Restoration of Power

“S'pose their ain’t shame in believin’ in th’ created condition of justice when people still believe in th’ fae that take your teeth. Hell, thieves n’ lawmen both will bend knee to a buncha scales like they still believe in’ God.”

He tears up the floor with a bit more precision. Anger turning into thinking, thoughtfulness in the act of ripping up some floorboards. Saburov chops around the pipes and kicks up old clay and ancient rat bones. The foundation of the place was the only part where expense wasn’t spared. All the dead things were lying on top of the sturdy cement.

Jester’s tail twitched at the sight of the rats. They hadn’t had much trouble with vermin since moving her and Notkin in.

“Thing that connects all of those worries is a perception that you ain’t gonna die. Nothin’ will happen tomorrow n’ I’ve got all the time in th’ world. Anybody that believes it ain’t got worries for what’s real outside their doors.”

The stove cracks when Saburov tears chunks of flooring out and feeds the flame. It does a bit for warming the room, and then the cold presses down again like a spot of pure pressure.

“People are gonna be angry at whoever the hell they want, Old Bite. People gonna tell each other Pest wasn’t even real cause’ they ain’t got food. People gonna say it wasn’t even that deadly, cause’ they never looked outside or they want an excuse for why it hurts. Just keep feedin’ em’ until they find somethin’ else to bitch about as long as they keep being tailors and leatherworkers. Someone else with a hell of a lot more patience for that shit’ll, or a job for it, will come along and tell’ em’ they’re fuckin’ loons.”

Saburov stalks over his handiwork to sink his hands on Jester and scratch behind her ears. She doesn’t move. It’s because he’s slurring and mean.

“Eh? He’s fine n’ with friends. Go ask him yourself if you wanna see how fine he is.”

The rumbling purrs do soothe and cure the draining morale.

And again, Grief had a point. It didn’t matter what people believed, so long as they provided what they needed to. So long as the leatherworkers worked leather, so long as the tailors sewed, so long as the butchers kept butchering... maybe there was a chance.

Grief was also apathetic. Not that he could blame the man. He shouldered the burden of derision and distrust from a young age. The apathy was moulded into him as a necessity of survival.

It’s the same he’d seen with others that had survived combat alongside him. You can’t care about your enemies in wartime. It’s counterproductive. You can’t show compassion to those who would rather have you dead.

Leave that to the medics.

The only thing a soldier can do, is follow orders. Kill quickly and follow the Laws of combat, and pray to whatever deity that you take down a hundred more before you fall. Conscience... is not for soldiers. Not suited for those that must kill to survive.

No, the burden of conscience fell to the generals and the politicians. It was his burden now... and the uncertainty was agitating. He didn’t even know if he had something that could be called ‘conscience’. There was Law, and the Law exists to maintain order.

Justice first. It wasn’t up to him to decide what ‘goodness’ could do.

Katerina had been a crutch for him. Designate when he should be merciful, and when he should not.

Perhaps it was time to let that go. The town didn’t need kindness right now. They needed order. Water, food, shelter, heat... Conscience is for those who survived.

We aren’t quite there yet, he thinks, but the children...

Stepping away from his break, and leaving Jester to her considerably gaudy and danger-prone throne, Saburov grabs the hammer in hand.

“Perhaps I will, if he doesn’t run from my approach. Or I’ll ask Snout and Scout to relay a message. They’re quite the couriers. Sharp enough to know a lot. Keen enough to be sure they aren’t cheated, too.”

He muses, returning to the work at hand, “... I don’t have high hopes for the adults. Adults often don’t change their minds unless a confrontation with Death forces their hands. Children? They’re used to change. Especially these ones.”

“In any case,” he continues, dropping the sledge down on the wood, following the careful patterns set along the pipes, “Notkin hasn’t run from you, yet- so you’re doing something right- or at the very least, aren’t half-bad at what you’re doing.”

Saburov turns the ground into his personal mortar and pestle to grind away his frustrations until they were splinters and powder. The rhythmic thud and crash of the hammer mixes with the swearing and him petting Jester and shrugging towards Andrey whose pinpricks of pupils were trained on the organic flow of Saburov’s anger before he’s slithering out of the room to finish his personal project.

Grief scratches behind Jester’s ears with his career shortened nails.

“Ain’t gonna convince em’,” he says, sharp and after the steam rolls off the old machine, “You can find new evidence with cursed blood for th’ books, n’ that’s all you can expect.”

Capella vanishing without a trace… he doesn’t know. He has no idea either, but he’d made a resolution to personally check on her more than she did him. It was only fair after sawing her supports off so brutally.

“Saburov. They got no sense of who they are. None of em’. Hell, it’s so bad we got folk tossin’ their names to the wind. Th’ tots got it right. Takin’ their own names, takin’ their identities… N’ then you see what you get? Bunch of corpses lickin’ corpses. You can tell’ em’ th’ sky’s blue but they built their soul on th’ fact that it’s red. They ain’t gonna listen to facts, so don’t expect it. Fact that they’re all turnin’ to shells n’ monsters for murder? Well, you could spend th’ effort to make em’ look back at the sky I suppose.”

He shakes his head.

“I ain’t patient like that in these times with no reward but th’ goodness of th’ heart. We ain’t got food enough to be completely honorable people. N’ evidence ain’t the way to coax eyes open. Gotta find somebody who has th’ patience like that.”

For Saburov’s sake, and his late wife’s, Grief answers diplomatically. It’s a hell of a lot easier to say “for a change to happen, people should die”. It’s not the time for that kind of joke though with a governor trying to cling to his moral fiber, and slipping.

“Take it to the good Doc though, or Rubin if you’re lookin’. Rubin’s got his fancy with blood. He’s th’ one that did Adelya’s autopsy after all.”

Saburov listens to Grief. He’s right. About the nature of the town and the people that live in it.

Winning a war against the very nature of humanity is a fruitless endeavor. There will always be those that are apathetic. Always those who are unwilling to change their views. Unwilling to face the future, or do anything to help their fellow man. Those that cling to the terrible conditions of the world they live in because change is more frightening than any abuse they endure.

He knows this- and yet, he still has it in him to be angry about it. That should mean something, but... right now, it doesn’t. He’s just mad.

“You’re right,” he cedes, “But I can still be mad about it. I can also still hope that there are those that will change their minds and listen to evidence as it unfolds. Hell, I think I have to hope for it. Or else certain things become... meaningless.”

Standing upright again, he measures the depth of the floor and the remainder of the work. A few pipes become apparent that he’ll have to skirt around and be careful of, or else there’d be another essential need fixing.

It may need fixing anyway- be he wasn’t going to be the cause of it, at the very least.

“I won’t expect it. I won’t put too much faith in it, but neither can faith be absent. It’s a balancing act. I could try to be content in my own knowledge- but I can’t. I know too much to be content with anything. And people can’t live on promises alone. Especially when those promises have a body count behind their execution.”

It’s why he left the Utopians behind. No sacrifice was too great for perfection. Imperfect humans had no place in whatever dream land they could conjure.

Tearing up the floor with the backswings, he’s a little more cautious around the exposed pipes. Saburov’s focus returns to the outbreak as a case in point.

