PM to join Reusing Old Graves

[Madeira Dusk]

“I do hope you’ll forgive Madeira. Her name gives her an inflated sense of self-importance.”

Madeira looked over at the barmaid with an expression of complete bewilderment. She knew Ambrosia was not a completely honest woman, but she had never known her to be snide. It wasn't until Barsala's dark eyes flickered over to her, watching for the Spiritist's reaction while struggling to contain his own satisfied smirk, that finally cottoned her on to Ambrosia's plan. At once she huffed and looked away, letting her bewilderment burn away into indignation to play into Ambrosia's portrait of her as a self-important child. In that moment she knew she had detonated any credibility she had with the man in order to bolster Ambrosia's. If the barmaid couldn't get through to him now they were in trouble.

But she didn't have to keep up the act for long. Within two chimes Ambrosia had stolen Barsala's attention completely. She had honed into to his weakness for appreciation and softened him with carful flattery in ticks. Madeira remembered how, at the bottom of several cups of wine, Barsala's natural bilge rat accent would slip through the cracks of his merchant prince veneer. He was a self made man built from the ground up into this life of luxury. To be told he had fine taste must sooth the exposed nerve of his humble beginnings.

Finally, a small portrait was pulled from nowhere and laid on the table between Barsala and the two women. Madeira recognized Ambrosia in the careful layers of paint and canvas. Somehow her glowing smile shone through even this facsimile. The dark-haired girl beside her had that same glow about her, but it seemed focused in her eyes. She was a beauty such that Madeira had never seen before, with a hungry look that she recognized in herself.

The Captain looked over the portrait minutely. His dark brows met together in a hard line of concentration. She could see him struggling to answer her, and Madeira feared that Ambrosia had worked him over too well. He didn't want to lose face with this woman who had just assured him that he was just as great and powerful as he presented himself to be, and he would lie before he admitted he wasn't.

Her suspicions were confirmed when his tongue flicked over his thick lips, and he spoke in a carefully measured way.

"I suppose... Yes, I recognize her. One of my crewmen was boasting about petc-" his eyes flicked up to Ambrosia's and focused back on the paper, and he cleared his throat. "-courting her. Yes, I'm sure it was her. She's quite the beauty. Almost as lovely as her sister." The smile he aimed at Ambrosia was not quite lecherous, but it was hungry. He didn't seem to feel the need to lay on the charm too thick, Madeira suspected he was used to letting his wealth do the talking. She rolled her eyes at the back of his head.

"Last I heard she was staying in one of the shacks closest to the Maw with a few other girls”, he continued. “Last one on your left. It has a blue door and seashells hanging from the roof." he pushed the portrait back towards Ambrosia, his eyes steady on hers.

It didn't seem like he was lying. For one thing that was an awful lot of specific information to think up on the spot, but at the same time she couldn't imagine he would admit it if he truly knew nothing about Tess.

[Ambrosia Alar]

Captain Barsala gave Tessa’s picture a detailed look over. He seemed to struggle with it, but eventually, recognition crossed his face. “I suppose… Yes, I recognize her. One of my crewmen was boasting about petch-” Barsala ground to a halt, and his eyes flashed to Ambrosia’s, then back down to the picture. He feared he had overstepped or insulted her somehow. If Ambrosia was the kind to be cruel or if she just wanted to toy with him, she could make him squirm, but as it was, she didn’t have the time for that and, quite frankly, didn’t have a fascination with those sorts of games. Besides, Ambrosia knew her little sister, and what the captain was saying sounded exactly like something Tessa would do. If she thought she could get something out of someone, if she thought it would give her power over them, there was little she was above doing to get it. “-courting her,” Barsala corrected himself. “Yes. I’m sure it was her. She’s quite the beauty. Almost as lovely as her sister.” Ambrosia gave an encouraging smile at his compliment. The natural blush that came to her cheeks at most any attempt to flirt with her pulled together the whole façade of her being some young, impressionable woman who was smitten by his wealth and power. If anything, giving him this idea would at least keep him available as another valuable connection here at the Port. The captain went on. “Last I heard she was staying in one of the shacks closest to the Maw with a few other girls. Last one on your left. It has a blue door with seashells hanging from the roof.” Taking the portrait back with a smile, Ambrosia met the captain’s eyes. “Thank you, Captain. That’s more than anybody’s been able to tell me since she went missing.” She wasn’t certain that sounded like Tessa. There was a reason the youngest Alar sister didn’t live with her older sisters. Early on, she had discovered that men were easier to manipulate when they were on their own, without the distractions of other women. But perhaps Tessa had found some advantage to living with these other women. Either way, it was a lead, and Ambrosia would follow up on it. It seemed their interaction was over, but Ambrosia knew better than to leave as soon as she got what she needed out of him. That was a trick Tessa had taught her. Leaving right away made one look bad, but if you worked to make it seem as if the other person was getting the better end of the bargain, as if they were the lucky one, then you could part ways with everyone happy, and the person could remain valuable forever. “Something would feel amiss if I didn’t offer you something in return, Captain.” Remembering the wine, an idea popped into her head. “I know. Let me have Cade send up a bottle of degtine from the Rear. It’s no Godspirit, but it might be just as rare. The same Djed Storm that led to the creation of the Godspirit wiped Denval off the map and nearly took the knowledge of how to make degtine with it. Cade’s got some connections though. I’m sure if you like it and think there’s a market for it elsewhere, an arrangement could be made to get you a steady supply.” She shrugged. “Like I said, it’s no Godspirit, but wine can only do so much for you. I’ll send the bottle up and let you decide.” Ambrosia turned toward the door and motioned for Madeira to follow. She didn’t want to overstay their welcome at all, if there had ever been one. Thinking better of ending their conversation with a discussion of business, she returned to the captain’s side and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, captain.” She dropped her voice so Madeira couldn’t hear. “And do try to be accommodating to Madeira if she drops by again. She was only a pain this time around for my sake. It would mean the world to me.” She followed Madeira out the door with that. Perhaps she had overdone it, but she was certain things couldn’t end up any worse for Madeira than how they had been when she barged in today. Hopefully, Ambrosia’s words had soothed Barsala some and planted seeds of an idea that perhaps he could get even more out of this if he was pleasant to Madeira in the future. As they made their way off the docks, Ambrosia wrestled with how to best apologize to Madeira before she just came out with it. “I’m sorry I said those things, Madeira.” Ambrosia didn’t wear a frown nearly as well as she did a smile, but nothing she tried would make it leave. “I hope you know I didn’t mean a word of it. Even if you did though, that ain’t an excuse for me to use you like that. I’m sorry.” She hoped her apology was enough, but if not, she’d do whatever she needed to repair this friendship. It was Madeira’s turn to say her piece, and Ambrosia would take whatever it was her friend had to say. Ambrosia had overstepped, and she knew it. Captain Barsala, with his connections in various cities, was bound to be a valuable asset, and Ambrosia had just destroyed any credibility Madeira had with him. As they wound their way through the ever changing streets of Alvadas toward the Gaping Maw, one of the few sites in the city that wasn’t transient, Ambrosia began to question whether there was any merit in following this lead. The more she thought about it, the more she decided it didn’t sound like Tessa. Finally, she voiced her doubts. “Madeira, do you think we can trust Barsala? This just doesn’t sound like Tessa. The living with other women part, I mean. There’s a reason she moved out of our place. She prefers privacy. It allows her to…” Ambrosia wasn’t sure of the best way to put it. “Convince others to do what she wants.” Ambrosia hoped Barsala’s information panned out. She wanted more than anything to knock on the door of that shack and have Tessa be the one to answer. In less than a bell, they found the shack near where the captain said it would be. It had migrated down the road no more than a few houses distance, but it was there within a stone’s throw of the Maw.

