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📡 Excerpt from King of Middlemass
“A Machine That Still Works”

Marlon is one of my favorite characters to write. He’s brilliant, guarded, and in some ways the moral anchor of King of Middlemass. In this scene, we find him doing what he does best.

At first glance, King of Middlemass is a thriller. But beneath that, it’s about how people respond to silence—spiritual silence, institutional silence, the silence of beautiful things that don’t explain themselves. You don’t have to read it that way. You can simply read it for the tension, the woods, the machinery, the dark.

The scene below is one of several set-pieces in the novel. It’s not the beginning. It’s just a moment where things go very wrong—and something unknown begins to make itself known.

Thank you for reading.

—Toby Boy
Author of King of Middlemass (Hardcover, August 2025)

"Marlon had promised himself an early start. Yet it was nearly lunchtime as he trudged up the slope of Hillside Avenue. The sun hovered weakly over the horizon, casting pale light over the higher elevation, a vantage point that overlooked the town below. He trusted his instincts that the signal would be stronger up here, where the air felt thinner and the wind carried whispers of other, deeper seasons.

His signal detector, an ungainly contraption cobbled together from salvaged parts, hung heavily in his hand. Marlon wound its rotator like a fisherman reeling in a stubborn catch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, the words carrying both hope and frustration. He had placed his faith in the theory of live power, believing it might work even under the oppressive blanket of infrasound.

Then—“Ah ha!”

The needle jerked erratically, spiking with frantic energy. Marlon jogged the rest of the way up Hillside Avenue, past the imposing house that loomed like a sentinel over the town. The paving gave way to packed earth, and then to a hiking trail that snaked into the woods. He kept the device in front of him, turning it incrementally as he moved. The needle twitched and quivered, then swung decisively as he aimed it northeast.

He paused, carefully memorizing the direction. His arm extended outward like a compass needle, marking the invisible path. Satisfied, he secured the detector in the battered hand-case he’d scrounged together. Exhaling sharply, he began walking again, his boots crunching softly against the trail.

He’d dressed simply for the task: dungarees, nearly-new work boots, a plain tee shirt layered under a thermal. His grandfather’s war canteen hung at his side, filled with water only just before leaving town-proper; to keep things light. Now seemed a good time to ease his burden and quench his thirst. He gulped down, and gasped, for it was cold and refreshing after that trek. He set the hand-case on a tree stump and pulled out the detector again, winding it with a better, more practiced efficiency.

This time, the device seemed to spark to life. Readouts that had been dormant flickered and surged, their faint glow catching in Marlon’s wide eyes. His expression turned serious as he set the hand-case aside and placed the detector on the stump. Rummaging through his pockets, he found a stubby pencil and a notebook, the pages worn and crinkled. He wished for the comfort of his overalls, with their ample storage and familiarity, but there was no time for regrets.

He scratched notes into the paper, cross-referencing calculations, double-checking readouts, and jotting small diagrams in the margins. His brow furrowed in concentration, and every so often, he murmured aloud. “Well now, my friends, well now.”

“-Hey there, son. What’ve you got there?”

The voice startled Marlon, sharp against the stillness of the woods. He turned, his hand automatically adjusting his glasses. Three men crowded together on the trail ahead, dressed like dogcatchers but radiating an unease that had nothing to do with lost pets.

The man who had spoken held out a hand, a gesture meant to calm, though his body language betrayed a different intent. The other two flanked him, their movements careful, calculated. Marlon’s fingers tightened around his steel canteen, his knuckles whitening.

The truth, Marlon reminded himself, is more shocking than any threat, more real than any lie. Truth means we have right on our side.

“This is a machine that still works,” Marlon said evenly, though his voice quavered slightly. “I ought to know because I built it. This machine tracks infrasound to its source.” He studied their faces, watching for any sign of recognition or understanding.

The lead man’s expression twisted into something bitter and tight. He understood all right. These weren’t dogcatchers.

