My phone rings at twenty past one.

"I've got it," she says, before I can speak. Her voice is different — faster, something lit in it. "The reactivation isn't a response to the gradient. It's a response to the timing. The nodes are pattern-matching the suppression interval and compensating. If we randomize the interval — structured pseudo-random within a fixed variance band — the mesh can't predict the next suppression event."

I sit up.

"Show me," I say.

"I'm at home. I've been running it on my machine."

I'm already looking for my shoes.

After the slightly chaotic end to Dido’s evidence and the subsequent adjournment for the day, a packed court resumed the following Monday, with the Judge announcing,

Torn from his own world and stuffed into the body of a villainess, facing the end of a doomed route he himself wrote, "Amelia" must navigate a world she really should know - too bad she was never great at worldbuilding.

Stuck in a world she (maybe) created, Amelia quickly finds that reality has filled in the details she failed to describe. The characters who were so flat when she wrote them now have nuance, and motives. The kingdom she wrote into existence is experiencing internal strife she never even thought about. And let's not even get into the complexities of the magic system, or the demon that forced her into this situation to begin with...

Oh, and then there's the fact that she's about to be arrested and executed... but surely she can come up with a way to write herself out of that, right?

...Right?

It was a really pleasant evening in the end, although I found myself looking rather too often at Trudi’s long sleeves, and doing my usual obsessive balance sheet game. For every Nazi bastard, every Suleiman, every fucking Nigel Forbes, I knew a Butt, a Woodruff, a swathe of Welsh coppers, and in the end, the Nazis and cousin fucking Suleiman were dead, and Forbes was banged away with other scum.

“Darling?”

“Sorry, love. Miles away. Just counting blessings. Gwen, what does your, um, Andy do?”

Morning came too quickly.

Samuel opened his eyes slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the beige curtains moving faintly in the air conditioning, and the lingering smell of hairspray mixed with perfume.

Natalie's house.

The gala.

Tiffany.

The dance.

The message.

His chest tightened at once.

He sat up on the guest bed. He was wearing a girls pijama Natalie had lent him. Traces of makeup remained around his eyes, faint dark smudges beneath the lashes betraying how much he had cried the night before.

Chapter Seven — The Receiving

An attendant struck the old bell at the head of the table once, and the low, worn note it gave off — the same note that had sent them out of the last room and into this one — brought the whole hall back to silence.