“So much time was wasted during the most critical hours of the outbreak. If not for the deliberation on whether or not this case of the Sand Pest was real-” thud- “or whether or not it was really as deadly as the first outbreak-” -thunk- “- then maybe there wouldn’t be so many dead.”

“Even barring that Simon wanted us sacrificed and started the outbreak intentionally- even barring that the other rulers did little to help and actively sabotaged the efforts- barring the selfish nature of humanity, we still managed to do a hundred times better than if nothing was done at all...”

“... But I am still angry. I probably won’t stop being angry about it for a long time, if ever. I won’t blame those that are also angry. Or even angry at me. Someone has to be the subject of anger, and I’d rather it be me than someone that had nothing to do with it.”

He kicks away a few more scraps and takes some of the actually dry pieces to stoke the woodstove, hoping it’d do something decent for the dreadful cold.

Grunting as a splinter gets in his thumb, he contemplates the suggestion that Rubin may be better at examining the blood now.

Saburov nods as he starts to chew the wood out from the side of his finger, “Mph. Rubin? I’ll be sure to ask him, then. It’s been a few years, he may have found better techniques to apply. Thanks for the suggestion.”

Spitting out the dead wood and dead skin, he looks back to the rumbling noise of Notkin’s cat. It’s not exactly smart to stand within five feet of Grief, considering his sticky fingers, but the cat’s purrs are calming and reassuring.

He stands next to the thief and reaches behind the silver cat’s ears to scratch.

“You’re a little fighter too, aren’t you?” He asks quietly with a dull amount of amusement.

So Old Bite’s seizing too?

“Eh. I’ll twitch a little and bitch a little. Nothin’ excitin’.”

Andrey drifts in the background like a theatrical ghost, taking a break pose on the other side of the wall. Saburov continues rotten bone crunching and thumping the mallet down to splinter everything between comments that take the charm out of his eyes and make them go cold and steely. He jokes about his mother’s death sometimes. He’s got no other language for a simultaneous feeling of relief and frustration. The look gets slung around too, spooking off the remainders of the thieves in the hall and leaving himself and Saburov left. Andrey could stay, even though he had nothing to do with it. 

“Olgimska killed her cause’ she nudged fingers into my head to ask me how my mother was doin’ th’ very night. I’d put her blameless but… The hens in the paddock start peckin’ when one of their own kind gets their neck chopped.”

He shakes his foggy head.

“F’ somethin’ like her leaves echoes in blood, than sure, take it n’ prove me right about the bitch on public record. Fine bit of justice that’d be.”

He was slowly taking those bits back, too. 

“Want a perfect crime? Do it with Olgimsky style. You know th’ old adage. Fat Vlad liked his bits bloody and his bitch bloodier.”

He grumbles frustrations that turn to empty sighs out the nose. Jester meow-growls at him and he returns focus to petting her with sluggish enthusiasm.

“You ain’t missed nothin’. Wasn’t a message meant for you.”

“May not have been meant for me- but it’s still my responsibility to mete justice for all. Not just those I have a personal investment in.”

The den’s cleared out quick. A change in tone, a shift in posture, and cold-eyed glances told the thieves to mind their eyes and clog their ears. He seems... almost heavier. Wrought of cold iron, and the weight of which slams into whatever he trains his gaze on.

When he’s like this, it’s the business of death-dealing. Reminding all those that underestimated him that he’d rather snap your neck than talk, so if you talk, make it worth the time, because your time is running out.

No, it wasn’t directed at the Governor though. Beyond that. Looking through the strands of time on the scale of a few years. 

Leaning forward on the butt of the hammer, he exhales in tired frustration, “I believe you. I know what they were capable of- and now, what they are capable of.”

“... But I need to find evidence. If it can be done, it means... well, it means that no one could get away with it ever again.”

He lifts the tool up again and gets back to work, hammering the floor and his thoughts out to make sense of his own ideas.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Inquisitors. I’ve been thinking about... the children. The future.”

Crack!

“I don’t think we should have Mistresses. Not ever again. Especially after what we saw in the Hell-hole?”

He shakes his head as he lifts up the planks and nails, “There needn’t be any more of those kinds of people. To hell with the Mistresses.”

The frustration edges back into his work, quickening the pace until sweat beads on his brow in spite of the cold.

“Oh, but fuck me, the damn town’s going to have a field day with me trying to dismantle their heretic, rapturous adoration for Nina and Victoria!” -crunch- “No love for Katerina!” -crack- “ No love for the woman who was unlike them- and could never be them!”- thud-  “Oh, proof of their wrongdoings... that would make things so much easier.”

He sets the hammer aside and braces himself on his knees to catch his breath. It’s still easy for Saburov to get winded only a week with recovery.

“I confess, I’m still bothered about what happened to Maria, to Capella- I’m damn glad Clara’s not here. I don’t... think I could manage my sanity if something else happened, though... I’ll admit, initially I thought it’d be the Caravan endangering her...”

Saburov the old soldier has stories, and Grief settles with a hand under his chin, perched on his knee, to listen to them. Stories are something Grief can’t help but respect. There are finer details in true stories that when listened to come alive by firelight or stovelight. Stovelight and lit chandelier are what they had.

“Humility n’ pride are two of the same sides. Without pride, I ain’t tellin’ the truth. Countin’ in the number, alright- but you knew that, ain’t ya? Why, I’m the fen in th’ fence! Got my sun colored card in the veins of Town Hall somewheres n’ tales of tail that’d blue your gills.”

Despite him rolling his words together, and somewhat slurring, the quieter mirth stays.

Saburov picks up the bloodstained wood and Grief feels a tug on those stomach worms of his that dispels the magic of silly words. His guts feel ice cold and Jester squishing her paws at his pant leg feels more urgent.

“What d'you need all that for? That’s all good for firewood, mate.”

And he does desperately need that. Saburov’s giving him those eyes again that want to dig for answers.

“The bulls in th’ windows, of course. Ain’t gonna start a conversation like that without finishin’,” he starts off, and when it doesn’t seem to satisfy, “Ah nothin’, it’s a sour night. Got the rickets like a flesh eater, I do. The powder chills. Make a babe in the wood shake so bad th’ pillory sounds like dancin’ bones.”

He raises his shaking hands to prove it. Jester puts her paws out and grabs one of them.

“Eh, make no mistake, I can bump a lock n’ filch a fortune still with chills.”

He’s just not feeling well. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. He rubs at Jester’s back before she takes his fingers for the audacity to leave her.

Powder rickets. Grand mal from the shmowder treatments.

It’s happened to him once or twice as well, admittedly. Slow waves of shivers and low or erratic moods before suddenly things go black- and awakening later on the floor in a puddle of foam and spit.

Ill-feelings all around. The lost time was the most concerning. Not knowing what one’s own self is doing rouses grave paranoias.

“I don’t know what to do about the tonic-clonic episodes,” he admits, raising the hammer once more, “The old practice of bloodletting... I don’t think is effective. We’ve all lost a lot of blood from the Pest- and I think the brain’s been eaten enough that trephination of the skull wouldn’t abate it either.”

