17 – Small Graces

The drive from Petal’s Peril, and the strange lawful-lawlessness of its streets, was as uneventful as the drive in, though far more subdued, with no one even attempting to make silly, pointless conversation.

Callington slept, curled up across two of the limo’s seats. Magnolia spent some time on her phone, but after a while, Curt saw her start to nod off, her head against the window.

And finally, he had a moment with Carmichel. But still, detail wasn’t a good idea until they were really alone.

‘Not too much?’

‘That late into the lots, there wasn’t a lot of competition, and it’s a poor quality piece to begin with.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be taking advantage of your Agency’s guest suite tonight. Come talk to me when you’re done with work.’ Carmichel leaned across and patted his knee. ‘I’m proud of you, kallabrae. Take a hint from your colleagues and try to nap. I’ll keep you safe.’

Curt nodded and closed his eyes. If he slept shallow enough, if he was lucky, the nightmares wouldn’t come and-

Something jabbed him in the ribs.

‘Ow.’

The sensation continued, and he looked down to see the toe of Magnolia’s boot pressed into his chest. ‘Up, O’Connor.’

He lifted his hands, wiped drool from the corner of his mouth, and looked out of the window – a couple more minutes and they’d be in Queen Street’s parking garage.

Mags had changed out of her dress. And, as possibly a concession to not weird Callington out, she was wearing part of a Combat uniform rather than one of her gothic lolita dresses. He followed her example, and a couple of requirements had him back into his Field uniform.

The limo pulled into the garage and pulled into a wide bay near the elevator.

Callington shot out of the door, his arms wrapping around a man in a lab coat as soon as the two got in range.

‘His medical agent, I believe,’ Mags said. ‘I’m happy for him.’

‘You did good,’ Carmichel said, ‘both of you.’

They stepped out of the limo, and Curt finally noticed One and Jones behind the two hugging agents.

‘Wasn’t sure what assistance you’d need,’ Jones said.

‘I’ve got it from here,’ the medical agent said, breaking away from Callington enough to look at them. ‘Homecoming, treatment, his family will look after him.’

‘Thank you,’ Callington said, then was shifted away.

‘Ryan would like a quick word with at least one of you,’ Jones said. ‘There’s a full schedule of debriefs tomorrow.’

‘I’ll handle it,’ Mags said. ‘I got an hour in the car. That’s more than enough sleep for me.’

‘You really shouldn’t say things like that in front of me,’ One said, sounding like his twin for a moment. ‘Any injuries amongst you?’ After a chorus of “no’s”, One shifted away.

‘Ryan’s office,’ Mags said to Jones, ‘please.’ Jones waved a hand, and she disappeared.

‘And where for you two?’ Jones asked.

‘The guest suit,’ Carmichel said, ‘if you would be as kind as you are lovely.’

‘Smoulder all you like,’ Jones said with a smile, ‘it doesn’t work on me.’

Jones waved his hand again, and the opulence of the guest suite met his eyes.

Carmichel immediately stripped down to his undershirt, kicked off his boots, and headed for the bar. This was the casual side of the man that Curt knew he was lucky to be able to see. Everyone else got to see the perfect, almost-agent-like suave businessman.

He was blessed to see the side of the man who occasionally burnt things on the grill and had a weird soft spot for cheap beer. But…not when the Agency was picking up the tab.

Carmichel poured himself something from an old bottle, then poured a sparkling gold drink into a glass with a red stem – the colour that indicated a non-alcoholic drink – and they both settled onto plush bar stools.

‘I believe you’ve got a story to tell me,’ Carmichel said as they clinked drinks.

‘I take responsibility if-’

‘Stop. Story.’

‘It was something you told me, actually,’ Curt said, staring at the flecks of gold leaf or whatever it was that shone in his drink. ‘The lighthouse myth, about-’

Carmichel gripped his arm, one keyword apparently enough to answer all the questions. ‘I…understand why you hesitated to say anything,’ Carmichel said and messily poured a second measure of the old alcohol. ‘And I commend you for doing so. What makes you think-? Oh, Curt, if this is what you think it is, you’re changing known history.’

Curt went through the very few pieces of evidence he had, each of which was met with nods and approval from Carmichel, who entirely followed his logic.

‘What you do with it is up to you,’ he said. ‘Please, and you know I mean this, take all the credit.’ He couldn’t help looking up, though it wasn’t like the Agency had visible security cameras. Still, you never knew where they had eyes, or worse yet, if words coming out of your mouth could twist your own blue against you and kill you from the inside. ‘I don’t want them to know how educated I am in these matters. I don’t want to stand out more than I already do.’

