A peculiar letter in an otherwise normal newspaper

[You find this letter on your breakfast table. The paper is your own, borrowed, but the hand writing is spidery and jagged. Part appears to have been written in charcoal and it is sticky to the touch with honey]

Dear Professor Reflector,

I have been following your column with the greatest of fascination. All the more so since a good friend informed me that my own writing had made an appearance in your pages. I should rather say, that some dreadful non-sense about mirrors or some such other awful dross, bearing my name has appeared. A very poor joke I believe made on both of us. The culprit is however known to me and I assure you they will be dealt with appropriately.

That sorry business however, is all by the by. I write today foremost concerning a recent submission printed in your pages. A very erudite and eloquent argument, but its author I fear makes some quite terrible errors. Ones that, I feel, rather derail some of his contentions.

Let us speak of the two eastern gentlemen he alludes to. One, this so called ‘King of a Hundred Hearts’, was not to legend born a man. Rather shaped from the same clay that makes his present children. Formed that is to teach the other man, a king, of his own arrogance and tyranny.

Who molded this creature? Not God. Who then breathed life and purpose into it. Why Aruru, that merciful goddess, mother of us all. Who taught this poor lonely beast civility and showed it its first taste of affection and love. Not the harsh king. Who then was it that bathed him and fed him. Why that was Shamhat, the priestess. Who saved this dying man-thing. No traitorous Master. Who then in truth was forced to make the sacrifice that provided its healing heart. Why Stone, our weeping lady. The good fellow in his letter I must say almost corrects himself. When he looks to poor maligned Pandora. Seeking a source for the Unfinished man’s free will. Perhaps he should have gone further and looked to Eve for his own.

I argue then this. Perhaps your good readers may now lay aside the imagined fault of others, Clay and Human alike. Turn away from harsh criticism and presumed superiority. Look instead to their own flawed selves. I put it that if they truly wish to gaze upon the kind faces of their makers. To find the fountain of life in their midst. The thing which drives much of their own creativity, inspiration and passion. Well, then good Professor, I believe that parable may have already been written out a thousand time before.

Cordialement, Mlle. C. de Witte.
edited by Charlotte_de_Witte on 12/13/2015

[A vellum scroll nailed to your door, the words seem to have been burnt into the parchment by some kind of noxious acid]

Very dear the truthseeker,

What a terrible burden it must be for you, to have so much knowledge and yet still so little understanding. Where truly can I begin?

Firstly, I made mention of but a single fact I understood you to have mistook. The exact nature of the King with a Thousand Hearts. Sadly it was also the one on which you chose to pin your argument concerning our dear Clay brethren. Do you say you know for a ‘fact’ the certain identity of Polythreme’s king? Are you the Bazaar itself perhaps? Some great Judgement seeing all? I think not! No, you know only a story you have been told, a myth, a legend. Such things are nebulous at best. Yet you would base your vaunted ‘Truth’, your ‘Fundamentals’, on that story. You say I embarrass myself by blending knowledge and belief. I say you make the far greater fool mistaking legend and fact.

And what belief do you suppose I follow? What dogma? I made no mention of such. My point may have been moral, but not religious. Yet you seem to believe yourself capable of peering into the souls of others. Rather I think it is we who see a glimpse of your own, as its prejudices drip with abandon from your pen. What a paradox! You lament lost innocence, but claim knowledge is all. Free will has a price, knowledge has a price, truth has its price. Eve you must agree payed that price hardest of all (in legend I fear I must now make doubly clear!) That was my single point, but I fear seeking that out was too troubling for you.

As to your threats. How curious that it is a Woman in Yellow you think to send against me. How very brave of you, how gallant! Perhaps we might arrange to dine together in candlelight instead?

Clearly my little errata has upset you a great deal and for that I am truly saddened. Perhaps if you surrounded yourself with less corvid ‘yes-men’ you might learn to take kindly meant criticism a little better. It is truly I think a very great shame that wheat will not grow here in the Neath, for you do seem most determined to seek out strawmen. You may have no clue to my true beliefs dear truthseeker; and although you claim devotion to knowledge I think I see a little clearer now. You are in fact truly the most devoted servant of Salt.

Very kindest regards,

Charlotte. (:greenp: )
edited by Charlotte_de_Witte on 12/13/2015

[An op-ed in the same issue of The Careless Whisper where the published editorial (with a byline of &quot ‘Raven’ Lou Nattick) is a scathing denouncement of spider-cheese and its hench-things, the moon people.]