“You alone out here, son?” the man asked, his tone still smooth but his eyes narrowing.

Marlon inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. “I came up here on my own,” he answered carefully.

“Well, that wasn’t too smart, now was it?” The man smirked, his voice honeyed but barbed. From the corner of his eye, Marlon caught movement—a fourth figure emerging from behind a tree to his right. They had him flanked, and the speaking man had been the decoy, holding his attention.

Marlon’s breathing quickened. He glanced rapidly to his left, noting the tangled underbrush. It was thick, but it offered a possible escape route. If he abandoned his equipment, he might just have a chance.

“Hey, there,” the man said, his tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to give us a hard time, do you? We’re just doing our job, after all.”

The three men in front stepped closer, their movements deliberate.

Marlon stood his ground, his lower lip trembling but his posture rigid. “What is the nature of the infrasound? Why has it been deployed near Middlemass? And most importantly,” he said, his voice rising, “how can it be shut down?”

The lead man’s face darkened, his smirk vanishing. “Why you damn midget of a—”

But his words were cut off by a guttural growl. The underbrush behind them cracked violently, as though something immense and primal was forcing its way through the thicket.

Marlon’s breath hitched, his eyes darting toward the source of the sound. Whatever was coming, it was big. And it was angry.

It rolled through the underbrush like the prelude to an earthquake, rattling the air itself. The silence shattered as one of the men behind the speaker—a wiry figure with sunken eyes and a loose gait—was yanked backwards. His legs flew out from under him, and his head slammed against the packed clay of the forest floor with a sickening thud. The noise was like the hollow crack of a tetherball smacking a post. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his breath stolen by the force of the blow. Before the others could react, he was gone, dragged into the shadowy underbrush as if pulled by an invisible tether. The forest swallowed him with a grotesque efficiency, leaving nothing but a smear of disturbed earth.

The remaining men froze, their eyes darting toward the spot where their comrade had disappeared. The leader—the one who had tried to soothe Marlon with a patronizing tone—shifted his weight, his face a taut mask of unease. He turned to bark an order, but a blur of motion cut him off.

Something—a shadow, a force, a nightmare in motion—slammed into the man’s side with impossible speed. The aftermath was instantaneous; the patronizing man was kneeling on the forest floor, his arm hung limp where the thing had struck, a jagged bite marking into the flesh and sinew. Blood poured in an unnerving shade, dark and too thick, already pooling at his collarbone. His mouth worked silently, the shock stealing whatever words might have come.

And then it was there, stepping into the clearing as though it had simply come along for a stroll. The beast—no, the creature—was massive, its black and brown fur rippling over muscle as it moved. A rottweiler, but not one like Marlon had ever seen before. This one was three hundred pounds if it was an ounce, its presence more oppressive than the lingering infrasound that buzzed faintly at the edges of Marlon’s awareness.

The remaining dogcatcher of the three that first appeared shouted hoarsely toward the flanker. “Get the prods!” His voice cracked on the last word, high-pitched with panic.

The flanker fumbled at his belt, finally producing a black-handled device with a trembling grip.

The rottweiler’s head tilted, its gaze sliding from the armed man back to the unarmed one. Its eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be instinct. Malice, perhaps. Or something worse. It took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, toward the remaining unarmed dogcatcher.

The man cursed violently, his voice cracking. Then he turned and bolted, his feet pounding the earth in frantic strides. Marlon, still rooted to the ground, realized with a start that he had fallen onto his backside, his legs sprawled awkwardly beneath him.

The beast ambled after the fleeing man with unsettling calm. It moved as though time itself bent to its will, each step unhurried, deliberate, inevitable.

The man with the prod dropped the device momentarily to fumble with a large walkie-talkie clipped to his vest. His fingers pressed a heavy button with urgency, his voice shaking as he barked into it. “This is Perimeter Four! We are sideways. Full contact with Croatoa. Repeat: full contact. Requesting immediate sweep and medical evac!”