Swinging down with a thud, he’s surprised the cat’s unbothered by such loud noises and strange activity in the space... though, could a cat raised in the Town actually react the same way as other cats?

The thought is amusing. Animal life in this small place having a fundamentally different ecosystem certainly added to its strangeness. The cat certainly is very loud and proud- rumbling more than purring- and he’s tempted to pet it... but he’s here to work, and he knows Grief would find some kind of inappropriate comment to say about the act.

Splinters fly up and he takes a smaller piece of wood- one actually dry- and adds it to the wood stove.

“It’d be good firewood, but it’s... still physical evidence.”

He  says it, quietly. Uncertain of what to share or keep to himself. Andrey stops swearing enough to listen in, and quietly hovers around Grief.

“I- hm. I’ve been unsatisfied with the investigation. Have been for a while. I... have a few cases I’ve been wanting to reopen. There’s just not been the people or the time. I’ve everything from that day sketched out- I don’t know if there could be anything left in the blood- but if there is... I think it’s worth looking into again.”

It’s practically an admission of failure.

The townsfolk- those that were never his supporters- always hated that investigations took so long. Hated that there were never any swift resolutions in the pursuit of justice. It’s... morbidly funny how often the complaints came, until those same people were accused of something themselves.

“Ain’t you a gentleman full o’ pity,” he chirrups, tossing Saburov’s coat atop the rest of his layers to keep some of the cold in. There’s two nice long pockets it would be a pinch to, well, pinch from. Saburov’s a simpler outer sort with complex innards. There’s crumpled reminders, a single bullet case, and pennies in his pockets. The coat’s warm and despite it, the warmth hardly creeps to the surface of his hide.

“None of that luxury we call comfort here. Nothin’ to fear. We ain’t got warmth we’ll just find n’ take it, Jaws.”

Saburov rolls his millions on millions of a rug up and Grief takes a penny for his own pleasure because the sight of ancient brains and blood in the wood rot gives him a feeling deep in his gut like it’s infested with worms. Roiling.

His mother was too young to have children, and from what he could parse between the neuroticism and brutality, she was plenty like him from all these angles she never showed him. She’d been good with machines, and exceptional with tools. She made tools, storage, and necessities for people and her craftsmanship had been spectacular.

It didn’t matter though. Too young. He ruined her life. There wasn’t an exaggeration there. That spray’s from a Trench Gun, a Winchester 1897 shotgun. He had no idea how she got it, what with his precise notes and careful inventory taking. Something like that doesn’t walk away without a price tag.

And yet…

He didn’t need to look in his books. He knew it came from him.

Grief had thrown the rug over the stains too keep them out of sight. Saburov has the decency to clear the space and find his footing, swinging down and smashing through the poorly aged wood. It’s enough that he does hear the distant “what the hells” upstairs, and he hears Andrey stop to come questioning about it.

It starts a rhythm of heavy demolition, and not finding comfortable seating on the stool, he instead takes a perch on his counter to watch. Eventually, the rest of his nest creep out too, some passing by without really questioning it, and some stopping to actually ask questions. Half of the questions are wondering when Grief put his fingers in those fancy pockets and why he’s wearing that coat like a mark. They’ll talk him in circles about it later, he’s sure.

Andrey whistles too. If he wasn’t occupied, moving and meandering about with hardly enough appropriate clothes on, he’d be fawning for a fight.

Jester hops up on his counter despite the cacophony, and she makes herself as round and weighed as she can in his lap, purring like a motor. She’s trying to help how foul he feels. It’s only going to get worse.

“Done it before, ain’t you? You’re a right-” crash, “devil with that nasty hammer over your shoulder. Check his heels for burnin’, Jester.”

She simply keeps purring.

“N’ if you ain’t burnt out when this crock’s shilled out, you can slither on down to Yelena’s with all these pennies n’ buy yourself a mouth. Ha, ha. Ain’t got her finest workin’ tonight though. No, they’re all here n’ dear.”

It’s mild, halfhearted. He’s not serious.

No radiator..

He turns briefly to Andrey, “Hn. Hey? Leave a space on that breaker for a radiator, I’ll have some salvage brought over-”

He gets a murmur of acknowledgement from Andrey as wires fly out from walls- some of them so frayed he wasn’t sure how a fire hadn’t already started here.

“-from the abandoned houses in the Knots.”

The hammering is rhythmic, and Saburov gets into an almost meditative state as the wood crumples between the weight of the hammer. There’s people that stir from curiosity to watch, and he pays them no mind, only occasionally acknowledging them with a grunt or head tilt.

He had done this before. Several times.

“Hf. Yeah, a few times. Dismantling insurgent bases for firewood after clearing them, or-” thud, “- the improvements I made to the Rod after Konstantin died.”

The Rod had been a church before the Saburov line had claimed it as their dwelling. He couldn’t remember what the dwelling was before then. Alexander never intended to make drastic changes to the place, but with Katerina’s declining health, he had to get creative on how to make that space livable for her.

It seemed that everywhere he looked there was always a hazard. Hypervigilance or being overzealous, he wasn’t sure.

Leaning on the hammer for a brief moment, he clears his lungs from the dust and dirt, before kicking the wood  closer to the door. While he does so, Grief pokes at him with baudy jokes about pennies in his pocket and Yelena’s finest all being at the Clockshop, and he just quietly snorts.

“Including yourself in that number?” Saburov muses, “Not quite humble.”

He shrugs, and sets the hammer aside to fully pick up the bloodstained wood and examine it briefly.

They couldn’t find any evidence from blood then. It wasn’t in the realm of their possibilities. But now... maybe he could look into it again.

Separating the bloodstained pieces from the other planks, he sets the plain wood outside. The bloodstained chips he’d take- and those go in a different pile, but outside regardless.

“We’ll just see how this goes, I suppose,” he responds, “There’s still a lot left to do. Not even a quarter of the way finished.”

He lifts the hammer again and swings it to clap against his palm.

“Still plenty of time to get burnt out.”

Looking over, Grief’s still shivering. Lower spirits than usual, in spite of the jokes and chirruping. It’s probably a cocktail different sources for the ill-feeling.

Andrey was weaving flexing spells and semantics with every wire that he pulled out of the rotted walls. The saving grace in these walls was the wood. It was old dense oak, and it would take the temper of Suok herself to knock some of these beams out of the foundation. The thieves upstairs had taken charge of the repair project, completely unwilling to stand the cold much longer than necessary. 

During the winter, they had all scattered to the four winds to the places that would host them. A popular option was the derelict train cars in the yard. There were plenty of them now hosting orphans and the spare deserters who blew in and found dusty old blankets inside. There was also Yelena. Yelena, the matron with butterfly wings on her tits and bulldyke diamonds on her fingers. She pulled all the thieves into that four tier double house of hers and made em’ pay triple unless they were tricking. 

Some of the folk that worked for him were stupid and found their pockets lean and mean after a month in the warmth. 

And now here it’s still damn cold with the two stoves still going, but he doesn’t charge for rooms as long as his kith mind their manners and come when he calls them. The walls don’t hold heat, no matter what they do. It’s a paper house and a fire hazard. 