[Madeira Dusk]

After more flattery from Ambrosia, a sly business deal and a whispered secret, Madeira found herself gently closing the cabin door behind them. Completely windswept, it took her a few moments just to keep up with what had happened. She followed Ambrosia down the gangplank, exchanging polite smiles and nods to the workers and sailors they passed, but eventually found herself staring at the back of Ambrosia’s head like she was trying to see past the gold locks to the inner workings. This barmaid, a creature so low on the social ladder as to be invisible to people such as Barsala, had just wrung him of
everything she wanted. And then tacked a business deal at the end for good measure. She just played him like a harp and he had no idea.

And it wasn't just the guarded, pretentious and unpleasant Barsala who was taken by the blonde, it was her own sarcastic, callous and unpleasant servant too. Jomi, who hated everyone, had been charmed by the woman from almost the moment they met. She was like a witch, but her magic was in words and hearts.

They were on the road leading to the Gapping Maw, the colourful streets lined with sea worn huts and fishermen back from a days catch. The air was alive with the smell of driftwood fires and cooking food when Ambrosia unexpectedly turned to her and apologized.

“I hope you know I didn’t mean a word of it. Even if you did though, that ain’t an excuse for me to use you like that. I’m sorry.”

That's right, this woman just used her to blow a hole in a useful relationship that was already rocky to begin with. How had she forgotten? Madeira should be furious with her. Yet somehow she couldn't seem to work up her anger to eclipse the amazement. She walked a few paces, trying to corral her thoughts into something coherent.

"Has anyone ever told you you would make a good Spiritist?" she found herself saying. That was true, at least. All the best Spiritists were manipulative, charismatic liars.

Once she had apologized, Ambrosia eventually opened up about her worries. Behaviour like this wasn't normal for Tessa, she explained. Could they trust Barsala to be telling the truth about her sister?

"Trust him?” Madeira shook her head. “No, of course not. But I do trust that he knows what goes on here better than anyone. If his information is all we have than it's best we follow it."

The comment at the end, about Tessa 'convincing others to do what she wants', did not slip by Madeira. It appeared Tessa had that same manipulative streak as Ambrosia. But while the elder sister seemed to be benevolent in her machinations, she did not trust that the younger had quite the same motivations.

The shack they were looking for was a low slung bungalow with a bright porch and a sagging roof. Seashell wind chimes hung from the eves and made pretty, tinkling music in the evening breeze. Shapes and pictures were carved into the banisters and the blue door. The clean, cheery place was obviously lovingly cared for, but love didn't seem to be enough to keep it standing. The paint was chipped and fading, the wood brittle with salt and seawind, and the centre of the low roof was collecting water and rot.

Rallying herself, Madeira stepped up on the porch. The wood beneath her boots groaned as if in sleep.

But as soon as her knuckles tapped the door in a smart knock, the thing swung open. The door was unlocked. Madeira stood on the threshold uncertainly, rocking on her heels.

"Hello? Sorry, we don't mean to barge in. Your door was unlocked..."

As the door inched open, Madeira and Ambrosia could see the world of womanly delights that filled the single-room space. A valiant effort had gone to making the house feel like home, with colourful woven mats laid out on the floor and trinkets hanging from the rafters. Four small beds were set up on one side, draped with dresses, hairbrushes and ribbons. It was the kind of place that seemed to hold girlish laughter, even when it was silent.

And it was silent. No one was home.

"It's a crime... to break into peoples houses…you know,” said a soft, wheezy voice.

Madeira turned to see a little old man on the street behind them, holding a handsome brass lantern and leaning on an old ivory cane. He was dressed in a clean suit, but lacked the same ostentatiousness as others who could afford nice things. Both eyes starry with cataracts, he was looking up at them with a sad, almost disappointed disapproval that immediately made Madeira feel coated in sin.

"Oh! No, no, you misunderstand. The door was left unlocked. You don't happen to know the girls here, do you?"

The old man's hazy eyes followed her finger pointed to the empty house behind her, and took a long time to answer. His speech was whisper soft and barely decipherable under the bustle of the port town.

"Hmm? Oh, yes... A couple of girls from the village, a couple from in town... Nice girls. They took time to talk to an old man like me..."

Finally, some luck! Madeira smiled. "That's good to hear, sir. We are looking for a girl who lives here: brunette, blue eyes, around sixteen or seventeen?" she glanced at Ambrosia to make sure she was correct in her description. "She's very beautiful. She comes from the city."

"Oh... Yes. Lovely girl... So kind to stop and chat...."

"Do you know where she is?"

"All the girls... they came to talk... to Lydia."

"Lydia?"

"My... daughter. She hasn't been quite right since... the fall. It’s good... for her to have... friends. I’m afraid his old man... isn't very good company." he laughed a wheezy laugh that almost immediately dissolved into a coughing fit. Madeira couldn't help but think he might not be any company at all soon.

"I can... escort you to her. If you... wish."

He recovered from his fit hand held a gentlemanly arm out for Ambrosia with a weak smile.

[Ambrosia Alar]