But something was wrong. The static on the other end didn’t resolve into words. The man pressed the button again, his voice rising with panic. “devils… Do you read me? Ten by ten! Do you read me or not?”

Marlon’s voice broke through, high and shrill, “does your walkie have a countermeasure against the effects of infrasound?”

The man shot Marlon a dismissive glare but stopped mid-motion. His eyes widened, the walkie-talkie slipping from his hand to the ground with a dull thud. The sudden shift in his expression—a realization, a horror—was all the confirmation Marlon needed.

The rottweiler was back.

It stood just a few feet away, its head cocked slightly as though amused by the unfolding scene. Its chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the deep growl reverberating like an engine idling. The man bolted without a word, his heavy boots pounding against the forest floor as he disappeared into the tangled shadows.

Marlon sat frozen, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on the beast. It turned its head slightly, meeting his gaze with an unblinking intensity. Time stretched thin, the air vibrating with a tension that threatened to snap at any moment. Marlon gripped his steel canteen tightly, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

The beast didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a force. And, not for the last time, Marlon wondered if truth and right would be enough.

“He-hello there. My name is Marlon. What’s your name?” Marlon asked, his voice trembling but steady enough. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to make any sudden moves.

The rottweiler lowered its massive head, its dark eyes locking onto his. It exhaled heavily, the breath ruffling the air in front of it as if considering his words. Then, it sniffed, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness.

Marlon swallowed hard, his throat dry, his body taut with fear. He fought the urge to flinch, keeping his posture as still and nonthreatening as he could manage.

A sudden clattering noise erupted somewhere in the woodland, sharp and dissonant, echoing through the trees. The beast’s ears flicked toward the sound, its head snapping up. It reared back slightly, its muscles tensing, and with a single powerful motion, it bounded off in the direction of the disturbance.

Marlon stayed frozen, his breath shallow and his eyes fixed on where the rottweiler had disappeared. He silently counted to ten, each number a deliberate beat to slow his racing heart.

When he finally moved, it was slow and careful. He crawled on his hands and knees toward the stump, his palms pressing against the cool, uneven forest floor. Once there, he wiped a cloth across his damp forehead, the small act grounding him, offering a momentary reprieve. The kneeling figure was still upon the trail like a cairn of skulls.

He collected the signal detector with deliberate precision, slipping it back into the carrying case. His movements were methodical, but his mind raced. His breath came faster, and he nodded to himself as though affirming some unspoken decision.

Marlon pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and, with quick, decisive strokes, carved an "M" into the stump. The letter was rough, a series of jagged scratches, but this marked his progress. He had made it this far, the infrasound had to be in this direction. He stood up, dusting his knees off, and took a step back to survey the scene.

Just as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on the discarded walkie-talkie. It lay on the clay floor, clodded on one side.

Marlon hesitated, his pulse quickening again. He bit his lip, considering, then bent to pick it up. The plastic felt cold and alien in his hands, its weight disproportionate to its size. He turned it over, inspecting it briefly, noting a series of small geometric symbol-like letters. Then, with a deep breath, clutched it to his chest.

His eyes scanned the surroundings one last time. Then he turned and began his trek back through the woods, every sound around him sharp and amplified as though every concealed pair of eyes was sizing him up."

This is an excerpt from the upcoming book 'Don't Scare Me' (sequel to the break-out thriller, King of Middlemass). Toby Boy subject to change, all rights reserved.



KLONDIKE SWIM

Annette had once craved the intrigue and machinations of a debutante for herself. Yet it was another woman’s wish that the girl should spread her wings and fly. So it was a mean thing, after setting foot upon the road, to feel the constant cold shoulder—like a torrent borne against her. She remembered the woman’s many kindnesses, and even her well-meaning cruelties. These had shaped Annette. She imagined her mother-figure having been treated even more shabbily than she herself, and all over what? Something as coarse as money. It was times like these when Annette remembered revenge. Success would be a fine revenge—the top of the pyramid, the coldest of the cold, the cruelest of the cruel. But revenge was also revenge.