Andrey curses the last bastard that set the copper wiring while Grief scrunches his face in distaste. His back is burning and agitated, and the surrounding muscle is cinched in deep vein pain. At some point, the movement from Andrey, and a few others fails to get his attention when he’s shifting in place and fighting the cold. His head hurts and his thoughts feel like sludge. Feels like a shmowder night.

“Eh?” He pinches a brow, “Oh, roll the rug on up to th’ wall n’ use the hammer at th’ door. Whole floor’s rotten as hell. They ain’t use decent wood for that n’ it’s all.”

He wriggles a hand, ‘this and that’, and pulls at his coat to warm himself uselessly.

“A feast for th’ rats n’ not a floor for cats.”

Grief is out of it. Lethargic, dazed, shivering.

Saburov frowns. It really is too cold in here for people to be living- especially in the winter time.

He’s reluctant to give up his coat because of it- but the way Grief’s shivering has him concerned that he may just... drop while they’re working. So, he unbuttons the heavy woolen overcoat, and passes it over to Grief, so the man could at least use it as a blanket.

“Here. Cover up, I’ll get the wood up. Do you have a radiator?”

Kneeling down, he takes the rug in hand, and carefully begins to roll it up. It’s large- large enough to cover the entire room. Crimson with woven gold roses and florets, a round emblem flanked by intricate designs in the center... the threads are all silk, wool, and metal- the quality of which is expertly made. It’s a fair bit of luxury that Saburov is certain that even the allowances from the Bull Enterprise his family received would not be enough to afford such a piece.

It’s an imported work of art from the East, far above either Saburov or Grief’s station- but the Station was Grief’s. All the rail lines led to him eventually. Someone was out of a very nice rug, but Saburov couldn’t find it in himself to care about the people that could afford such extravagance.

The rug is heavy, but he manages to stand it upright, and walk with it leaning on his shoulder out of the immediate work area. Huffing as he places it down, he adjusts his shoulders and walks back to get the hammer.

As he reaches for it, he catches a glimpse of old brown, nearly black stains in the rotted wood, and with the sight of it, the memories of those same stains when they were still red come rushing back.

Three years ago, this was a crime scene.

The woman who birthed Grief had ended her life here, in this room.

The nature of self-inflicted gunshot wounds is... horrific, to say the least. Even for someone that doesn’t encounter the feeling of horror often.

Grief had to be called in as the next-of-kin. Confirm the identity (it was his mother), confirm if the firearm was hers (no, not that he knew of), state the last contact he had with her (before the first outbreak), state who else would have been in close contact (likely the housemates).

It never felt right, the way it happened. Like something important was missing... and he very much lamented that they did not have the access to the investigators in the Capitol. People that were trained to dedicate their time to the unusual.

It’s too much for the common patrols to handle. It was too much for him to try to handle by himself. Much to the agitation of the general populace.

Too much time. Wasting time. That was the attitude to the general investigations held. It was cut and dry to everyone else. Just another suicide. Just another one lost to the machine.

He had to admit, it very much looked that way. It was a textbook case, and that is what threw him off.

Nothing is textbook.

The case’s files and illustrations were still in Town Hall. Trophies to dedication, even if it remained unsolved.

Now the last bit of tangible evidence remained here.

Understatement, considering the events of... well everything that had happened since the beginning of the plague, but the addition of Nina and Victoria trying to come back from their deaths was a valid reason to be feeling stressed.

It was also the prelude for an invitation to do “stress-relief” at the Clock Shop, ripping up floorboards.

There’s really no excuse for him not to go.

He accepted the invitation and gave Bad Grief what he had come to Town Hall for- the rest of the Inquisitor’s items that she had come with.

Likely as a favor to the same Inquisitor that now seemed to be inhabiting the king of thieves in the town.

The Clock Shop isn’t too far from his home, and he’s able to go to the Rod and change. Simple, working clothes and not the trappings of administration and office. A much heavier coat as well, since the chill was bound to move back in after the unusual heat and rain for the season.

By the time he arrives to the Clock Shop, there’s already people about, all helping with various renovations, including Andrey Stamatin, who, from what Saburov could tell, was creatively hexing the idiot that originally wired the house with electricity.

Stepping in, he has to pause, as the cold seems... clawing. Very unusual, even for the weather- even considering that the place was without power. It still shouldn’t feel colder within than without. Not with all the people working.

“Grief,” he announces himself, shoving off the temporary uncertainty, “I’m here to help. What do you need out?”

He stands beside her and she tilts her head at the state of him. Even injured, even sick, he offers to stand at her side against mercenary forces and man-eating dogs.

“ There will be no need for you to risk yourself, Governor. I need only a handful of your men and myself. No one will dare harm an Inquisitor. ”

Most of those mercenaries would be on the gallows by evening. The dogs scattered or dead and the doors open. She’s expecting a blood bath, truly. (Though, even she can’t predict what awaits her.)

“ I have…experience with trained hounds. The military employs them in the Capitol, and they have historically never agreed with us, to put it…lightly. ”

There were a handful of Inquisitors who met with military force and never returned. Even more who have spoken about attempts on their lives by the army. She would be another, she felt, if she didn’t solve this soon.

Their duties did align. It was just a matter of pulling the strings in the right direction. Her eyes slide to the patchwork man beside her one more time before she exhales.

“ As I said: consider us allies. If you have need of anything, send for me. I will assist if I am capable of it. ”

She pauses but a moment before her tone is quite grave.

“ I hope to save this town, Saburov. Our lives both depend on it. ”

No, the military never had gotten along with the Inquisition.

It was the popular view within the force that the Inquisition was a chaotic, disruptive force. An authority with no authority and the capabilities to do whatever they so pleased. And as long as the Emperor remained, the Inquisition could do whatever they wished, so long as the problem was “solved.”

In his career, he’d only brushed close to an Inquisitor once. Mark Karminsky.

Sent to purge “deplorables” from within the ranks, when the army was failing to take Manchuria. The constant loss was blamed on the supposed immoral behavior and conduct of its members. Four companies were lost in a single day, more than what losses they’d encountered from the enemy. It was an experience of which he didn’t want a repeat.

But now, the enemy was a disease. A disease that was highly contagious, extremely lethal, and of which no known viable cure existed.

An impossible problem requiring nothing short of a miracle. Half the town was dead already.

They stood in somber silence as the pendulum continues to swing under the massive, suspended hourglass. The irony didn’t escape Saburov that this structure, that supposedly wove the time for the town, now housed two people whose time was running out.

“Then... State Inquisitor Aglaya,” he says slowly, “with your permission, I’ll take my leave and assemble my best. I’ll give a briefing and have them await you outside this Cathedral.”

Ah, the Stamatins as well. Would every path she had ever crossed be here? The path really did lead to the same destination for her every time. There’s the subtle pull of strings on her and it makes her frown, makes her arms fold behind her back once more.

Back to business.