‘At least be there with me, if as apparently nothing more than my recruit contact? If it is what you think, then, whatever happens, it’s probably something you’ll never see again. Even in a world like this, especially in a world like this, there are rarefied, unique experiences. Not just things gatekept by money or status, but little twists of magic and the world that very few experience. When we die, we all see the lady in black. Far fewer see the grey forest or the white skies of her sisters. Or when people find bolt holes that appear and disappear randomly instead of being relatively stable. Sometimes I’ve heard that people feel like there’s something on the other side, even if they can’t break through. All of that just gives the Golden Court conspiracists fuel to believe that part of it still exists; or that someone has rediscovered the star sky. I’m sorry that it’s something Agency. I know how you feel about your employers, but please, come with me?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘it’s you. All you have to do is ask.’

The night passed, blessedly free of nightmares. One small piece of grace for a job well done, maybe.

The meeting with Ryan and Clarke was less full of grace. Magnolia took care of most of the debrief – Callington’s rescue was praised, of course – then everything about Remington brought a dark cloud down over the meeting.

It was all information to be passed on – Remington primarily operated in and around London – so he wasn’t likely to be their problem, but he would be a big problem for someone at some point.

One more problem for some future suit to worry about.

And when all was said and done, they headed for the meeting with Carmichel.

Carmichel was right that not everything exclusively happened to those with money or power. Still, money and power certainly made things much more manageable or accessible.

For this meeting, he’d arranged for the Gardens to be blocked off to visitors for a few hours.

He’d been there a few times. The Gardens were a private, members-only park run by the Agency, giving fae a space to be themselves. To literally or metaphorically stretch their wings without returning to Faerie, without the worry of being seen by any human surveillance.

And right now, it was empty, other than the usual staff. There was just Carmichel, and a few of his people, Ryan, Jones, and the few experts Jones had been able to call on who would show up with little to no idea of what they were attending.

Jones seemed to be having a good time, at least. Today, her hair was in a loose plait, and she wore a shirt printed with a fractal and some math joke he didn’t understand. When she was a girl, Jones was cute, and that was something he had a hard time reconciling every time his brain came to that conclusion.

She wasn’t any less an agent because she was cute, no less capable of the incredible, terrifying acts that any agent could do. But, every time, his guard lowered enough to think “cute”.

The statue sat under a canvas sheet in the middle of an open area sometimes used for weddings, but a little roped ring – along with Carmichel’s security – had managed to keep Jones and her fellow geeks back, evidently far enough to not be affected by the blue-stealing qualities of the statue.

Carmichel jogged over and shook Ryan’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Director. We can get started now.’

He walked back to the statute and smiled at the assembled agents. ‘For the moment, stay behind the rope. It’s for your own safety. Two of the bodies here are guinea pigs, so anyone who is a full-blue agent, please stay behind the rope, my esteemed guests.’

He knew he was one of the guinea pigs, something they’d agreed on when talking the previous night. He looked for the other and found them beside one of Jones’ experts. A basic Agent Bob sim, a blank-faced robot wearing the default agent face, barely more than an ambulatory Ken doll.

Carmichel began to speak, and as he did, it was interesting to watch the agents’ reactions around him. On the first mention of the lighthouse theory, one of Jones’ colleagues immediately stiffened and seemed to get extremely uncomfortable. Ryan, Jones, and a silver-tied man from Central all lined up next to each other, as close to the rope as possible.

Two of Carmichel’s people removed the sheet from the statue, revealing the extremely worn stone. In the lights of the hotel gallery, it had been possible to tell that it had once been carved to look like a person. So much detail had worn away that you had to use your imagination to see anything more than the basic shape.

Under the light of the sun, though, the way the shadows cast on the worn surfaces, it was a little easier to infer where eyes had been, where a mouth had once sat.

‘I observed this recruit have a strange reaction around this statue on two separate occasions,’ Carmichel said, using their cover story that cast him as the unknowing, unwitting participant. ‘The only person to do so. I then also noticed that it was able to draw blue to itself. My guests, I think this may be one of your ancestors.’

Jones looked at Curt. ‘What did it do to you, Recruit?’

‘I felt dizzy,’ he said. ‘It was like vertigo. A headache. But only when I was close to it. As soon as I was out of range, the symptoms subsided.’

‘I can understand why you wanted a doll,’ the silver-tied agent said. ‘Shall we test it?’

‘Cygnus, no,’ Jones said.

‘Cygnus, yes?’ the agent said with evident excitement.

‘Jones is right,’ another agent said. This one didn’t seem to have any visible feature colour, no tie, no pocket square, nothing to indicate where they served. ‘We need to scan first. Even this recruit’s blue has changed the baseline, though we can likely calculate the approximate value that it has taken.’

Jones and the experts conferred for a moment, and then she spoke up. ‘Can we have some time before we put anything blue past the rope?’

Carmichel nodded. ‘Take whatever time you need. Let my people know if you need anything.’ He looked towards Ryan. ‘Director, I’ve arranged for some refreshments.’ He pointed towards a gazebo where tables seemed filled with a lavish spread. ‘You and your recruit can relax while the think tank does their work.’