Precious readers,

We seem to have gone right off our rails here, and I cannot help but feel this is somehow my fault. Many of you seemed to believe I was asking philosophical questions with some interest in defending a truth. I assure you, philosophy does not concern itself with truth, and any philosopher who tells you so is reinforcing that assertion, as they are quite surely lying.

Empiricism is what I am concerned with. I have ideas and they require testing. That testing requires a few willing volunteers who will receive compensation for their time and special thanks in any future publications based on the data. It is the proper thing to do for a decent scientist, as anyone who offers you merely one or the other of those things is trying to keep something from you.

As my sequence of experiments is progressing more slowly than this… let’s call it a conversation, though that is not wholly accurate given the medium, I will say some small piece more on the matter of the Gears Scenario. As I said, based on C’s excellent answer, the principles of logic, and the assertions made about Gears that strictly parallel a Christian worldview popularized by none other than Milton himself, we have no reason to be particularly upset with Lucifer. He is as he was made and has merely done what he was created to do. If one’s perception of Evil is that Lucifer’s actions were such, it is only fair to assign the blame for those actions where it belongs. And if that particular creator is Evil, shouldn’t we consider the implications? It seems a worthy effort, if only so we can probably recalibrate our moralities. A creator who deliberately perpetrates Evil against its own creations but then makes demands of those created in order to remain in its &quotgood graces&quot is hardly a pleasant entity. I would say the best to be done is to refuse to give it what it wants, consequences be damned. (Please be so good as to excuse the pun.) I for one refuse to be hold hostage to the whims of a destructive, mad god.

Anyway, back to mirrors! Let us see what we can see, as it were, about these lovely-yet-terrible devices. All for the safety of society, of course, and the advancement of our benevolent Science. And since I need a drink and it would be rude not to offer any to you, dear audience, I am announcing a contest. A bottle of something surprising will be delivered to somewhere between ten and one-hundred of those subscribed to The Whisper who write in to mention this column specifically. Letters will be judged based on spelling, content, and reasoning for deserving wine. Amusing anecdotes are encouraged, along with stories of soul-tingling terror. The best entries will be republished in a future issue – please include how you wish to be attributed in the event that you are a winner.

Remember, your sight is only as clear as the lens you look through!
-Professor Reflector

Amyntas’ newest letter comes in a surprisingly mundane fashion; it has been put into the hands of a one-eyed urchin and offered to the offices of the Careless Whisper along with a gap-toothed smile and a sincere &quot’appy Chrismus.&quot Like Collins’, this letter has a Brass Embassy letterhead that has been hastily scribbled-over and partly daubed with ink. One might wonder why a man in possession of writable gant wouldn’t have a more expedient or complete way of obscuring the letterhead. Maybe he doesn’t care all that much.


Professor Reflector,

I hope this letter finds you well. Conversely, I hope the letter is well when you find it.

As always, your articles seem to arrive at the most fortuitous of times. As you already know, I have been educating C in independent thought and personal determination. I have decided, however, that one good philosophical quandary does not necessarily deserve another. Rather than continue to press him directly on the matter of independent thought, I have instead elected to socialize him. Risky, I know, but he’s built like a cargo ship and he hits like a swig of airag. He will, I am sure, redress any grief he receives from the general public tenfold. Now, I haven’t promenaded him out in public just yet. I’m getting a set of proper clothes made up for him (at no small expense to me, might I add!) and in the interim I’m teaching him how to properly carry himself under scrutiny.

He has taken to my lessons, albeit ponderously. In saying that, you must understand that I am not used to him deviating from my lesson-plan, such as it is. If I tell him we’re to focus on table etiquette or conversation that day, I can expect him to be devoted to the topic. He might ask very interesting questions with regard to those topics, but he has never before yesterday decided to deviate entirely.

So imagine my surprise, then, when I’m halfway through instructing him on how to properly hold a fork when he asks me &quotHOW WOULD I TALK TO A LADY?&quot

I should be proud of him, shouldn’t I? He’s definitely thinking for himself, but what on earth do I do with a question like that? I managed to dodge it the first time, telling him we’d go over it some other time, but it didn’t help. He’s fascinated with women, especially society ladies with colorful clothes. Whenever we go out on walks or to check on the clothes I’m having made, he’ll tell me all about the pretty dresses and lovely bonnets he saw. He’s told me more than once that he’s thought very hard about what it would be like to talk to a lady, but whenever I ask him what he’d talk about he simply shrugs. I don’t know if he’s sick of me or simply curious. Could it be that a romantic heart beats somewhere in that big, stony breast of his?