The terrace of the Providence Hotel was a stone bowl overlooking the winter strand, lined with women plucked from colonial portraiture postures rigid, faces painted with certainty, stoles of sable sweeping the flagstones. Their voices were a low hum of judgment, waiting with eyes as sharp as oyster knives.

But Annette’s arrival silenced their hum. Her gaze swept over the terrace, noting the pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before drifting to the sea-dark strand below. There he was. Next, she selected her steps—toe-heel, toe-heel—passing the brazier fires and wine-glass stares with the breezy disinterest perfected only by someone who knew precisely how much she was being watched. She stopped at the terrace’s lip. above the hotel’s east-facing foundation where gigantic castle stone met the winter mud and the mud met the sea.

She leaned scandalously over the stone fence. “Ooo,” she crooned, loud enough for anyone. “That one’s my one. Riv! Make a muscle, honey.” Below, in the bitter wind of the icy swim, Rivers stood among the pale and the persecuted—retiree torsos drawn like uncooked poultry. But Rivers, resplendent in the Riviera swimwear Annette had chosen (to break hearts, not records,) needed only to flex. His bicep wound itself up like an invitation. Light caught on his shoulder and etched geometry into his skin.

There was no mistaking whom she had meant. But even if she hadn’t said it, one would have known. 

She wore a white arctic minx hat, decadent and high-crowned, like a pale blaze of cloud atop her head. Below it, a bombastic jacket in crushed rose hovered above the thigh as if cut by a seamstress with an old grudge against mortal men. Then bare, gleaming skin for winter, followed by deerskin boots, the rich color of heartwood, laced up the calves with something more than functionality in mind. 

She placed a hand on her hip with the casual nonchalance of a sculptor claiming credit for a marble Adonis. 

A few older matrons instinctively recoiled. One or two held their breath in genuine awe. But a chorus of mumbled disapproval rose, a venomous discord straight out of a Greek tragedy, if the chorus were harpies with powdered faces and pearl chokers.

“That’s vulgar,” hissed one, her tone low but slicing.

“She’s not even registered,” said another, her voice a scalpel cutting through the murmurs with practiced disdain.

“Those hunting leathers are not… APPropriate” murmured a third, failing to find a word that could contain Annette’s audacity.

And from the back, a voice sharp with memory: “It’s her mother all over again.”

The outrage was palpable, a current of resentment pulsing through the terrace like a storm over the sea. Annette had composed the moment deliberately, staged it with the precision of a playwright, and now it gleamed, ready to be sealed in the lacquer of her memory, forever.

It would have remained a fleeting scandal—quickly forgotten—except that the doors to the veranda groaned open again and the rumored pair arrived, trailing a social apocalypse in their wake.

Maddie and Boone stepped onto the terrace like forked thunderbolts. Maddie, her white-blonde curl pinned in an elegant chignon, wore her own crushed-rose jacket and deerskin boots, her obvious poise a ready rebuke to anyone who might stand in her way. Boone, properly groomed and statesmanlike, carried the quiet authority of his ancestry. The matrons’ gazes flickered between Annette’s brazen display and the new arrivals, their disapproval fermenting into something ugly, something that clawed at the edges of decorum itself.

Annette’s upper lip curved into a faint smile.