“It’s a crime…” Ambrosia started at the sudden voice behind them. Nothing had let her know that someone had come up behind them while they had approached the rundown shack. Normally, Ambrosia wasn’t a jumpy individual. Working in a tavern meant she was constantly surrounded by sudden crashes and drunken individuals prone to unprovoked outbursts. But hope did odd things to people. Every sound she expected to be Tessa’s voice. After every turn, she expected to see her little sister’s face. “…to break into people’s houses… you know.” With how heavily the man was leaning on the cane, Ambrosia was surprised they hadn’t heard him walking up behind them. One thing Ambrosia could tell with just a glance was that he was a father. It wasn’t anything to do with his stature, his age, or the way he carried himself that told her so. It was his eyes. They held a reprimanding disappointment, the kind only parents knew how to use, the kind Ambrosia and Tessa had seen plenty of times while growing up. Whenever she was on the receiving end of it, Ambrosia couldn’t help flashing a smile that carried an apology in it, but Madeira was already busy giving the man an explanation as to why they were here and how they had gotten into the house. It seemed to take the man time to comprehend anything that was said to him, but eventually, Madeira’s question got through. Ambrosia was glad for her work in the tavern. It made catching his whisper much easier. Her job made her accustomed to picking out voices from the hubbub around her, and his voice was soft enough that it was nearly lost to the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes. His answer said he had met the girls who lived there. Ambrosia wouldn’t help but smile when Madeira addressed the man as ‘sir’. That was how Madeira had been raised, with a rigid propriety and a formal respect. Alessa Alar had made sure her daughters grew up to be respectful of others, but formal titles had never been anything she’d taught them. Respect was not in titles. It was in how one saw others and viewed them as important despite their circumstances. She smiled again and nodded in affirmation of Madeira’s description of Tessa. The details were vague, but she was correct on every comment. In his wheezy voice, after several questions, the man confirmed that the girls had come to see his daughter after an injury she had sustained. With an offer to guide them there, the man held out his elbow to her. A pleased smile came easily as Ambrosia took his arm. “A gentleman? Love, you are a rare breed.” His attire and demeanor said as much, that he was a gentleman, the kind that existed a generation before her parents’ generation. Remembering her own manners, Ambrosia offered Madeira her free elbow. Madeira didn’t have any other options other than to walk by herself. If she didn’t take Ambrosia’s elbow, she wouldn’t be able to take the man’s other elbow. That arm was occupied with his cane. “I’m Ambrosia, and this is my friend Madeira.” Ambrosia couldn’t keep her arms from trembling in anticipation. The man seemed to believe he had met the person they were searching for, met her little sister Tessa. Ambrosia’s hope built, died, built, and died again. Everything the man said made her want to believe that at the end of this little jaunt Tessa would be waiting for her. But every time one of these thoughts entered her head, reason told her it wouldn’t be. Despite logic, her hope kept returning. She had to do something to distract herself from it. Her attention turned to the man. “So, love, tell us about Lydia. What’s she like?” Every step seemed to be a chore for the man, making their progress slow. Breathing and walking both required his full focus, but he had to do both at the same time. With the long silence that followed her question, Ambrosia wasn’t even sure he had heard her. Just as Ambrosia opened her mouth to ask again, the man’s wheezy voice began, “She…” He stopped talking to breathe and step, and Ambrosia felt pity well up in her for the man. “-was such a happy, young woman. Her eyes… lit up every time she… heard music. You see, she… loved to dance.” Warmth swept through Ambrosia, the kind brought on by nostalgia and a kindred emotion shared with another. When he had revealed that Lydia loved to dance, the old man’s own face lit up, and a strength seemed to return to him. His steps became more confident, and the rattling wheeze left his breath or lessened, at the very least. The way he felt about Lydia was the way Ambrosia felt about Tessa. Proud but protective. Her heart broke a little though when his face fell. “She…” And just like that, his confidence and breath were gone. “-used to light up before… the fall. She couldn’t… dance after that.” Giving his arm a comforting squeeze, Ambrosia turned to him, so he could hear the concern in her voice more easily. “May I ask what happened?” “It was a collapse…. The house collapsed… She used to dance in… the full light of the second story. There were more windows there, and… she liked to watch her shadows dance along.” His voice grew weaker with every word until he was barely speaking at all. Age and frailty that should’ve only existed for a man far beyond his years showed as he drew another breath, only to break into another fit of coughing. “Rest,” Ambrosia instructed. “Catch your breath first. Stories can wait.” The man looked at her with a warm smile and patted her arm appreciatively with his other hand. That was something Ambrosia found to be true about most of the parents who cared deeply about their children. Their caring nature tended to extend to other people who were their children’s age. With his warm smile, comforting touch, and his wheezily breathed thanks, Ambrosia felt safe in his presence, as if this old man could make all the many problems that each of them faced go away, and for a brief moment, Ambrosia knew that Tessa would be waiting for her at the end of this walk. When the man had patted her hand, he was no longer able to rely on his cane for support, and Ambrosia was forced to hold him up as most of his weight came down on her arm. Walking drunks home had taught Ambrosia how to deal with dead weight, and this man was giving her far more help than most drunkards. She handled the shift in weight easily enough. “It was a long-forgotten… chamber of the Underground. When the streets shifted one day, our house ended up right on… top of the chamber, and the weight of the foundation was too much for it… She was dancing up on the second story when…” He had to pause after that. Something told Ambrosia that it wasn’t to catch his breath, and her heart broke for him and his daughter a little more. After a little longer pause than the ones he’d taken before, the man went on. “-when the whole house fell in on itself and down into… the chamber. She went with it. It took me… three full days to dig her out. She never… did dance the same after that.” That had shed more light on him than Ambrosia expected it to. She had asked to be polite, but it had been a revealing story. She saw him in a new light. He wasn’t an old man. He was a man who had aged himself decades in a desperate scramble to save his daughter’s life. She imagined the dust in the air filling his lungs as he dug through layers of debris that shifted under his weight causing his ankle to roll and giving him a permanent limp to remember their trauma by. A few quick blinks banished the tears that threatened.

[Madeira Dusk]

Bemused but full of hope, Madeira took Ambrosia by her offered elbow and the three of them turned down the street. It was well and truly dark now. Warped lamps of seablown glass were being lit on porches and windowsills, and the yellow light was spilling over the worn cobblestone in the absence of Syna. The cacophony of industry died with the natural light. Now a new, boisterous roar of revelry took it's place as fishermen, sailors and dockworkers put down their hard earned coins and picked up their pints.

Ambrosia was speaking to the old man and Madeira contented herself with listening as they weaved their way through the port city. While with Barsala the barmaid had been soft with flattery, now the woman was sparkling with empathy. She shared some sort of familiarity with the man that Madeira, who neither loved nor was loved by her family, couldn't quite reach. She stood on the outside looking in, and from this vantage point she could see the bigger picture in a shallow way.

The man loved his daughter dearly. A terrible accident had left her disabled, so her father brought her women her own age to keep her company. One of these women was, potentially, Tessa. From what Madeira knew or guessed about the missing girl, Tessa did not seem to be inclined to charity. So how could being friends with a old man and his disabled daughter possibly benefit her? There was always the chance that she simply enjoyed their company, but somehow Madeira doubted it. Perhaps the frail old man's understated wealth had caught her eye in a greedy way. After all, who would look after Lydia when her father passed?

Madeira was still musing about motivations when the old man's silence broke.

"It's... Not much." he warbled. "But welcome... home." He smiled wide, crinkling the skin around his eyes. He was motioning with his cane to a gentle old house, one of the very few three story buildings Madeira had ever seen in the ramshackle port. It's neighbours were pressed in on all sides, making it almost comically thin and tall, but the house had a stubborn space set aside for it's own little garden. A light was burning on the second floor, and as she watched a flickering shadow passed before it. The smell of salt and fish that permeated the town seemed less pronounce here. But something else caught Madeira’s senses in a way most people couldn't share. She stopped immediately, catching the old man by surprise as he wobbled in Ambrosia's grip.

"Sir", Madeira's pale brows were knit together as she leaned around Ambrosia to get a better look at their host. "Is your house haunted?"

The old man seemed taken aback by the question, but his veiled eyes were not evasive or even concerned. He was pleasantly surprised.

"Oh... that would be nice." he sighed. "It's always nice to have… more company..."

Madeira was dumbfounded. This was not a normal persons reaction to ghosts! But then, she was beginning to realize that trauma might have made him strange.

The click of his cane led to the front door, and he fumbled a moment with a heavy ring of keys from his jacket pocket. As the door swung open, the cheery crackling of a fireplace greeted them, and they stepped into a homely living room. The space was open and bathed in light, but Madeira's eyes roamed suspiciously. The feeling of ghostly presence was stronger here, but also strangely transitory. She was willing to bet, if given the opportunity to look around, she would find that no ghost had touched anything in here recently.