“ I’ll admit, I know what to expect of the Kains. My sister married into their family, and she was…a unique specimen of cruelty. If the builders were a project funded by them, I imagine they truly were owned. ”

She walks away to look at the Tower outside the Cathedral, her eyes drawn to the spire of it as she tilts her head one way and then the other in exactly measured movements.

So, they would defend the Tower with their lives. She would have to keep that in mind for her investigations.

“ The Termitary…is that the wide building on the other side of the town? ” A wide, square structure that sat like a counterbalance to the impossible tower on the other side. “ It has been closed the entire time, but there have been people in and out. ”

There’s a twinge in the back of her mind, behind her eyes, and she sighs. Ah, a failure then.

“ If that’s true, then the walls have been breached and there must be infection inside. I’ll have the doors open by the end of the day. Have your men prepared to assist me. ”

She says it as if she wasn’t going to let the Olgimsky family have any say in the matter…because she didn’t. If they were to save this Town, then that needed to be rooted out now.

“ I will keep your advice in mind. ”

The mention of the thief makes her brow arch, but she keeps it to herself. She’d see him sooner or later, she’s sure.

“ The source is either in the water or in the ground. If it’s in the ground, then…hm. It gives us a very poor outlook, I’ll admit, but my job is to save the town and defeat the disease. We’ll do what we can. ”

He nods, quietly, taking the time to study her while she ponders the Cathedral. Nina, her sister, had been a vampire to the town- and even in death, she still maintained her hold over the population. Nina was chaotic and temperamental. Aglaya was her opposite. Measured and lawful.

The sun dawning, and making the red light creep across the floor as the heavy, deliberate metal pendulum swung, Alexander slowly rose from the chair, empowered by resolve and common footing.

“Yes, it is that large square complex on the other side of the town, in the Skinners. It also is attached to a large cave system. It’s called ‘the Abattoir’- and is indeed a slaughterhouse. The Termitary is both a home and a factory complex. They process meat there, sleep there, hold councils there, are born there...”

And die there, the thought completes itself, as grim as it was.

“I will gather my most able and trusted people to assist you, and myself, if you so wished. Many of my people have relatives and friends trapped in that place. I’d prepare to face confrontation- the Olgimskies employ a retinue of mercenaries and overseers to ensure Vlad the Elder’s will, along with a breed of... horrendously vicious dogs that hunt those that try to run away from the Termitary and the Bull Enterprise.”

The corners of his lips tug ever downward. He balls his fists at his side.

“The mercenaries are the kind that respect no Law other than coin and bloodshed, and the mongrels kept are trained to savor the blood of humans. I hope nothing comes to confrontation, but you have my word that I’ll aid in your efforts.”

“Our duties align. Save the town, defeat the disease.”

“ I’ll be mindful of it, and send for them once we’re finished here. ”

She considers him as he seems surprised by the question, though not surprised enough to question her on it – and therein lies the answer she seeks. He understands the situation he’s in, that the Inquisitorial Committee works in strange ways.

His answer, too, intrigues her. Heads. Always heads. What a fascinating man.

“ I see. Consider us allies instead of adversaries, Governor. Your patrolmen can continue to report to you; should anything happen, I require a full report from you about it, but let your people remain your people. ”

She moves to fold her hands in front of herself rather than at her back this time. He was a brave man to face her like this, and a braver man to admit to her his faults.

“ I am a woman who believes in simple things, Alexander Saburov. I do not care for the crimes of the world – the only crime, the only true crime, is the betrayal of those who trust you. You have done well for this place. I’ll leave your wife be, rather than call her here as well, and I will consider…leniency in the face of your daughter and what you’ve told me.

However, I know the others have not been as careful as you have, and I know they will not be truthful to me. Tell me about the ruling families. Yes, even those impeccable Kains, my own family. I care not for the spats, but I do care for the things they will hide from me. ”

A stay of execution. The disease could still ravage and bring about the end of all things, but now, at least, there was a chance to set things right. His family would be spared, and Clara... would be granted lenience. It was more than what he could ever ask for.

“Understood,” was all he said in reply.

To business, then.

“The other families, the Kains and the Olgimskies each carry conspiracy within their own houses.”

An understatement, but he would give her the facts, and solely the facts. Opinions were dangerous territory, and should only be offered when asked for explicitly.

“The Kains are wholly invested in their experiments. The most recent of which, is the Polyhedron, that Tower.”

He sighs, his breath rattling his ribs and spine.

“It was constructed by the Architect twins Peter Stamatin and Andrey Stamatin- yes, those Stamatins.”

Leaning forward on his knees, he folds his hands to support himself. Shreds and patches of a person at this point- being barely held together by a single thread.

“The Kains will try to direct you away from both of the twins. The family considers them a prized possession, and have always intervened and obstructed investigations involving them. Expect that they will intercede ‘on their behalf’. Georgiy Kain directly spoke with Artemy Burakh in my presence, and in the presence of the ruling families, demanding that the healer pay special attention to the twins, and that ‘the entire town could die, but the Stamatins must live’.”

He flexes his thumbs in place of a shrug as he tries to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. Poise, and rationality were the only ways to ensure the proper thing get done.

“The Polyhedron is the Kain’s crowning structure, but curiously, only children inhabit it. No one but them know what is inside, not even its builders. Kaspar Kain- who goes by Khan- is its ‘ruler’. Maria Kaina is no longer allowed within its walls.”

Rested, he sits up straight once more, “So, the Kains will do everything in their power to maintain the twins and the Polyhedron. They will hide those from you, assuredly, if they even comply to speak with you.”

The Kains were angry and proud. If there were any family arrogant enough to defy a State Inquisitor, it would be that one.

“The Olgimskies... are another matter.”

Saburov locks eyes with Aglaya, “Vlad Olgimsky the Younger is more amicable to alliances and understands the importance of cooperation- however, he is also easily cowed by his father’s whims. His sister, Victoria Olgimskaya the Younger- who goes by Capella- is the leader of the children and Vlad the Elder’s favorite. The only way to get through to him is through that child.”

“The Olgimskies will hide the Termitary from you, or rather its contents. A third of our town’s population, all kinsmen and women and worms, live there. Vlad the Elder does not permit either the Kain’s people, nor my people within its walls.”

“The Termitary,” he continues, “has also been locked since Isidor and Simon passed. I’ve had reports of butchers escaping from there- but were then found dead, or near death and not capable of speech before passing fully. Yet, in spite of this, a Termitary overseer, Yaklakh, was able to get out, form a mob to destroy our water treatment, and then, reportedly, able to return to it. I wanted to conduct an investigation, and was refused, as was Dankovsky, and anyone else who inquired about the happenings within.”

Let the evidence speak for itself. It’s suspicious enough, and one of the greater thorns in the side since the beginning.

“If you need to know anything about Olgimsky, I can direct you to another individual. Grigory Filin, who prefers to be called ‘Bad Grief’. He ran Olgimsky’s illicit trades and distributed contraband for him, and a thief by trade. His code won’t allow him to speak with me directly, but perhaps you’ll be afforded more courtesy.”

Her pacing pauses at two moments: when the Tower is mentioned, for she stops to peer through the Cathedral windows at the shape of it on the shore beyond, and at the mention of one Yulia.