Rivers had placed fourth, narrowly beaten by a grandfather from the Baltic provinces whose mechanical stroke defied both age and science. By the time Rivers emerged from the surf, slow currents of white steam wisping from his shoulders, Annette was already there, hugging a towel around him like a coronation. Boone, with the polish of a burgeoning statesman, landed a boot on the stamped muddy sand. He extended a hand. "Well swum, Rivers," he said, his voice carrying that timbre, genuine in its admiration yet laced with the awareness of a wider audience. Maddie, her camera out, raised it with a quick, practiced motion and clicked—not posed, not framed, just so. The shutter's snap cut through the wind, capturing the moment: Rivers' damp hair plastered to his forehead, Annette's arm draped over his shoulder, Boone's handshake firm and fraternal. In that instant, amid the congratulations- 

"Impressive endurance," Boone added; 

"You looked like Poseidon out there," Maddie teased with a slow-blink. 

And so, the day’s true victory was etched in the camaraderie of their little gang against the impending chill. 

From up on the terrace, among the goings-on, a gray-haired woman in a fox pelt collar leaned over the stony edge. Her voice drifted down like ash. “Such a spectacle,” she said, addressing Boone alone. “But visiting hours at Providence are well over. Those not enrolled ought to be gathering themselves up.”

Annette didn’t flinch. Rivers, the surf and wind still in his ears, did not catch the insult directly, but he clocked its aim and he felt the young woman against him.

“It’s always been the policy,” another called down—a raspy man with only his forehead and eyes visible above the balustrade. “Those without membership privileges always vacate after scheduled events.”

It was true enough. The Hotel Providence was not a hotel in the common sense. It was a private club. One could not simply walk in. One had to be on the list—a list as mysterious as everything else in Roanoke. Its members paid their quarterly dues whether they stayed or not. The rooms never crowded, the staff never hurried, and their silence was as dependable as a wine cellar.

And then: the page-boy. A slight figure in brassy shoes, he picked his way across the muddy strand clutching an envelope as if it were radioactive. He bowed deeply before Annette. “For Miss Annette,” he murmured.

She took it and cracked the seal, her eyes scanning the parchment. “I think it’s an invitation,” she whispered, pulling Rivers close.

Boone cleared his throat the way men do when they’ve decided not to interrupt, and then interrupted. “Just a moment, if you please,” he called, too formal to fight and too vague to obey.

Above, the matrons bristled. Below, Annette refused to yield.

The murmurs swelled again. “The policy stands,” snapped the fox-pelted woman. “Non-members must depart—now.”

Boone looked to Rivers for an out. Rivers only shrugged. “We think it’s an invitation.”

Maddie sidled in on Annette’s other side. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Annette’s eyes widened. “Oh, Riv! I think this must be from Bee. You see? Beatrice Francesca.”

Rivers could not remember who Beatrice Francesca was. But he recognized a coup when he saw one.

The terrace tribunals simmered. “We really would prefer not to call the usher,” said the fox-pelted woman, in a tone suggesting she very much hoped that someone else would.

“It sets the wrong precedent,” muttered the papery man.

Maddie stepped forward, plucked the envelope, and scanned it. “Oh. Darling, it’s gold.” She handed it back like a birthright. “It’s a gold invitation, Annette. It’s the kind they send when they want everyone to see who got it.”

The terrace hushed.

Still, the page-boy lingered.

Spotting him,  Annette added, “Accommodation is now… how you say—expected and required.”

Rivers gestured at his Italian swim trunks. “These don’t really have pockets,” he explained. “Design-wise.”

Miss Maddie shrugged. Boone was only too happy to intervene. To grasp hands.

Annette held the envelope aloft. “Upstairs,” she announced for all the bastards in all the cheap seats to hear, “I’ve been invited upstairs.”

Upstairs

The penthouse suite of the Providence Hotel was an empty cathedral—an interior of impossible scale and solemnity. The ceiling rose in a black dome ribbed with ironwork, more like an observatory turned inward than anything meant for hospitality. The marble floor gleamed under the flickering firelight, save for a single, unrolled Persian carpet—worn thin at its center—upon which stood a tall, high-backed chair of carved elm, tufted in oxblood velvet. A wide, open-mouthed hearth dominated the far wall, its brick maw lined with wrought-iron spikes that jutted upward like broken teeth. From within, a fire cracked and danced, casting spasms of orange light across the domed ceiling as if to animate the room in breathing shadows.