"I think... you'll like it here. Please stay as long... as you can. The girls are... this way..." He didn't put down the lantern when they entered the house. Instead he handed the heavy brass thing, still lit, to Madeira. "If you... wouldn't mind, my dear."

There were a few doors on the first floor that branched off from the living room, but only under one did a muffled voice deep in conversation bleed through. He lead them to it and tapped on this door with the head of his cane.

"Come in!" the voice picked up and became audible. The man stepped aside and motioned them forward with a smile.

"Do try to stay... As long as you can. Poor Lydia does get... terribly lonely when they... don't stay.”

Madeira opened the door, and saw it did not lead to another room at all. Below her were steep steps that lead into shadow.

A whistle through the air and a half a tick warning was all she got. The old man’s cane struck Madeira as she turned her head, and she tumbled headlong into darkness.

[Ambrosia Alar]

“It’s… not much. But welcome… home.” Home. The way he said it was the way Ambrosia talked about her little one room house but only when all three sisters were present. The house had a different feel to it then. It was home. When the gentleman presented the home, his face brightened immensely, and once again, his age lifted off if him in his happiness. The wide smile on his face served to square his shoulders and straighten his back, and now, Ambrosia was certain he stood a full head taller. His breath, too, she noticed, came far easier than it had before. Ambrosia could see why he was proud of the house, the home. While every other building was a small, single-room, single-story building that had been pieced together with whatever was on hand, this house towered above the others and was designed, at least exteriorly, with a simple elegance. It wasn’t a ramshackle, patchwork shack like the rest. Everything from window frames to gables matched and worked together. With a twinge of jealousy, Ambrosia noted that there was even space for a garden, and the scent of mint cut the briny smell of the Port. One day, she and Bethany would have a garden. Madeira’s abrupt stop dragged Ambrosia to a halt and threw their host off balance for a moment. “Sir. Is your house haunted?” Ambrosia took another quick glance at the home. She saw nothing wrong with it. Sure, it was old, storied, and that meant a fair share of people were bound to have died in it. From everything her sister Bethany had told her of the ancient art of spiritism, Ambrosia knew spiritists had a sense for this sort of thing. Being an amateur, Bethany’s was minimal, just an inkling that something was off, but in this case, Madeira seemed certain of a spiritual presence. Their gentleman was surprised but welcomed the idea readily. “It’s always nice to have… more company.” Incredulous, Madeira stared at him in disbelief, but Ambrosia encouraged his statement with a smile. “I always find guests to be a welcome addition.” The gentleman gave her a warm smile that seemed to rival her best as he opened the door. “I think… you’ll like it here.” He handed the lantern off to Madeira before leading them deeper into the house. “If you… wouldn’t mind, my dear.” He led them down a hallway on the first floor. Secretly, Ambrosia had hoped they would be meeting Lydia in the room where she used to dance. Somehow, though, Ambrosia was certain they wouldn’t see it. Lydia was sure not to want more reminders of her accident. Down the hallway, Ambrosia could hear a muffled voice behind one of the doors. It was quiet, but her ears were accustomed to picking up voices amidst a hubbub. Bits were lost, but bits Ambrosia heard distinctly enough. The voice wasn’t pleased. “always leave too quickly… having such a good time. You really shouldn’t have left so soon. If I were you, I would have…” The rap of the cane against the door cut her off, and her voice brightened as she answered. “Come in!” Lydia’s voice mirrored the true cheeriness that Tessa’s got whenever she got whatever it was she wanted. Ambrosia’s smile broadened until she could barely contain it. She was certain she was going to like Lydia. “Do try to stay… as long as you can. Poor Lydia does get… terribly lonely when they… don’t stay.” If there was one thing Ambrosia prided herself on, it was her ability to read people. That failed her miserably here. When Madeira opened the door, Ambrosia stared dumbly down the stairs descending into darkness. Madeira, with her awareness of a ghostly presence, was the most prepared of the two young women. Their gentleman friend saw that, knew it, and went after the young spiritist first. Air hissed around the cane just before it met Madeira’s skull with a vicious crack. It wasn’t until Madeira was already tumbling down the steps that Ambrosia snapped out of her stupor and reach for her friend. Just as her hand was about to close around Madeira’s wrist, the head of the man’s cane rapped sharply against her exposed ribs, and her arm retracted quickly back in to her body like a snake coiling back from a shovel meant to smash it. Just like the snake, the motion was as much offensive as it was defensive, because as soon as the man’s cane pulled away, her coiled muscles released, lashing her arm out at him in a wide swing. The man was more nimble than he appeared, because he quickly stepped out of her reach. Not much made Ambrosia furious, but someone taking advantage of her trust and attacking her friends did. She went after him again, swinging her arm as hard as she could, throwing herself further off balance. This time the man knocked her arm away with another sharp blow. As Ambrosia’s arm pulled back in, Ambrosia had time to shoot the gentleman one quick, nasty glare before his cane found her left temple with another crack. Momentum wasn’t kind to Ambrosia. With the jerking blows she had thrown and those she’d been hit with, she had been thrown off balance, and the blow to her head sent her tumbling, not down the steps but off the side of them. Her feet stumbled once and slipped, and then there was nothing beneath her. There was nothing but the sickening feeling of falling as she dropped straight down, landing on her back to have the air driven from her lungs. For several moments, she just lay there on her back, trying to breathe and feeling sorry for herself. Once her breath returned though, her anger took back over, and she rolled over on to her hands and knees. Her hand went to her left temple and touched it gingerly. Warm and wet, it told her his blow had drawn blood. She cursed, touched it again, and cursed once more for good measure as she winced. How did everyone manage to hit her in the same place? Just last season, she’d been punched there during a bar brawl. Once had been more than enough. Nearby, the lantern Madeira had been carrying was lying on its side and dimming. Quickly, Ambrosia crawled over, tilted it back upright, and blew on it until its flame returned and its light grew. When the light spread, she saw Madeira still lying where she had fallen. A brief moment of watching told Ambrosia that her friend was still breathing and was likely just taking her time recovering from the blow she had received. Crawling over, Ambrosia helped Madeira sit up. “Shit. I’m sorry I got us into this mess.” If they hadn’t been looking for Tessa, this never would have happened. “I should’ve seen he was shady.” She said it but didn’t believe it. In everything that she played over in her head, the man never gave her any sign that he had this intended. Whatever this was. Ambrosia was beginning to doubt that Lydia existed at all, but she knew she heard a voice. That being said, this was Alvadas, the City of Illusions. Perhaps he was just an elaborate storyteller and that was just his way of laying a trap. There was no telling why he had lured them here, but Ambrosia had a sickening feeling it was for their youth and their beauty. Ambrosia’s first concern was escape, but when she looked up and saw the door was closed, she was certain the man had locked them in and looked around for another route. That was when she saw the bodies. There were four women, and as she stared at them for several long moments, she knew that none of them were breathing. There were two blondes, a brunette, and one with black hair. Ambrosia’s heart stopped for a moment when she saw the last one. The woman’s hips were two wide for her to be Tessa, but logic couldn’t calm her, and Ambrosia knew she wouldn’t relax until she could see the woman’s face. For the first time since she had fallen, Ambrosia made it to her feet, only to kneel as soon as she had made it to the dark-haired woman’s side. As she rolled the body over, relief flooded her when she saw it wasn’t Tessa, and the next words escaped her lips without a thought. “Thank the Goddess.” Then, Ambrosia realized what she had said, and immediately, shame filled her. She had just given thanks, and even though it wasn’t for this woman’s death, it might as well have been. Another thought crossed her mind. This woman was someone’s daughter. She might’ve even been someone else’s sister. And with that thought, Ambrosia rested the girl’s head in her lap, brushed her dark hair off her cold face, and began to cry. Devoid of sunlight, the room was cold, but the air around them became suddenly frigid as Lydia’s voice seemed to come from several different places at once. “Don’t cry, dear. We had fun before she left.” Fear stopped the flow of Ambrosia’s tears right away. She recognized the chill that ghosts brought. Laying the woman’s head gently back on the ground, Ambrosia back slowly toward her friend. The spiritist. “Madeira, please tell me you brought your beads.” She was certain she wasn’t going to like Lydia.