How…odd, the way lines connect here. She had never thought to hear that name again in good company.

“ This creature sounds to be nothing but childhood horror stories, and so I will disregard this idea for now. ”

The Sand Pest was a disease that ate the body apart at the weakest points, before it devoured the mind and killed whoever it came into contact with. She knew the barest amount about it. The dead did not spread it, though the houses did somehow.

This Town was doomed. If that were true, the solution would be to level it to the ground. Unless…

“ Your healers. You said their names. Will they be amicable to meeting with me? ”

Even if they weren’t, she would call for them anyways. They had no choice but to speak with her.

Saburov struck her as a man doing his best in a very desperate situation. The entire town must hate him for trying to seize power in a vacuum where the others would simply watch them die.

She walks back and forth a number of times more, considering the situation laid before her, and sighs audibly under the ticking of the clock. When she finally stops to stand before him, her hands folded at her back, the clock above tolls for proper morning.

She scrutinizes him with a careful look, her head tilted to the side.

“ I see, I see…I have only a few more questions for you, Governor. The first one: heads or tails? ”

Aglaya asks about the healers, and Saburov nods, curtly and affirmatively.

“Yes. I’ve no doubts about their character in regards to the pragmatism this situation calls for. If you call for them, they will come to you- even if they don’t personally care for you. Even Burakh. When my wife...”

He stops himself short. Attesting to character of the healers or not, he was certain that the Inquisitor wouldn’t find that necessary for the current situation.

It still surprised him, however. The willingness of Burakh to aid him with Katerina’s deteriorating heath in spite of having put him in jail twice... and checking on Alexander when Katerina asked it of him.

“... apologies. Yes, they’ll come to you if you send for them, but you will likely need to send for them. They’re all overworked, and will continue working until something pulls them away.”

Saburov blinks when she stands, scrutinizing him.

Heads or tails?

The question seems... irrelevant to the situation at hand, admittedly, but Inquisitors were trained in very strange methods when conducting their investigations.

So he doesn’t question her.

She paces quietly, her boots still in time with the pendulum above them, before she moves away to pull over the chair from her makeshift desk. It’s set squarely in front of her, her hands resting on the back of it, before she steps back.

“ You’re recovering. Sit, if this story is as long as you make it sound. I want to know the details. ”

The explanation is exactly as bad as she has heard. Towns wiped out by the Sand Pest, and this was the latest on the list. This was the important town, because the world had decided this sandbox needed to be saved.

She makes note of the healers described in the Town. A man from the Capitol, the legendary Daniil Dankovsky. A surgeon who had come home to chaos, Artemy Burakh. And…

“ Your daughter is both healer and harbinger? How fascinating. ”

She would keep it in mind, making notes on her list in the back of her head. Meet with the healers then, to call them forth and see their sides of the story and see how well they had managed to help the town.

“ This is before the disease even properly took hold, if I am understanding correctly. You have a very busy town to care for, governor. ”

She steps away from him, peering up at the windows around her for a moment.

“ Tell me of the beginning of the outbreak proper. What do you know about the origins of the disease? ”

The chair is offered, and he does take the small gesture of kindness. It’s hard to speak and stand and keep composure all at once. Shivers and tremors from the shmowder also made standing fully at attention extremely difficult.

Murmuring a small motion of gratitude, he nods at the recognition of Clara.

He hoped that none of the townsfolk had gotten to her.

“The beginning of the outbreak. Yes, the outbreak was identified on that day. Bachelor Dankovsky confirmed the symptoms of the Sand Pest, which had afflicted this town five years before as well, shortly after the completion of the Kains’ project- the Polyhedron, that Miracle Tower on the shore of the Stone Yard.”

“There are a few suggested origins for the Sand Pest. Thus far, we have been unable to identify a singular origin for the Pest, and there is substantial evidence that there is a supernatural carrier- a creature locally referred to as a Shabnak. The evidence was corroborated by Yulia Luricheva.”

He pauses briefly as the air feels very still for a moment. Aglaya ceased her pacing. Recognition of the name, perhaps? Or was it disbelief? Either way, she'd come to discover both, soon enough.

"The townsfolk blame this creature for misfortunes and plagues. It is allegedly a spirit that assumes the shape of a deceased woman, and formed from clay and bones. After Simon died, there were witnesses and rumors that claimed to see him in the company of a woman that appeared from the Steppe. In retaliation, lynch mobs formed to hunt suspected shabnaks. This was quickly dispersed- but not before the mobs claimed two victims, herb brides."

Saburov measures her responses to the information as he relays it. She listens thoroughly, and... almost seems surprised by some of the details. She didn't seem to know some of the basic information that was detailed in the initial report to the State Inquisitors. Which meant either that she neglected to read it (highly improbable), or never received it- for one reason or another.

Which meant that everything he said would set the precedent for others that followed, and solidified the urgency of fully disclosing everything- especially the structure and demograpgics, cultural relations in the town.

He takes a moment to derail- explaining the Kin and their caste roles, how the townsfolk adopted practices and taboos from the Kin, especially relating to bodies and their sacredness.

"Apologies for the tangent, but I assure you, it isn't unimportant, and it is crucial for understanding the basis for the current disorder. The Pest... has two other suspected origins. The waters of the Ghorkon, and pockets of Earth that can be released by digging. The Bachelor posits that this disease, physiologically, is a bacteria. Symptoms are as follows-"

He straightens his posture in his chair. He was overly familiar with the symptoms. "The bacteria targets old scar tissue, and breaks it down, and eats away at four main organs- the brain, the kidneys, the liver, and the heart. Extreme changes in behavior reminiscent of rabies begin to manifest, fever, organ failure... It is transmissable through infected bodily fluids- coughing, sneezing, the curious clouds of dead skin and phlegm. These in turn infect surfaces, bond with a rare variety of house mold... rats also carry the disease."

Saburov's chest rattles as he speaks, "Once infected, symptoms manifest within twenty-four hours and, if lucky, die. Victims typically die within forty-eight hours, though there are those that suffer much longer. There is no cure."

The weight of his words carry with the swing of the pendulum. Everyone here was living on borrowed time. Pushing against the inevitable. It's a futile battle, the war against death, but one that must be fought, and hope spared where it could be.

"The only reason I stand- well, sit... before you is due to the intervention of the Bachelor and the administration of a toxic and volatile collection of ground pills referred to as 'shmowder' which, is fatal in any other circumstance, and is not without consequence. I've had one seizure since taking it. "

He pauses, "Dankovsky has been working on a vaccine. My daughter has healed perhaps fifty people while aiding our search for the carrier, Stanislav Rubin has aided in the theater and advanced research. Burakh... I know not what he does," he admits, "Only that he is trying to discover Isidor's secret to curtailing the First Outbreak, whilst also accused of being a Ripper."

"Sand Pest has a ninety-eight percent mortality rate. We only have four healers, each doing what they can. But near ten thousand people... maybe more now, have already perished. I tried to maintain order."

Shoulders slumped slightly, he forces himself to regain his posture.

"I am prepared to discuss the measures taken, the challenges faced. I accept any and all responsibility for the resulting failures that arose during this. I will lend you any assistance I can while I live."