This is simply not something I’m equipped to teach, if only because I am not, strictly speaking, a lady. How am I going to teach him to navigate romance, indiscretions, betrayals and heartbreak and all the sorts of things Clay Men never deal with? Have you ever woken up next to a big hulk of rubble, clay-smeared and aching in places you weren’t even aware of? I have. Not with him, but I have. I don’t want to pass him off to someone else, not when he’s come so far, but I’m at a loss for what to do with him. He’s like a very quiet, very stentorian young man in a body of clay, first discovering his fascination with those he finds desirable. It would be charming if he wasn’t in my house at all hours.

What I’m trying to communicate, here, is that I could really use a decent drink to help me through this. His first real outing is in a few days, and I’m afraid I might have to do something drastic.

Regards,

Amyntas

P.S. It occurs to me you may have wanted stories about mirrors or dreams or something along those lines. I may have entirely misinterpreted. It’s just as well - I would’ve wanted to update you on C’s progress anyhow. He does owe it to you in-part, after all. If this does end up being a candidate for your prize, I would prefer if you attribute me by my usual signature of &quotA.&quot You may also refer to me as C’s teacher, if you think it wise.

[A letter address to &quotA (surely you devils know the one!)&quot, care of the Brass Embassy. The return address is completely nonsensical except for &quotThe Careless Whisper&quot, although it appears to be constructed from odds and ends of Lewis Carroll’s works. The text itself comes from a typewriter, though the signature is a mostly-legible ink scrawl.]

(Presumably Mr.) A,

If you do figure out how to explain romance to C, please send me a copy of your handbook. I will pay you gladly for the privilege of seeing to its publication for as wide an audience as possible. My experience, such as it is, suggests most of the Neath could use such a guide.

That said, I have it on good authority* – well, I presume it’s good, given the circumstances – that talking to a lady is best done using words. (That was a joke, I’m afraid, and a bad one.) More seriously, though, there is something to be said for directness. Misleading a woman by, say, suggesting that you find her personality and wit to be sparkling when in fact you think she’s rather dull but have a distinct interest in discovering what lies beneath that corset, is… rather abominable, really. There’s enough of that going around as is, do be sure that we don’t have to start seeing it from Clay folk as well! I think C is actually rather well positioned to make a fine showing of talking to the ladies, given his natural lack of dissemblance.

Of course, any woman – or person, really – more interested in flattery than truth will find his company a bit irksome. Keeping in mind that I am an academic, and therefore similarly uninterested in supplying flattery, I think we can agree that such is a point barely worth considering. I’d be more worried about keeping him from turning you in to the constables should you find yourself doing something slightly questionable in his presence. Which brings me to my final point: Be careful when tinkering with his morality! As much as it would be great to have an unswayingly dedicated accomplice, there’s nothing the universe seems to enjoy as much as a combination of irony and poetic justice. (If you have any doubts, think about all that happens in the Neath on a daily basis.) Tempting that is dangerous indeed!

Best of luck in keeping it (C) (and you!) together,
Prof. Reflector

  • I asked a lady of my acquaintance. What follows was gleaned from her advice.

&quotI thought I asked you not to come here,&quot Amyntas sighed, only to find a letter hung unceremoniously in his face. The Mustachioed Devil gave him a faintly-glowing amber glare from behind the Professor’s message.

&quotPerhaps in the future,&quot the Mustachioed Devil drawled, &quotwe’ll keep your mail to ourselves. I’m sure we can find a worthwhile price from someone interested in this ‘C,’ mm?&quot

The letter was carelessly dropped into Amyntas’ hands. Fumbling for his glasses, he gave it a quick once-over before returning his attention to the devil at his door. &quotIf you would prefer that the souls I acquire come through the Bazaar instead, you can continue making overtures to betray my trust.&quot

The Mustachioed Devil chuckled, patting Amyntas hard enough on the back for him to stumble and wince. &quotSettle down, ‘A.’ Nobody’s betraying anybody. The Embassy is in eternal admiration of your services to us, and we hope to continue a long and prosperous relationship.&quot The devil straightened, adjusting his tie and dusting off his suit. &quotBut while we’re on the subject of the Bazaar, what’s this I hear about you picking up a folder full of permits from Baseborn & Fowlingpiece?&quot

Amyntas’ fingers clenched, nearly tearing through the paper of the letter. His expression tightened. &quotIs it abnormal to want a little leverage over our mutual friend?&quot

&quotIt’s abnormal to want thirty permits’ worth of leverage, I’d say.&quot

&quotWell,&quot Amyntas puffed, &quotforgive me for not consulting you first.&quot

The Mustachioed Devil’s lips curled upward in a thin, mirthless smile. &quotConsider yourself forgiven, Amyntas. Come 'round the Embassy for lunch sometime, won’t you? You can bring your new friend.&quot

&quotI doubt he’d be interested,&quot Amyntas muttered.