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira came to awareness in bits and pieces. She found her lungs and remembered to breath. She found her eyes and blinked them open. She found the roughness of the stone floor beneath her cheek and hands. She catalogued all this slowly, grasping at these retreating sensations as if in a fog. Her head hurt. She couldn't remember if she had fallen on it, or if it was only the cane that had her reeling. For a moment she just concentrated on breathing.

The sputtering lamp she had dropped flourished under Ambrosia's gentle coaxing, and the yellowish light fought the darkness for space. From Madeira's vantage point on the floor she saw some old weary furniture and boxes of dusty old toys were pushed against the wall. The wide eyes of a cheery marionette hanging half out of its box  was waving to her in a chilly, unsourced breeze. Moth eaten old clothes were scattered throughout; pretty dresses, coats and shoes of the sort that must have been fashionable thirty years ago.

Suddenly Ambrosia was there, one hand behind her shoulders and one on her sternum as she helped the dazed Madeira sit upright. The barmaid was apologizing, the stress clear in her voice, saying she should have known he was shady.

"S'not yer fault." Madeira slurred, trying to sound firm. "Yuh can’tve known, 'cause he think he doing right 'sing." Not even someone as perceptive as Ambrosia was going to spot a liar if the liar thought they were telling the truth. And even if Ambrosia had been blinded by empathy and concern, Madeira didn't have the same excuse. So how had she not noticed that never once in their conversation did the old man say Lydia survived the accident?

"Bleednn" she slurred again, shocked, as she forced her unruly pupils to focus and took in Ambrosia's condition for the first time. Half the barmaids head was drenched in blood, matting her blonde hair with an alarming shade of red. Some dim memory of scrapped foreheads and bruised crowns was telling her head wounds bleed hard and fast. The wound might not be as bad as it looked, but then again, it might be. And neither herself nor she suspected Ambrosia were equipped to deal with something like that.

But Ambrosia didn't hear her. The barmaid struggled to her feet and kneeled by four sprawled shapes on the floor. It took Madeira a moment of squinting into the dim light to realize the shapes were bodies. These were women the women they were looking for, but it seemed none of them were Tessa.

Ambrosia's relief and shame played across her face, twisting her cheerful smile and bowing her shoulders. She began to cry, tears dripping onto the corpse of a dark-haired woman as she stroked its hair.

Madeira's eyes didn't dwell, but immediately started looking in the shadowy corners, her mind occupying that comfortably numb space of a professional. Something killed those women and it was still there. They had to get as far away as possible or they would be next.

There was a door, certainly locked, atop a flight of stone stairs. The floor and walls were some sort of bedrock stone, worn smooth with time, and the wooden roof above them was presumably the first floor of the house. The basement was, or used to be, storage, considering how much junk was piled against the walls. There was no smell besides dust and moths. Assuming these weren't the first women murdered, did that mean someone would come for the bodies?

Did that make the old man the killer she had been hunting for?

“Don’t cry, dear. We had fun before she left.”

The voice rang with the double timbre that creeped from the corners of the room on the shoulders of a sudden biting cold. Madeira’s mind was working so slow that it took Ambrosia’s question about her beads for the professional Spiritist to remember she had them. She took her pack off her back and had plunged her hand inside. She sucked in a breath as she sliced her hand on a glass soulmist jar that shattered in the fall, but emerged with a circle of jade soulbeads in her hand that dripped with soulmist and blood.

Yet before she could throw them over Ambrosia or herself, the beads were ripped out of her slick hand. Madeira's heart sank as she heard them clatter on the other side of the room.

"How rude!" the voice accused with a sound like a twisted harp, and Lydia appeared. The ghost was tall and even standing still looked graceful. Gentle waves of brown hair fell down her back, framing a heart shaped face and freckled cheeks. She wore a floaty dancing skirt and legless bodysuit, like you would see on a ballerina during practise. Yet she was gruesome to behold. Her crushed fingers all pointed in different directions, and the bones of her broken legs had exploded out of the skin in jagged shards that still clung to greasy bits of flesh. Her chest had a concave, deflated look about it, and her neck stuck forward at a strange angle.

Madeira's eyes flicked to the dead girls, and her tongue worked nervously over her mouth before she could speak. She had stood to fast, and was starting to feel faint.

“Aye'n terribly sorry. Thass not how a guest should behave. My name’s Madeira, and tis’ is my friend Ambrosia. Your father brough’ us to ‘alk to you."

Lydia was drifting closer, eyeing both women from head to toe like she was shopping for the best cut of meat at the butchers. Her form flickered in the light of the lantern, and her voice and mouth didn’t seem to be working in sync.

"Papa tries his best, but he never gets it right. You don't look well, Madeira, are you sick?"

What was the correct answer to this? Madeira's eyes flicked to Ambrosia for help, but there was nothing her parter could say in front of the spirit. Maybe if she lied and said she was sick, though her skinniness and tired eyes were just a fact of her biology, the ghost would be inclined to pity?

"Yes, I'mm been sick for ah while", she ventured, her mind turning through the fog, trying to calculate just how fast she could get to her crossbow and aim it before Lydia ripped her arm off. The ghost wrinkled its nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." she offered, less than two meters from the women she had killed. "But you're beautiful, aren't you?" she turned to Ambrosia, and regarded her like a dress you might admire in a shop window. "I miss being beautiful. I bet you're tough, too. They were a lot of fun", she sighed, motioning sadly to the corpses. "But they weren't tough. All that screaming and crying... And they left too quick. Please try to stay as long as you can, ok?"

And with no warning but a sudden intake of breath from the Spiritist, the ghost slammed into Ambrosia and wound it's possession through her body.