In the chair sat a diminutive girl—no more than fifteen by appearance, though her posture made her older. Blonde ringlets fell perfectly down the sides of her face, unmussed and deliberate, framing a countenance that seemed both childlike and etched. She was dressed as if for a holiday excursion in another century: a gray traveling coat cut short to accommodate lace cuffs, black stockings, and a miniature top hat fixed with ribbon beneath her chin, the kind of affectation one might see in a painting, or an inherited photograph no one ever explains. She balanced on her knees a leather-bound tome the size of a butcher’s ledger.

Somewhere a door opened with a hush and a click. “Hello?” called Annette, her voice softened by the enormous silence. The door closed again with a finality not unlike the turning of a self-locking vault.

Annette’s heeled boots tapped across the marble—steady, echoing, assured. She paced forward from the edge of the antechamber’s gloom, stepping out from behind the silhouette like an ingenue whose arrival had been much ballyhooed and tantalized over. A sliver of ashen light seeped in through a bay window, where the low winter sky pressed its remaining light against the glass in a kind of permanent winter dusk. Her white-blonde bob was unshadowed now—her extravagant hat having been removed somewhere below—and her crushed-rose jacket had been left open, revealing the pristine white of her blouse and skirt beneath. Her figure, tall, deliberate, and no longer careless was cut stark against the room’s aged grandeur.

“Bee!” she exclaimed with that old recognition as her eyes lit upon the girl in the chair.

At this, the girl snapped shut the book with both hands, the sound heavy and blunt like a closing doctrine. She slid the tome to one side and stood, though she barely reached Annette’s shoulder. Her face was pale, round, and slightly hollowed beneath the cheekbones. Whatever warmth had once lived there had been replaced by a kind of studied politeness. Annette moved in for a hug, arms outstretched with schoolgirl fondness, but the girl intercepted her with a two-handed clasp instead—both of Annette’s hands now held in both of hers, as if initiating a solemn pact.

“Beatrice Francesca,” said Annette, smiling with effort, “you look just the same as ever. Exactly the same.”

And it was true. Beatrice looked untouched by time. Not ageless—there was something too knowing in the gaze—but rather perfectly preserved, like a figure trapped in amber. Beatrice looked up at her, the way one might look up at a taller, luckier cousin. Her mouth twitched, not quite with envy, but with something adjacent. “And you, Annette,” she said, her voice sugar-dipped and very dry at the same time. “Aren’t you womanly though?”

Annette, who knew how to navigate compliments that carried knives, answered with a gentle murmur and a tilted head, smoothing the air like a ribbon drawing taut. “Your invitation came at a welcome time,” she said, letting warmth do the work of distraction. “Why did you want to see me, old girl?”

Still holding her hands, Beatrice gave a slight tremble. Her voice rose theatrically, pitched toward unseen balconies.

“Oh, Miss Annette,” she cried. “You must never forgive me. No matter what I say, you simply mustn’t.”

Annette matched the energy with dutiful sisterliness, tilting her chin and drawing a commensurate frown. “Well of course I forgive you, dear,” she said. “Now tell big sister what it’s all about.”

At that, Beatrice released her hands, turned her back, and took a few steps toward the fireplace. The firelight clung to her figure in a way that made her seem almost translucent, like a glass candle-holder. She placed her hands behind her back, composed herself, then turned again, her expression fixed. “I might as well tell you,” she said. “I already had a clatch of constables up here. Before you.”

Annette blinked.

“They came because I sent for them in a private dispatch,” Beatrice continued. “But when they heard my request, they soon discovered reasons to be elsewhere. They were my last chance, or so I thought. And then—just as I stepped onto the terrace for air—I looked down…” She paused, letting her eyes settle on the bay window as if seeing it all again. “There you were. Toweling off your hunky Mister Rivers.” She said it like a name she’d read but never spoken aloud. “And then I remembered. You both were the most recent Queen and King of Festival, is it not so?”