&quotYou’ll never know until you ask him. Good day, Amyntas.&quot The Mustachioed Devil turned on his heel. Moving away from the door, he accidentally kicked aside a stray bottle of laudanum. With a series of shrill clinks, it tumbled down the stairs and shattered halfway to the bottom. A dark spot spread across the stair where the bottle had shattered, making Amyntas wince. &quotOh, clumsy me,&quot the devil hummed, starting down the laudanum-dampened stairs. The door slammed loudly behind him.

Amyntas had not taken ten steps back into the apartment proper when Collins piped up; &quotWHO WAS THAT?&quot

&quotA business associate,&quot Amyntas explained, plainly distracted by the letter, &quotnobody you need to worry about.&quot

&quotYOU DO NOT LIKE HIM.&quot

&quotI don’t like his attitude. He’s no different from any other devil.&quot Collins went quiet long enough for Amyntas to take a seat at his woefully-cluttered desk. &quotShe wrote this with a typewriter. Why don’t I have a typewriter?&quot

&quotIF YOU DON’T LIKE HIM, WHY DO YOU TALK TO HIM?&quot

&quotI thought you’d be familiar with the reasons,&quot Amyntas slumped forward over the desk, &quotyou weren’t fond of the man you worked for, were you?&quot

&quotNO. BUT I DID NOT KNOW ANY BETTER THEN. NOW I WOULD NOT WORK FOR HIM.&quot

Amyntas shook his head sadly. &quotEven people with free will have to work with people they’re not fond of, Collins. When you want something, sometimes you’ll have to endure unpleasant people and unpleasant circumstances to get it. That’s the price of being able to want for yourself.&quot

&quotIS THAT WHY YOU WORK WITH ME?&quot

Amyntas opened his mouth to speak, but paused. A long, heavy breath came out in lieu of words. He swept Reflector’s letter aside and dug out a new sheet of paper. &quotNo, Collins,&quot he assured, beginning to write, &quotI’m very fond of you, it just so happens you’re willing to help me.&quot

&quotBUT WHAT IF I CANNOT FIND HER?&quot

&quotI will still be fond of you, Collins. I’ll be disappointed, but I’m used to disappointment.&quot

&quotWHAT IS THAT LIKE?&quot

Amyntas paused again, nibbling absently on the end of his pen. &quotIt’s rather like losing your soul,&quot he decided, &quotwhen you realize it’s happened, you’re surprised it doesn’t feel as miserable as you thought it would. You move on because you’ve forgotten why it would have been worth dwelling on.&quot

&quotI WOULD NOT WANT TO LIVE LIKE THAT.&quot Decisive. Singular. Amyntas was impressed, even through his growing melancholy.

&quotThen you should be happy that you aren’t me,&quot Amyntas advised, &quotin fact, focus on being happy that you’re you. I want you in a good mood for when we start your next lesson.&quot

~

Amyntas’ letter is hung from a doorframe by a string, neatly folded and stamped on one side with a chess bishop. It might be the mark of an urchin-gang, given that Amyntas probably doesn’t make all these odd deliveries himself. The hole made to accommodate the string passes through the center of the letter when unfolded. The letterhead is still present on this paper, but one can only see the very edges of it - the rest has been ganted.


Professor,

I am delighted to hear of your continued interest in C’s progress. I believe the whole process of educating him might be worthy of a book, but you have proposed quite a novel idea: teaching a Clay Man of love and courtship means distilling it to its most basic form and working upward. Those lessons could benefit many - perhaps even other Clay Men! Our first proper lesson will be later this evening, and I will make sure to take notes if it seems to be fruitful. Collins is growing brighter every day, and I am no longer hesitant in expressing my high hopes for his progress.