[Ambrosia Alar]

When Madeira’s beads flew across the room to clack noisily to a halt behind some old wooden crates filled with children’s toys, Ambrosia felt her stomach sink and anxiety build so quickly that it brought the urge to vomit. She stifled the feeling but couldn’t keep her optimism from dying completely. They were petched. She herself knew next to nothing about fighting ghosts, and what she knew was just that, knowledge. She had no idea how to practically apply any of what she knew. And as for Madeira, the spiritist was close to useless at the moment. The blow to her head had scrambled her brain a bit. Ambrosia had heard it in Madeira’s speech. Her words were slurred, and she wasn’t thinking on her feet with the lightning quickness most spiritists exhibited. “How rude!” Lydia materialized before them, and Ambrosia felt her heart sink even more, if that was at all possible. The fall her father had spoken of had not been kind, though there may have been some small mercy in it all. With the ghastly way Lydia’s bones stuck from her body and how her chest was caved in, Ambrosia was close to certain Lydia had died instantly. Not that that would make her any more merciful to Madeira and Ambrosia. It had obviously not helped the four previous young women. Madeira was doing her best to appease the ghost, but her slurred words didn’t seem to be working. For the most part, Lydia seemed to ignore what Madeira said and just focused on how she said it. There was something in the way her eyes played over Madeira, then jumped to Ambrosia, and back and forth that made Ambrosia uncomfortable. Cold and proud and beautiful, Lydia’s eyes evaluated the two women before her. There was something in those eyes, something Ambrosia could only describe as hunger. Ambrosia knew ghosts didn’t eat the living, but the thought disturbed her just the same. She shivered. Lydia’s mouth opened, her lips moving as if speaking, but nothing came out, at least not for a couple ticks. Then the words came, not matching what her lips were doing. “Papa does his best, but he never gets it right.” Disappointment laced her words, and Ambrosia didn’t like the way the ghost spoke of Madeira and herself as if they were objects to be found. The next bit almost threw Ambrosia for a loop, but she heard the same appraising tone that had laid unhidden in Lydia’s eyes. “Madeira, are you sick?” Ambrosia left Madeira to respond, casting her gaze around the room for something useful in the lantern’s light, something she could use to fend off Lydia. Something about this place felt off. It didn’t take much to remind her there were four dead bodies in the room. That in itself was enough to give the room a bad feeling, but there was something more to it, something Ambrosia couldn’t put her finger on. Her eyes finally came to rest on a box full of dresses. Some of them she recognized as being similar to ones her mother had had stored away, things she had worn before even Bethany was born, things she had abandoned long ago because they had fallen out of fashion. Her head was still working on that when Lydia turned her way. “But you’re beautiful, aren’t you? I miss being beautiful.” Every time Lydia looked at her, Ambrosia could help but feel like she was being regarded as nothing more than an object, some article of clothing to be put on like a pretty summer dress. The dresses. Her mind kept coming back to them. Why did they seem so off? Ambrosia’s mother Alessa had worn those same dresses, and she was a gorgeous and fashionable woman, one who even at her current age could put her daughters to shame. So what was off about the dresses? “I bet you’re tough, too.” Damn right, I am, Ambrosia thought to herself. She had the scars on her back, shoulders, and upper arms to prove it. “They were a lot of fun. But they weren’t tough,” Lydia went on. Ambrosia didn’t like where this was headed. Then, something fell into place, and her mind made the connection it had been missing before. Those were dresses her mother used to wear, ones she had abandoned due to them falling out of style. Lydia, with all her grace and elegance, was bound to be fashionable as well. That meant she would have worn those the same time Ambrosia’s mother had. Thirty years ago. Lydia had been dead longer than either young woman had been alive. Even with Madeira’s rigorous training, the young spiritist was bound to be no match for such an experienced and long-lived ghost, and with the blow to her head, Madeira was not acting as sharp as she usually was. They were seriously petched. “Please try to stay as long as you can, ok?” Lydia didn’t wait for a response. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a warning. It was simply a demand, and before Ambrosia could react, Lydia cannoned into her body. To say Lydia struck Ambrosia wasn’t correct. As soon as Lydia’s spirit made contact with Ambrosia’s body, the ghost sank into her, filling every part of her, starting from the deepest places and surging outward. As the invasion found its way, the foreign soul coiling itself around every part of her body, Ambrosia became aware of parts of herself she had never known existed. The feeling was exhilarating, but the lack of control was terrifying. Wherever Lydia entered, Ambrosia’s soul was shoved aside. The takeover was hostile, nothing like the first time she had been possessed. In a desperate attempt to take back her body, Ambrosia tried to shove back, but it was as if she had met a wall. Though Ambrosia still belonged in her body, it was as if she was the guest. There was no competition for who was in charge. Lydia pushed Ambrosia aside like an annoying, unwanted younger sibling. With as futile as the attempt was, Ambrosia stopped trying right away. She’d conserve her strength, bide her time. Ambrosia’s own voice came to her ears, but she wasn’t the one speaking. “It’s adorable the way they always try to push me out.” Lydia held up Ambrosia’s arm at length and examined it. “You fit better than I thought you would.” The ghost stopped when their shared eyes fell on the scars that peaked out from beneath her sleeves, the ones that covered her upper back and shoulders, the ones from the fire at the Womiyu not forty days prior, the ones from the wounds that had barely finished healing. “Dear, what have you done to us? Not as pretty as I thought, but that’s okay. It can be covered up.” Ambrosia couldn’t be sure if it was her own thoughts begging Madeira to do something that drew Lydia’s attention to the spiritist or if it was something Madeira herself did, but Lydia suddenly decided she didn’t like Madeira sitting so close to her bag and cut the distance between them with steps more graceful and elegant than any Ambrosia had ever taken in her life. The ghost knelt before Ambrosia’s friend, and Ambrosia felt a smile, her best smile, slip on to her lips. Her hope fell even more. Lydia was mocking them both, using Ambrosia’s most treasured gift as her own and giving Madeira hope that Ambrosia might still have some control. “Sorry, love. I shouldn’t have ignored you.” It was haunting how quickly Lydia was learning Ambrosia’s little quirks. For the Goddess’ sake, the ghost was using Ambrosia’s pet name for everyone already. Lydia’s eyes darted to the bag before she swiped it up quickly and stepped well out of Madeira’s reach. There, Lydia opened the bag and began to rifle through its contents. “What did you bring me?” Something cold and hard was the first thing Ambrosia’s hands fell on, and she drew a small crossbow out of the pack. “Were you planning on using this on me, Madeira?” Closing one eye and staring down the length of the weapon, Lydia leveled it at the spiritist, then laughed. “You can’t kill me. I ain’t alive.” Lydia made a face as if she had just bit into spoiled fruit. “‘Ain’t’?’ Do you really use that word, Ambrosia love? Do try to show a little more class.” With that, the ghost swung Ambrosia’s arm, throwing the weapon far to one side of the room. When Lydia pulled the bolts from the bag, she considered them for a moment, then threw them to the opposite side of the room from the crossbow. Greedily, Lydia opened the bag wider, and the next thing their eyes fell on was the unmistakable glow of soulmist. If it hadn’t been obvious enough before, Ambrosia knew it now. They were petched. Ambrosia’s hands cupped together a scooped up some of the mist. “What is this?” But deep down, the spirit already knew the answer and held their hands to their face, and Ambrosia felt the unnatural coolness of the mist as it passed over her lips. Almost as soon as the mist hit her throat, Ambrosia could feel Lydia’s strength surge, and the ghost’s grip on her body tightened. Walking back to Madeira’s side, Lydia laid her hand across Madeira’s throat. “What in the Hai are you?” She squeezed, and Ambrosia could feel the warmth of Madeira’s skin against her palm, the pulse of Madeira’s blood beneath her fingers as they crushed down. You’re hurting her. Ambrosia screamed it in her head in an attempt to communicate with the spirit in control of her body. Rage filled Ambrosia’s soul. She refused to let her body be used to hurt her friend. Pouring the entirety of her will into that single hand, Ambrosia forced it open. Or at least she tried. The most progress she made was a twitch of her fingers, but Lydia seemed to understand. Releasing her grip, the ghost tipped Madeira’s chin up with a single, gentle finger. “What are you, love?”