This was her last chance. It isn’t even a chance, but it is her last. Her arrival had been heralded by a signal fire lit on the railroad and a toybox town caught in the bend of a river waiting her at the station.

There is no one expecting her, but there are a group of messengers awaiting her. She sends her letters quickly – the governor was to report to her first thing in the morning, with the sunrise, and the rest would filter in throughout the day. She would interrogate the town, find the source of this pestilence, and…

And nothing. Her usefulness would come to an end. She would die.

The governor meets her in a sharp coat with bloodied bandages around his forearms, bearing the cracks of the Pest contagion. She isn’t afraid to bring herself closer to him, her footsteps echoing in perfect tandem with the pendulum overhead.

In her eyes, he is old, but proud. A toy soldier made of scraps of fabric and scratched silver buttons. A handsome, well-loved toy.

“ Governor Alexander Saburov. It’s good to meet you finally. ”

Her voice is exceptionally soft and even compared to the commanding tone Nina once held. Her hands remain folded at her back as she walks close, examining the effects of the disease on him.

The Sand Pest was a nasty beast indeed, if the bleeding and cracked wounds on his body were anything to go by.

“ You know why I’m here. I’m here to report on the state of the Town and find a cure for the Pest. Tell me what you know. ”

He nods, slowly. What he knew, he would tell. There would be no hiding anything- and he had no wish too. The only question was... where to start?

The beginning. Very beginning.

“As you wish, Inquisitor Aglaya Lilich.”

He stands at attention. An old habit, but he would be still and direct as he addresses the woman who is, by all means, his superior.

“The beginning of September, there were reports of an unknown disease that ravaged five other nearby towns...”

He explains the contents of the communications, the names of the five towns, the response of the other ruling families...

“Vlad Olgimsky Sr. suggested to keep the trains closed as they had been since June, while the Kains conspired with Isidor Burakh to secure a brilliant mind from the Capitol, one Bachelor Daniil Dankovsky, to invite him to the town so he could continue his research and install measures to prevent the disease from ever reaching here.”

Saburov sighs, tiredly, and details how the Bachelor arrived late, Simon and Isidor coming to the Rod to warn him of a great calamity and to expect a harbinger, then Isidor being murdered in the night and Simon found dead not long after- the arrival of Artemy and the rumors naming the homecoming son as the doctor’s murderer, Georgiy’s order of Artemy’s execution, and the efforts made to apprehend him to prevent the execution and instead gather evidence... all the while Katerina had found a girl that she insisted was the harbinger that they were meant to shelter.

“Clara, who is my daughter, and is... a very gifted girl, by all means, though she is either monstrous or divine, or both and not entirely human. She seemed to have an innate sense of what she was capable of, and what she was meant to do. She listed that she may heal or harm with her hands, and incite those into speaking truth. My wife and I took her in.”

Alexander marks the day and time, acutely aware that it could be the last day he had alive. Yesterday could also easily have been the last day, with the infection from the Sand Pest tearing through him, reopening old injuries and bleeding him dry.

Only due to the intervention of Dankovsky and the motley assortment of poisonous ground pills and powders he administered that Saburov still lived. Even with the tense arguments they had surrounding Clara’s supernatural origins, the Bachelor saw fit to spare him from the sickness...

... if only to have him live long enough to stand before the Inquisitor.

Perhaps Daniil thought that the governor had a lot to answer for, and given the state of the town? Saburov was inclined to agree.

“I don’t fear death or the Inquisitor,” he had told the Bachelor.

And it was truthful. He did not.

So what did he fear?

Truthfully, it would have to be unfinished business. Leaving affairs unsettled. Everything that he had set out to do had failed- whether or not it was due to sabotage was not important. The only thing that mattered was that the outbreak had failed to be curbed before the Inquisitor’s arrival, and that he, as the Governor, was responsible for this outcome.

So, he would take the steps he could to make sure that all affairs were in order. His love and regards to Katerina, entrusting Clara to Daniil (whether or not the Bachelor had found and absolved the Saburovs’ unearthly foundling of being the carrier, Alexander was unaware), and transferring all legal authority...

... to the Inquisitor herself.

Yes, to the shock of everyone, herself. Aglaya Lilich, and not Mark Karminsky, the latter of which everyone had expected to arrive and cause massive upheavals and drink the blood of the town like a vampire.

Not the quietly intimidating Lilich- one who also happened to be Dark Nina’s sister.

His thoughts do drift to Nina, as he enters the Cathedral. The massive pendulum swaying behind the figure who stands... stoically against the reddish backdrop of stained glass and iron.

Even from where he was, the resemblance to Nina was uncanny, the soft cheeks that tapered into a fine jaw and petite chin, eyes that were pale and bright... but the manner was completely different. She carried herself not as imposingly, and with a gentler expression- one that was meant to disarm expectations. It didn’t make her any less dangerous than her sister was. It was merely a different form of it.

He acknowledges her authority from the safe distance he was at, and speaks- voice still hoarse from the sickness and powders:

“Alexander Saburov, Governor. Reporting for summons.”

Murky doesn’t have to go far to find her intended target, nor does she have to look very hard. Stakh stands out to her like black twyre poking sleepily through a snowdrift, standing on the snow-covered pharmacy stairs across the courtyard. He’s tucking the fruits of his resupply run into his inner right coat pocket when he registers Murky’s approach. She skirts his direct line of sight like a nervous cat, stepping soundlessly up the stairs to tug at his pocket. Twisting to look down at her he musters a small smile, “Message for me?”

She holds up her hand and he can see the silver shine of one of Saburov’s buttons glinting on her palm briefly before her fist closes and disappears back into her pocket. “He wans'ta to see you,” she says simply, and Stakh doesn’t press her for more. He starts to offer his hand to walk her back home when he notices how she’s shifting from foot to foot.

“No socks again?” She stalwartly ignores the question. Stakh sighs and leans down to scoop her up, tucking her against the side of his chest not occupied with morphine vials and sachets of pills. Once she’s back on her two bare feet in the entryway of the Burakh clinic he retrieves a chestnut from one of his pockets and repays her for the message. “Socks next time.” She rolls her eyes and darts around the corner to head back up to her room, mission completed. Stakh’s not sure where he stands with her, but she doesn’t listen to Artemy about socks either, so who could say.

Scarf, coat, and boots are hung up, and groceries stowed, before Stakh finally taps on the doorframe as he heads into the clinic room proper. Despite making no effort to mask his presence, he still finds it prudent to announce his entry to the room, considering who is recuperating inside. Saburov, freshly bruised and battered from some kind of late night exchange with Grief of all people. “Morning, Saburov.” He offers, along with a bottle of fresh water to clear the unique funk of painkiller-induced sleep from his mouth. “You’re due a bandage change, but is there something else you needed?” He keeps himself busy moving the more delicate supplies one by one from his pockets into lined and sorted cases.

Saburov straightens his back in acknowledgement of the tall clinician that approaches, despite the soreness. The edge of discomfort was coming back with the painkillers cycling out of his system, but he still thought it prudent to maintain an air of decorum, in spite of all circumstances that led up to this... well, his being at the clinic to begin with.