“Well, yes,” said Annette, suddenly remembering the consequences of Festival weekend. There had been danger, there was a fire, there was the small matter of stolen purses and commensurate documents. Annette checked her breathing and muted her expression. “But why should that matter?”

Beatrice smiled. This time it reached both of her eyes. “Because, Miss Annette,” she said, her voice soft now, almost reverent, “I am now the mistress of Solstice Court.”

Beatrice Francesca moved slowly toward the hearth again, as if the fire might illuminate her plea. The light cast up the side of her face in streaks, her childish features mottled by adult unease. She did not return to the high-back chair. She placed one gloved hand on a wrought-iron poker, leaning onto it with the tiredness of someone who had not slept.

“Miss Annette,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “do you want to hear something curious?”

Annette inclined her head. She had learned that strange girls often had strange things to say, and that most of it could be survived with charm.

Beatrice didn’t meet her eyes. She reached into a slim rectangular pocket and withdrew a small scroll bound with a lavender ribbon, slightly frayed. She thumbed her thumb against it. “A list of names was given to me,” Beatrice went on, “the lawyers compiled it. They told me to choose who I wanted, as if I would know.”

Annette raised an eyebrow.

Beatrice looked up now, eyes bright with that same theatricality from before, though now it glinted like desperation.

“One of the names was Mister Rivers. Only, he was listed as... ‘The Kid Constable.’”

Annette blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, “He does not care much for that title anymore,” she said.

“No,” Beatrice agreed. “But it’s a part of his record now. Names don’t vanish just because you want them to.” She let that hang a moment, then abruptly dropped the scroll into the fire. Her posture shifted. Her voice grew quicker. “Everything changed once they named me inheritor,” she said. “At first it was easy, telegrams or boring old letters from lawyers. But not even a week after the announcement, things began to go wrong.”

Annette deduced that this was no time to interrupt, ‘Bee’ was on a tear.

“Milk turned to cheese overnight,” Beatrice said. “I don’t mean spoiled, I mean... fully congealed. Bottles in the pantry never even opened.” She held up a finger, counting off. “Backwards writing appeared on mirrors and windows. Not once. Dozens of times. And someone stuffed the chimneys,” Beatrice added. “All of them. With acorns. Hundreds of them. When the fire was lit, it rained smoke and nutmeat and this bitter, bitter stench.”

That one caught Annette. “Acorns.” She pressed a finger to her lips. This encounter had ceased to be charming.

“When that didn't drive me out, the real dangers began. Doors that shouldn't be opened... fires that start by themselves. I’m not afraid for myself, of course,” Beatrice continued, stepping forward again. “But for the innocent people. And I have only mentioned the physical signs. There is more at work. There is always more.” She paused. Then, with exquisite slowness, she removed a single gold pin from the lapel of her coat—an enameled key, small but intricately worked—and held it out, flat in her palm. “I want to make an official request,” she said. “In the name of peace and tradition. Miss Annette. Mister Rivers. My Queen. My King. I would like you to track down the source of these disturbances. Identify it. Capture it, if you can. No, you must.”

Annette did not move to take the pin-key. She was watching Bee’s face now with studied precision.

Beatrice smiled faintly, as if that scrutiny were expected. “I will sponsor you both. Of course. You’ll be enrolled—formally—into the Providence Hotel. Membership. Keys. Quarters, if you like them. And you will be welcome guests at Solstice Court. Not as socialites. Not as spectators. As protectors. Just as it was done a century ago.”

Annette stepped slowly toward the fireplace. She stared at the flames, watching them fracture against the iron teeth of the hearth. She didn’t answer immediately. "I’ll need to smoke on it, dear," she said. But her eyes never lifted from the flames, where all the while the edges of the lavender-bound scroll blackened and curled and burned.