[Madeira Dusk]

Madeira watched with growing nausea as Lydia wore Ambrosia like a pretty dress. The Spiritist was forced to stand mute and still as the ghost snatched away her bag and disarmed her bow, flinging the weapon and it's souldarts to opposite sides of the cavernous room. Lydia was starting to speak with Ambrosia's rougher inflection, and had even mastered the words she used. What was this? Why would she put in the effort to mimic the barmaid? Unless she was practicing. Unless she was planning to fool those who knew Ambrosia. The thought turned her cold.

Then the ghost found the soulmist from the broken jar in the bottom of the bag. She cupped it in her hands and brought it to her lips, forcing Ambrosia to swallow it. Madeira couldn't see any change in the spirit, just the wide eyed expression of a profound discovery. But she could imagine the effect the soulmist of a trained professional would have on an already powerful ghost.

Lydia approached her again, but something was different about the way she was eyeing her now. It wasn't predatory, it was confused, almost cautious. Gently Lydia laid her hand along her throat.

"What the Hai are you?" she growled, and choked her with her friend’s hand. Madeira sputtered in her grip, wrapping her own fingers around her narrow wrist. She didn't put up much of a fight at irst, as she realized the significance of those words.

She doesn't know.

The thought burned through her. Lydia didn't know! She didn’t know what a Spiritist was! Her ignorance was the first and only advantage they had over her. Madeira just had to figure out how to exploit it.

Madeira fought to pull in breath, and the fog around her mind seemed to darken. Around the thundering of her heart she was aware of a fluttering backward pull in the muscles of the fingertips. The hand loosened and Madeira pulled in a grateful breath.

Ambrosia, is that you?

"What are you, love?" Lydia asked again, tainting Ambrosia's pet name. Madeira's entire being was screaming lie to her! But her addled brain struggled to focus around the lack of oxygen and the rattling fall. She beat back the fog, trying to clear her mind with force of will. At once a roaring migraine bloomed behind her eyes.

She was taking too long to answer, and simply blinking dazedly as she stared into Ambrosia's warm brown eyes. Lydia drew her arm back and slapped her hard across the mouth. A line of spit hit the dusty stone floor as her head snapped to one side. And she saw again that sad little marionette, a toy from Lydia's past perhaps, hanging out of his box. One of his eyes were closed in a cheeky wink, and suddenly Madeira knew what she would do.

"A pu-puppet!” she stuttered, harnessing the pain to cut through the fog. “I'm a puppet. Please don't hurt me." she cringed, cupping her cheek and trying to look small and unthreatening.

Whatever the ghost was expecting, it wasn't that. Lydia paused for half a tick before her gentle smile twisted into something halfway between amused and  incredulous.

"A what, now? I think that illness has addled your brain, love."

"That's just what they call me."

"They?"

"The people that made me."

Silence. The ghost’s first instinct was disbelief, but the story was too big to be a credible lie, and it was confusing her. Madeira imagined Lydia turning inward, searching Ambrosia's soul for answers. She silently begged her friend to fight back, and tried to divert the ghost's attention.

"I was born human, but I don't have a soul. They removed it to make room for someone else’s. A ghosts.”

"You're a liar!" Lydia sounded angry now, almost irrationally so, as her voice reached new pitches Madeira had never heard from Ambrosia’s mouth. Madeira could sense the uncertainty behind the force and and pressed forward.

"That's what you found in the bag, it's the residue of my soul. They had to leave something behind to keep the meat fresh. I cough it up sometimes.”

Winding her hand back again Lydia slapped her for the second time across the mouth, and a spot of blood hit the ground. Madeira's head was spinning, but she fought through the vertigo and struggled to remain upright. The fact that Lydia was reacting to the story with nothing but accusations and violence must be a good sign. She wasn’t seeking to disprove her, and ghosts were rarely ever bastions of reason. If she could just press forward to the heart of Lydia’s need they just might have her.

"I was made", she gasped, "I was made for the Inverted. For a woman killed during an act. It was the only way to preserve her talent. They thought there must be something better than a Nuit, and they were right. A permanent body, a perfect vessel. A new immortality."

"Stop lying!" this blow came to the opposite cheek. A rush of blood pricked its way through the flesh as new bruises formed.

"Her name is lady Renee Kelling." Madeira grappled for the name of the one ghost in the family Manor that once danced for the Inverted, and was rewarded with a sparkle of recognition in Lydia's eyes. “Ambrosia was going to deliver me to her tonight. I need a ghost. This body grows sick without a soul. You can have it, if you want. I don't care who wears it."

Was that greed in her eyes? Madeira felt the tides turning. This woman was hunting for a strong body to steal as she tore these women apart, that’s why she was working to mimic Ambrosia. And here came an empty vessel that had no pesky life to steal at all. How could she resist something so perfect? But the perfection was exactly what was giving her pause. A wave of uncertainty washed over Ambrosia's face, stronger than before. She wanted it to be real.

"There is nothing in here that will fight back." Madeira pressed the advantage. She desperately ripped her dijed forward again, letting it rise from the bed of her mouth and lacing it through her words. Her headache gave a hard spike, but she held on to the power in her tongue. They weren’t in Barsala’s comfortable cabin anymore. This had to work. "No memories but your own.” she pressed, her stressed voice turning soft at the edges, pushing a flash of longing with the power of her hypnotism. “You'll be strong, with time. You can dance. You'll be alive again. I'm just a puppet, I mean nothing."

Suddenly Ambrosia's trademark charismatic smile pulled at the corners of her lips. Yet Madeira watched it slowly pervert into something twisted and cruel, and the soul she was trying to disprove shuddered in it’s shell.

"Prove it", the ghost hissed.

"Ok. Ok. I can cough up that soul residue again. Just give me the bag and I can-"

"Not you", she laughed her tinkling laugh. "You."

Ambrosia's face went slack as Lydia relinquished control. She lurked in the body, unwilling to give up her preferred vessel, and waited to see what Ambrosia would say or do.