You may be pleased to hear that Collins knows of you. He has yet to read your articles at length, but he wrote his response to the problem of Gears on the pretense that it would be sent to you, and he seemed happy to hear that you liked it. I told him of this letter, too, and he seemed very interested in what you had to say. I hope he does not come to resent me for speaking to others about his interests, but presently he is excited at the idea that the famous Professor Reflector is giving him advice. You see, he has it in his head that you are quite famous. I haven’t gone over Slowcake’s in a few months, but I have no interest in convincing him otherwise regardless of what the truth may be.

Since you have brought it up, I can assure you that my intention is not to make him a minion of mine or anyone else’s. Gears was his introduction to morality and since then I have kept the topic at arm’s length. Occasionally we will discuss what society expects of him, or what the laws are and how the people feel about them, but I have not instilled any hard-and-fast moral precepts in him yet. Given his response to Gears, it seems to be that he is capable of forming his own moral judgments. I will try to guide him to be conscientious and considerate, but he knows that we are different people and that I have no interest in molding him in my image.

The day of our first outing draws near. I do not have much time to teach him before his first test. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’ll be going out to Caligula’s and I’ll be taking stock of his etiquette. Should you decide to sit in, so to speak, I doubt he will be hard to find. He looks quite smart in his new vest.

Rife with anticipation,

A

&quotCaptain? I… what? I didn’t get a note about another trip, nor did the others. We… we haven’t been replaced, have we?&quot It was the first time she’d ever seen her first mate so concerned with potentially not zailing with her. Normally he gave her such a rash of nonsense and sarcasm!

It seemed a shame to keep him waiting, even though it was actually a little fun? She was a bad person. Not that that was news to anyone. &quotOh, no, nobody else is crazy enough to board the Brazen Buffalo at all, much less take to zee in it. I’m actually here to commandeer you for a day.&quot

&quotYou what now?&quot The big man was so confused, it was kind of adorable. &quotWhat are you talking about?&quot

She poked him in the chest, perhaps slightly harder than was strictly necessary. &quotYou are coming with me. We’re going to Caligula’s, and you’re going to pretend to be an eccentric academic. I need a manly body, and you’re the best I can borrow on short notice. So put on a tweed jacket and let’s go. I’ve got your glasses.&quot

Jack kept staring, bewildered. &quotI… you… what? How am I supposed to pull that off?&quot

&quotLook, it’s easy, I’ll coach you. Just get dressed and I’ll explain on the way.&quot

He clearly had his doubts, but he nodded anyway. &quotUh. Right then. But if I’m a professor, who are you?&quot

Vitya shrugged. &quotAn undergraduate? Wait, no, I’ll be your lab assistant. Call me Trixie. Now get your coat, I haven’t got all day.&quot


The pair took a table at Caligula’s, he looking vaguely put-out and slightly mysterious thanks to the spectacles she’d given him. She, of course, was a less striking figure, certainly a more childish one with the jaunty pigtails on either side of her head. &quotI feel like an idiot,&quot he whispered to her. &quotThis is the weirdest thing I think you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something.&quot

&quotYou’ll be fine,&quot she whispered back. &quotDo what I told you and nobody will think anything of it. Remember: detached professionalism, vague statements, and pretend very, very hard that you have a magnificent moustache.&quot

&quotHow the Hell is that supposed to-&quot

She interrupted him with a quick kick beneath the table. &quotShush, that’s probably them. The clay man in the vest and the person beside him. Watch them to see what they do! And don’t be subtle about it, we’re not here to be subtle.&quot

Amyntas straightened, looking squarely at Collins. Never had he seen a more respectably-clad clay man, though he had heard rumors. Collins’ taupe surface-silk vest stood against a tight white shirt that Amyntas had endlessly fussed over, for fear that Collins’ arms might tear the sleeves to ribbons. The pants fared better, obscuring the trunklike thickness of his legs and hanging just-so in order to disguise his heavy boots as polished shoes. Collins’ favorite part of his new appearance by-far was the bowler-hat he had picked out from a shop-window on one of their walks. For reason Amyntas never quite understood, Collins loved how the hat looked on his head and insisted it be worn on their first real outing. It, coupled with the opaque spectacles that hid his beady eyes, gave the whole ensemble a sort of mysterious air. Amyntas was not sure he approved, but he could not deny its efficacy.

&quotNow!&quot Amyntas made his way over to the wardrobe, pulling open the heavy doors, &quotwhat is the purpose of this lunch?&quot

&quotNOT TO EAT WELL, BUT TO BE SEEN,&quot Collins recited.