He takes the bottle offering, “Thank you, Rubin,” he murmurs before clearing his throat with the fluid, washing off the taste of bitter herbs from his teeth and gums.

Due a bandage change, certainly. The freshly opened scars that he carried through fire and pest were seeping clear, scabbing, and hardly bloody anymore. A good sign at least that his constitution hadn’t failed yet, and the road to recovery would be relatively short- even if it was a bitch to get through.

In all honesty, it was the final kick to the chest that was the most frustrating injury. Alexander still felt as if his sternum had caved and wasn’t quite back to the right form. Breathing was a little more of a chore.

But Rubin asks if there was anything else that he needed, and Saburov gives a curt nod in response.

“Yes, actually. I had a proposition for you.”

Rubin typically listens more than he talks, and he knows that the honest man didn’t need turgid verses or long-winded preambles to appreciate reasonable requests.

So, Alexander speaks when he has the acknowledgement of attention, and allows Rubin to continue with his work- which was equally as important as the request.

“I am putting together a council to help manage and determine the direction of the town and its survivors. I would like you to be on it.”

He sets down the water on the side table, “There are plans to establish a proper hospital and health facilities. You’ve the most experience with both medicine and the people within the town. I trust your judgement in determining what is necessary to run a smooth operation, as well as the equipment, funding, and staffing.”

“You could say so.” Capella says, taking a sip of her drink. Grace leads into an explanation of her progress - she’s learning to write bit by bit. She really enjoys drawing. Peter is teaching her to read as she learns her lets and words, and what she can’t read yet he reads to her. Stories from far-away places and times. He writes down things he can’t write for her yet too. 

She loves him, and Capella is relieved at that, that she’s settled very happily into her new home. 

“You likely have some of the best perspective in town actually about what a true Mistress is, save for Aspity, who knows all the Kin’s history.” Capella comments when Grace lapses back into thoughtful silence. 

“If this question is too forward or ill-timed, feel free to disregard it. But… how long was Katerina sick? It was the Pest that killed her, yes?” 

Jumping right into complex questions.

He’d expected nothing less, frankly. The issues of Mistresses were quite complex and had a muddied history.

Most of the history, however, was recent. He couldn’t recall if there had ever been any recognized Mistresses before Nina, Victoria, and Katerina, but knew that this area- the Town- seemed to allow for clairvoyant people, namely women, to flourish.

Capella asked if it had been the Pest that killed Katerina.

He sighs, “My wife... had struggled with addiction for a very, very long time.”

Saburov folds his hands on his lap and contemplates the events that brought his family here. How Katerina’s crippling lack of self-esteem pushed her to alleviate pain through chemical means.

The town didn’t help. The callous people here made it worse.

Barren. Talent-less. Poisonous. Imposter.

She gave herself to the town and those were the words of gratitude she got in turn.

“She started getting sick- I want to say... six- seven- years ago?”

He pauses, and nods to himself, “When we were told that we could not have children by Isidor, my wife was desperate to find any way to alleviate the anguish she felt, and the blame she placed on herself for being unable to produce an heir. Isidor could give her nothing for it.”

He reaches for the teacup and rotates it on the saucer, turning back time in his mind with the manual gesture.

“I came home one day, to find her on the bed, dosing herself with morphine. She’d visited a chemist and took matters into her own hands. I had hoped that... once she had some rest, that would have been the end of it. But, the drugs kept coming into town, and she kept taking more and more, to the point where it was killing her- but she couldn’t stop.”

“I began to see it in the workmen around us too- people in the factories, the Termitary workers- there was a crisis of addiction. It had killed people.”

And he had desperately tried to get control over the situation, demanding desperately to ban the awful substance because he knew that the outrageous was the only way to get the attention of the Kains and the Olgimskies. And the only way to get at least some kind of regulation.

“She tried, though- God, did she try to stop. But then there was always a reason to go back to it. The pain didn’t stop. There was something always to stir up the pain too- whether it was an ill-timed comment from either Nina or your mother, or some trouble for me or the Town... it worsened.”

He remembered one moment in particular after the word had somehow gotten out that Katerina was barren, and “not a real woman” that Victoria had deigned to visit, and interrupt their mourning. Alexander had tried to protect their privacy, but Katerina, desperate for the approval and company of her peers- had invited her in.

He remembers the poisonous pity that Katerina was subjected to.

“I’m so sorry you can’t have children,” Victoria cooed, “I can’t imagine the pain you must be in. I can’t imagine not being able to have children- my boy and girl are my reason for living. Life would be meaningless without them. I suppose you could adopt, but well... it just wouldn’t be the same.”

Fuming in silence, all the while. He could do nothing to cast her out after she had been invited in. She left soon after, but the damage had already been done.

“Then Nina died,” he continued, “And then your mother. And my wife was overcome with seizures and... violent outbursts. She said that she had taken upon the burdens of the other Mistresses- because their children weren’t ready. She wanted nothing more than to protect you and Maria- you were too young to assume the power, and responsibility.”

“By the time of the Second Outbreak... she was getting better,” he insists, “but addiction is a losing battle. We were all sick with the Pest at one point... but that’s not what killed her. Katerina made the choice to die. Sacrifice herself for the Town. Because she believed in what Clara could do.”

Because she didn’t see a way out for herself, and the town needed him. It all seemed kind of... pointless now. But neither of them had begrudged Clara for it. It really did seem that the town was doomed otherwise.

The device is interesting, certainly to Grace, who’s immediately craning her neck this way and that to look at the patterned enamel. Capella nods to his comments - a wise investment. It’s said with a sensitivity - she’s sure Grace has passed on Katerina’s message. It’s also a haunting thought, of Katerina’s health before her death. Yet, hadn’t that happened as well to Nina Kaina and her mother? Though, from her understanding, their weakness was sudden and the deaths quick. Katerina struggled and suffered for years…

It’s not until the tea is passed around that she flinches out of her thoughts. Ah, she meant to pour that for everyone. Oh well. 

“It’s very interesting. I’m glad it served its purpose for her.” She says thoughtfully. Grace carefully blows on her tea and adds a healthy amount of cream and sugar, but Capella can also tell she’s watching her. Saburov is too. 

Saburov minds his tea and keeps it black. Children preferred sweeter things, and needed sweeter things, so he was happy to go without.

He does glance up on occasion, to observe both girls. Grace, as usual seemed to be in her own little world, ponderous and doe-eyed gaze staring into her tea. Capella, in contrast, was vexed. Troublesome thoughts after a troublesome night.

“Mn,” he grunts, setting down the tea, “So... eventful day, girls?”

It’s... an attempt to break up the dwelling thoughts and steer away dread.

“How are your lessons coming along, Grace?” he asks, “Has Peter been teaching you your letters and numbers? You’ve already demonstrated the artistic.”

Alexander looks to Capella next, addressing her, “Your battle-trophy doesn’t seem to be swelling more- that’s good. But we’ll still pack ice on it after tea. Have you... figured out anything else about your particular condition?”

He leans forward, attentive.