[Ambrosia Alar]

Hot and sharp followed by a burning, lingering tingle, Ambrosia felt the familiar pain across her fingers as Lydia lashed their hand across Madeira’s face. Ambrosia will herself to look away, but Lydia was fixated on the spiritist. The ghost’s curiosity about the Soulmist wouldn’t be undone by Ambrosia’s pitiful attempt to win back some control of her body, and once again, Ambrosia’s soul was shoved aside. Lydia raised their hand again. “A pu-puppet,” Madeira stammered out a lite as best she could, shrinking down and putting a hand to her face where four parallel red marks were already making themselves evident. “I’m a puppet. Please don’t hurt me.” Ambrosia was dumbfounded. She had thought spiritists were supposed to be excellent liars who could bullshit the best of them. This story, or at least its opening, just made Madeira sound crazy. Lydia thought the same. “A what? I think that illness has addled your brains, love.” “That’s just what they call me.” “They?” “The people that made me.” That was interesting. Ambrosia could tell Madeira was telling this story almost as quickly as she was making it up. Whatever this story was, it was going to have to be good to keep Lydia’s attention and direct her however Madeira wanted her to go. Lydia had no response to that, and the silence that followed was dangerous. Since Madeira was adding no more to the story, Ambrosia could feel Lydia sinking inwards, searching Ambrosia’s thoughts for any memory of this. With all the energy she could muster, Ambrosia flooded her mind with thoughts of her family. Anything to keep from Lydia the truth of what Madeira was. That, and if Lydia found out what Ambrosia did know about what Madeira was saying the ghost would realize her host was as confused as she was. Madeira had better keep going if she wanted her story to hold. As if she was aware of Ambrosia’s hidden urgings, Madeira went on, and the words that spilled from her mouth were storytelling on a level Ambrosia had never seen. Bit by unbelievable bit, the lies slipped off Madeira’s tongue until, in the end, she had a coherent story that was too insane to not be true. Lydia was heated, striking Madeira several more times before the spiritist dropped a name Ambrosia had never heard. At that name, the energy and demeanor of the spirit inhabiting Ambrosia changed. There was recognition. And jealousy. Madeira’s ploy was actually going to work. Madeira kept on pressing, adding more and more details to build the story and made the offer even more tempting. “I’m just a puppet. I mean nothing,” she finished. Ambrosia’s lips smiled. “Prove it.” Madeira began to come up with a reason to get close to her pack, but Lydia laughed at her. “Not you. You.” Ambrosia’s body suddenly went slack as Lydia gave her control. She hadn’t been expecting it and wasn’t ready to take over. Like a sack of potatoes, Ambrosia hit the ground none-too-elegantly. As she tried to get her muscles to work, inwardly she was panicking. Puppets? What the Hai was she supposed to do with that? Ambrosia wasn’t a decent liar, but whenever she was lying, it had never been a matter of life. Furthermore, the stories she had told had always just been gentle manipulations of the truth, either an exaggeration of a detail here or the omission of another there. To fabricate a completely new story about something she knew nothing about? That was another matter completely. But as her groggy soul tried to fit back into her body and nothing responded as it should, Ambrosia realized that Lydia, too, knew nothing about what Madeira was saying. Probably Madeira as well. Ambrosia could say anything, because anything could be true when it was all a lie. It just had to be consistent from beginning to end and consistent with everything Madeira had already said. Opening her mouth to begin her own half of the lie, Ambrosia choked on her first word. Her tongue was some lifeless, foreign thing taking up space in her mouth, thick and unruly and numb. Don’t worry, Ambrosia, love. You’ll get used to that part. It gets easier to deal with over time. If you’re strong. Just take what time you need to get your body working again. I have all the time in the world. Ambrosia shivered involuntarily as Lydia’s real voice swept through her mind. What made the ghost’s host the most uncomfortable was the thought that they might be able to share thoughts. If that was the case, thinking too loudly that this was all a ploy might let Lydia in on the secret, so Ambrosia redoubled her efforts in standing. Eventually, her legs listened and raised her unsteadily back to her feet. A lie was on Ambrosia’s lips, and she was ready to speak it when another voice cut through her mind. Your soul tastes salty. Lydia flooded back into control immediately, taking over control of every muscle in Ambrosia’s body. Angrily, Lydia spat an accusation at Ambrosia with her own voice. “What was that? Who else are you hiding in here?” Give me my voice back, and I’ll answer you. Ambrosia wanted Madeira in the loop, so she could continue the lie when it was her turn to take back over. With the same haze that came from waking after sleeping too long, Ambrosia felt her tongue, face, throat, and breath come back under her control, but Lydia kept a hold of everything else. The spirit wasn’t about to lose what advantage she had, especially now that she was convinced there was another ghost inhabiting Ambrosia. You’d better have something good to say. Lydia’s voice was dripping venom, and Ambrosia knew if she messed this up then the living would pay the consequences. For another few moments, she tripped over her tongue before she could speak actual words. “That was Jomi, a ghost, but don’t worry. He’s not actually here.” This was the best she could come up with at the moment. The truth. “That’s just a memory that he was in.” Then why was it so vivid? The rest of your memories are hazy, shadows. Don’t lie to me, Ambrosia. Ambrosia did exactly that. “It’s so much sharper than all the other memories, because it ain’t just my memory. It’s partly Madeira’s as well.” Running her tongue over her teeth as if she was still trying to figure out how to get it to work again, Ambrosia bought herself a little time to think. If this lie was going to work, it had to be perfect. “Ripping out someone’s soul ain’t an easy thing to do. In fact, it ain’t so much ripping as it is coaxing. The soul is in its memories. Without the memories, the soul doesn’t exist. It’d be easy to pull out all her memories, just destroy her mind, but it ain’t easy to do that and leave a living body behind. “So instead of doing it all at once, they pulled out her memories a handful at a time. They wanted a place to store them, just in case the body started failing. That way they could put them back in. That’s where I came in. Storing the memories works better if the memory is already being held by the person it’s being given to. That’s why they chose me. Because I was around Madeira plenty, so plenty of our memories are shared.” That was a huge lie. Ambrosia had only ever met Madeira once before today. If the hallucinated voices weren’t kind, then the lie would be revealed for what it was. “This particular memory was the day I learned Madeira would make a good candidate for the puppet. She was quite receptive to possession.” Ambrosia hoped that was enough for Madeira to realize the memory she was talking about. Letting the memory of the day flood her mind, Ambrosia did her best to hide all the details of what she knew it to be and just let it play out as one would have observed it without any context. She hid the earlier details of the night, particularly Madeira’s summoning of the ghosts. Interesting. Lydia played the scene of Jomi possessing Madeira over several times in their head. She does seem to take to it well. As Lydia continued to observe the memory, she gave Ambrosia back control of her body. With a stumble that was real, Ambrosia moved herself away from Madeira and the backpack, hoping to give her friend enough time to get to it if the need arose. Eventually, she made it to one side of the room and leaned against the wall to take the strain off her weary body. Madeira was back in their sight again. Jomi’s voice cut through their thoughts again. Way to go, Titless. Lydia took control again, laughing and smirking as she sized Madeira up. “Titless. Your Jomi does have a point. She does leave a bit to be desired.” Lydia looked down at Ambrosia’s body, sizing her up again. “Say, Ambrosia, you were pretty easy to possess. If you and Madeira here shared memories, I bet we could take them all out of you and put them back in to her. A puppet’s a puppet, but if I had my choice…” Lydia’s voice trailed off, and Ambrosia felt her heart sink. The ghost wasn’t going to make this easy on them. “So how does one go about ripping out memories?” Lydia asked, tipping Ambrosia forward on to her tiptoes and holding her balance there for a moment before eventually Ambrosia’s untrained muscles forced her to release. She smiled Ambrosia’s smile. “We can train endurance into your body, but there’s a natural tendency here, love. You should’ve used it more.” Ambrosia begged Madeira to do something, anything, because Ambrosia had no clue how to rip out someone’s memories and didn’t want to find out if it was possible.