&quotVery good, Collins.&quot Amyntas brushed the hanging jackets and shirts, feeling around in the back of the wardrobe for a little metal catch. &quotBelieve me when I tell you that the most respectable establishments in London serve awful food. Caligula’s is a nice compromise, I think you’ll find. Once you spend an afternoon at The Bridge Without, you’ll see what I mean.&quot As Amyntas spoke, he flipped the catch recessed into his wardrobe and slid aside the panel. There, softly glowing with the light of a half-remembered sunset, was a flowing dress of Parabola-linen. As Amyntas gingerly drew it from its hiding-place, the colors began to shift and swirl as if disturbed by the movement.

&quotWHAT IS THAT?&quot Collins asked.

&quotA dress, Collins. I know you’ve seen them before. This one just happens to have cost me most of my savings.&quot

&quotWHY DO YOU HAVE A DRESS?&quot

Amyntas chuckled, hanging the glimmering garment on the edge of the wardrobe. &quotTo wear, Collins. If you’re going to be seen, you might as well be seen with a respectable lady.&quot He began to wiggle out of his nightshirt, casting it atop a pile of discarded letters.

&quotBUT… YOU ARE NOT A LADY:&quot Collins paused a moment. &quotARE YOU?&quot

&quotNo, Collins, I’m not. Be that as it may, there’s only one man in this room who looks good in a dress and… well, I don’t mean any offense, but it’s not you.&quot Amyntas nearly tripped over one of numerous bottles of laudanum littering the floor. &quotYou don’t have the hips for it, and your shoulders… it’s not important.&quot

&quotWHY NOT JUST BE YOU? I LIKE YOU, AMYNTAS.&quot

&quotTwo reasons,&quot Amyntas paused to check through the drawers of his desk; a suspiciously human-looking jawbone, a set of shattered and mangled cosmogone spectacles, an unopened letter stamped with a bishop, and then - &quotAha! There you are.&quot Amyntas tugged his makeup case from the still grasp of an embalmed sorrow-spider. &quotI want to see how well you’ve taken to my lessons on treating the opposite sex, Collins. To that end, I’ve had to make a few compromises. Firstly, I couldn’t find a woman willing to go along with this scheme on short notice, Second, it would’ve been terribly awkward to have me sitting there at the table judging you on your every word. I want this to seem a little natural, which is why I want you to at least pretend that I’m a lady.&quot Another bout of stumbling and bottle-kicking gained him a hand-mirror with which to check his work. &quotEveryone else will be convinced, I promise you that.&quot

&quotI… WILL TRY, I SUPPOSE.&quot

&quotSee that you do. This dress cost me a b___dy fortune.&quot

~

And so, it came to pass that a well-dressed Clay Man entered Caligula’s alongside a short and full-figured lady in a b___dy expensive dress. True to Amyntas’ word, he did well enough as a lady; attention was drawn away from his short, dark hair by the mushroom-covered bonnet he wore over it, and the creative application of a corset compensated for any failings in his figure. The looks they received were singular.

Collins exuded an air of vague menace. The lack of expressiveness in his features combined with the odd uplifted-dockworker motif of his clothes imparted a look of high-class criminality that few knew quite what to do with. It was all the stranger to see him acting the part of a perfect gentleman, pulling out a chair for his transvestite teacher and lowering the rumbling timbre of his voice to something approaching a conversational tone.

Collins absently prodded at his coffee-cup with a thick finger, features downcast. &quotSo, ah, Miss…&quot

&quotAmy, dear,&quot Amyntas muttered, cursing himself for forgetting.

&quotMiss… Amy,&quot Collins stopped prodding his coffee-cup, tucking his hands self-consciously in his lap, &quotWhat do you think of Caligula’s?&quot

&quotIt’s good at having a reputation. I don’t know if it’s so good at deserving it.&quot Amyntas flashed his pupil a thin smile - there was a certain truth in what he’d said, but the point was to test him.

Collins nodded. &quotQuite right,&quot he rumbled, with a hint of Amyntas’ own cadence. &quotQuite right.&quot He made a sound like a disturbed jar of sand, clenching and unclenching his great thick fists. So far, so good. Amyntas looked pleased, at any rate.

&quotNow I don’t want to seem ungrateful, Mister Collins, but I do wonder why you chose me to come along with you this evening. Surely it’s not my money, is it?&quot

Collins stared. If he had any sort of blood, it would have run ice-cold. He didn’t know a thing about this imaginary ‘Amy,’ and in spite of his best efforts he was still seeing his nebbishy little teacher dolled up in ladies’ finery. His mind raced, inasmuch as it possibly could, and an awkward silence settled between them. Behind his stolid expression lay something akin to panic.

