevastyan smiled at his sister, thin lips barely revealing his teeth. “My time
is yours, sister.” Without turning away from the window and its expanding sunlight,
he clapped his hands once and said, “Leave.”
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The vassals, Dame Amici, and the other fawning lesser nobles fled the office, leaving
Sevastyan alone with his sister. He reached for her with one outstretched arm, pulling
her close enough to whisper in his ear if she chose. Zhanna pressed a light kiss high
on Sevastyan’s cheek. The imprint of her lips burned slightly, hinting at another night
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with the Daireann lordling. Sevastyan tightened the arm around his sister.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his radiant splendor filling the space around him. Zhanna
put her lips to his ear and told him.
On the righthand wall of Baron Sevastyan’s office, a screw slowly twisted out
of a vent cover and fell silently into the plush rug under the baron’s desk. Neither
Varich sibling noted its fall. Behind the vent cover, two small, black eyes twinkled
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with accomplishment.
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L
ong after the custodial staff came through and the lights in the tower turned off
for the night, the vent cover above the baron’s desk popped out and fell onto
the rug with a muffled thunk. After a few moments, a white mink leapt from
the open vent and somersaulted through the air, transforming and landing lightly on
two human feet. Tisket von Tasket stood and tugged at her ‘Sarcasm Is Just Another
Service I Offer’ T-shirt until it felt like it fit properly again. She tucked the drawing
of the building’s vent schematics into a pocket of her yoga pants, swapping it for a

panicked voice. e
small lockpick set. The comm in her ear crackled with static, then blared Gibraltar’s

“Tisket, did you make it back in? Are you inside the baron’s office?”
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Tisket’s pointed nose twitched in annoyance. “No. I fell into an oubliette. I’m still
falling. I’m going to be falling forever.”
“Can you repeat that?” Gibraltar asked. “Tisket, please report. Have you really
fallen into an oubliette? If so, I really need to know details about this oubliette. Does
anything stand out?”
“Falling forever through darkness and despair,” Tisket said.
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“She did not fall into an oubliette,” Ranveig’s voice cut in. “That would be improbable.
This is more of Tisket’s foolishness.”
“This is the deepest oubliette I’ve ever fallen into,” Tisket said. She went to the door
of the baron’s office, sat back on her heels, and started dismantling the mechanical
lock components, so much nicer to play with than the electrical kind. Something stuck,
so she yanked it hard, which made the lock emit a sad grinding noise, like longing
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or the beginning of winter.