&quotOkay, wonderful, there’s a clay man with a lady in an expensive dress. Tell me again why I’m pretending to be a professor with a big moustache.&quot Jack sounded only moderately confused. Of course, he also sounded very annoyed, but considering she paid him very well for his work at zee, he could deal.

Vitya muttered something foul beneath her breath before answering him. &quotLook, don’t worry about all that, okay? Just do it. Trust me, it’s not like I’ve ever steered us wrong.&quot She raised a warning finger. &quotNow’s not the time to argue that point either. We’re watching something beautiful here, a blossoming of a mind. So, like, settle down, order whatever you want – I’m buying, obviously – and try to appreciate it.&quot

He sighed loudly at her but followed orders. She, meanwhile, wished she could read lips. Or minds. Definitely read minds, that would be pretty handy, but it seemed like a thing that wasn’t really possible.

&quotOh, b______s,&quot she said, &quotI can’t get anything from here. You… I don’t know, loiter and be erudite, okay? I’m going to go get unnecessarily involved with this thing I’m supposed to be observing.&quot

Jack stared at her. &quotThat sounds like a terrible idea.&quot He didn’t mince words. She liked that.

&quotIt probably is, but at least this time it won’t end with us becalmed and lost at zee, right?&quot

He didn’t know how to respond to that; he chose to sigh again. He did that a lot, especially when they were talking.

Vitya rolled her eyes. &quotLook, everything’s going to be fine. Just… enjoy the day out, okay? Have some drinks, act like a professor, and relax. Also, watch my back in case this ends up like every time we go to a bar in Wolfstack. This place is usually better than that, but…&quot She ended the statement with a shrug as she stood. &quotBack in a bit.&quot


The hardest part about pretending to be a research assistant to her own entirely fabricated academic persona was changing the way she presented herself. Vitya was inclined to saunter, if not outright swagger, but that was decidedly not how even graduate students walked. Not even in London. She found the only way to keep herself in check was pretend her shoes were tied together. It necessarily shortened her stride, made her focus on where her feet were being placed, ensuring she kept her eyes somewhat downcast instead of challenging everyone who looked her direction.

Still, it was kind of awkward going and made it seem like maybe she didn’t understand how to walk properly in heeled boots. Which wasn’t entirely unfair or untrue, heels were weird. Regardless, she arrived at the table being shared by Collins and Amy, a pleasant smile on her face. &quotHi there! My professor sent me to watch for a couple rather like you. Have either of you responded to odd articles in a newspaper recently?&quot

Collins knew little of providence and fate. They were concepts Amyntas had tried to keep out of his reach, for fear that they might stunt his growth as he became used to the notion of deciding things for himself. With no God to thank or fate to trust, Collins felt nothing more or less than an overwhelming sense of relief as the young academic came up to distract them. Quickly - too quickly for a Clay Man - Collins turned his attention to the woman who had approached them and gave her a thin and stony attempt at a smile. This, he surmised, was a colleague of the famous Professor Reflector. What luck! What magnanimity! Somehow, it made sense to him that the clever Professor would see fit to bail him out. He did not dwell too long on the question of how she would have known that Collins would be here and in such a compromising position. What mattered was that he had been given an out, and it seemed almost natural to take it.

Collins did not see it, but Amyntas looked terrifically amused.

&quotGood day,&quot Collins rumbled, retaining his moderate tone. He straightened, attempting to look erudite, and thought quickly on how best to answer. The smartest man he knew was Amyntas, and Amyntas was always frustratingly circumspect when dealing with anyone besides Collins. &quotIn a certain sense,&quot he said, once more adopting his teacher’s own cadence. &quotI… happen to catch snippets of certain… correspondences between certain… parties.&quot

Amyntas cast a lock of mock-contempt toward the professor, playing the part of the debutante even now. &quotI don’t keep up with all that speculative rot,&quot he stated, stopping just short of upturning his nose. &quotIt puts such awful thoughts in people’s heads. Simply awful.&quot He tried not to make his glances at Collins too obvious, and moreover did his best to conceal his pride.

Collins folded his hands in his lap, trying to seem civil. &quotYes, well… why do you ask?&quot Had the Professor taken a more advanced interest in him? Would he be asked to talk at the University? He’d never even seen the University before. What would he do? Was this what being important was like? Do important people have to navigate the labyrinth of a difficult date while simultaneously wrestling with the knowledge that the date is actually a test being proctored by the very test itself? Had Amyntas realized that a sorrow-spider was taking residence amid the mushrooms of his bonnet? Was that part of the test? Should he pluck it out, or would that be rude?

As before, the maelstrom of Collins’ thoughts were hid neatly behind his flat expression. Who would suspect Collins of such multifarious anxieties?

&quotWhy do I ask? Why, for so many reasons!&quot Vitya had an exuberance that overflowed when she wasn’t sedated, which she most certainly wasn’t at the moment. ‘Effervescent’ hardly seemed to cover it. &quotAnd not just because my degree is on the line – which, you know, professors being professors, it is! It’s not often a person such as yourself provides such a thoroughly reasoned answer instead of simply rejecting the premise of hypotheticals as being a pointless exercise.&quot

She was getting a little overexcited; the slightly alarmed expression on Jack’s face told her as much when she glanced ‘casually’ in his direction. Oh well, he (and everybody else) could deal with it. The thought of a highly reflective and possibly philosophical Clay person was enough to get her brains afire, considering the typical specimen. Especially since this one had, it seemed, a date! Vitya’s focus shifted abruptly.

&quotI do apologize if I’m interrupting something, ma’am,&quot she said, very clearly to Amy and not Collins. &quotI can leave you two alone, of course, I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of, uh, whatever you two are up to, but if you’re going to run me off, I have two requests. First, please don’t make a big scene of it, I can take a hint, just tell me you’d rather I move along so I only have to deal with academic disappointment rather than the likely public shaming that would follow if you were to instigate some sort of scandalous ruckus. Second, at least let me get the lovely gentleman’s name and contact information so I could perhaps interview him at a more convenient time. That’s not so much to ask, is it?&quot

&quotOh, no no no…&quot Amyntas piped up, before Collins could answer, &quotI didn’t know Collins was involved in the papers! What an interesting fellow.&quot He made a show of coquettishly propping his chin up on a curled hand, gazing at Collins in a manner he found thoroughly discomforting. Collins shifted in his seat, turning his bespectacled countenance toward the excited scholar.

He knew that he should have been more excited that his work was making him notable, in some respects. This academic was certainly more animated than Amyntas tended to be - did she say that he had answered the question with distinction? He thought she had. The thought was difficult for him to parse. He had seen himself as perpetually climbing the sheer face of a cliff that the rest of humanity had started out atop. In no way had he considered that he might be more adept than any one human in matters of the mind. Perhaps he was better than he thought, and perhaps Amyntas’ lessons were taking hold. Perhaps both! That was a nice thought. A very nice thought indeed, and Collins was unused to them still.

&quotNow, it just so happens…&quot Amyntas interjected again, drawing a folded slip of paper from somewhere on his frock, &quotCollins gave me his address a bit ago in case we failed to make lunch today. Isn’t that right, Collins?&quot

Stunned, Collins nodded. He’d barely heard what Amyntas had said, but any 'isn’t that right’s were to be met with nods and some show of confidence, as he understood it.

&quotI’ve quite a good memory, you know, so I don’t think I’ll be needing this. If Collins doesn’t mind, I’ll be happy to let you have it. You don’t mind, do you?&quot

Collins nodded again, this time with a little more conviction. &quotNo, no, please take it.&quot He paused, realizing he had forgotten something. &quotMy name is Collins. Just Collins. There is a nice man at the tailor’s that calls me Mister Collins, I think it makes me sound rather gentlemanly.&quot He attempted a smile. It looked more as if he was trying to ignore a very painful stabbing sensation.

The paper is typical Amyntas correspondence. It’s a scrap, and at the top a straight lowercase ‘t’ has been sketched with an odd meticulousness. The rightmost arm of the t points downward at a noticeable angle. It appears to be an attempt at rendering a symbol or shape rather than a mark like the bishop-piece had been. Amyntas’ apparent address is there, located on a dingy little street not far from the Brass Embassy. Beneath that is written ‘He is quite good, isn’t he?’ Either Amyntas somehow managed to write this all down when nobody was looking or had planned for this. Who knows? He might have multiple slips of paper for if Collins hadn’t been doing so good. Whatever the case may be, the spidery handwriting is unmistakably Amyntas’. This full-figured lady around whom Collins seems oddly uncomfortable must be a friend of his, surely. Surely!
edited by Amyntas on 1/3/2016