WickedCadrach

Missy met Alicia's albino stare, her gaze flitting down as the moon caught on the point of the vampire's small, sharp tooth. For a moment, she didn't react. In the dark, on an empty street between the cold alleys and the wind-stirred copse of trees on the hill, Missy could feel a finger of doubt pressing at the back of her mind--a small, still 'what if?' that hung in the space between that pointed fang and the smaller woman's smiling lips. But as Alicia looked away, the spell was broken. Missy blinked, a street cat somewhere in the distance hissed, and then, reaching up to cover her mouth, Missy let out a half-smothered laugh. "Stakes. Lord have mercy, Alicia. If I didn't know any better, I'd say there's a part of you that likes the idea that people think you're some creature of the night. Danger and all." With a small sway in her step, Missy gently bumped her shoulder against the other woman's, drawing her gaze back to properly return the smile. "It's not a bad thing. In fact, I think I like that about you. Real monsters don't make it so obvious. So what else am I to conclude than that you must not be a monster?" At this Missy merely waved a hand, reaching down and adjusting the lay of her skirt as she lifted the hem away from an insidious-looking puddle in the road. "I make my living on a stage where I consort with specters, ghosts, demons, and boogies of all kinds. The people who want to run me out of town for 'consorting with monsters' have plenty of ammunition already. Maybe that's the trick of it though. I'm on a stage. Perhaps if you were in bright lights instead of hiding in that laboratory of yours, they might learn to embrace you." No sooner were the words out than Missy remembered the image of Alicia on the stage in the Rebirth Hall. She winced and shook her head, glancing to the woods once more to deflect the momentary embarrassment. When Jack Beckett stepped from the shadows, Missy started and her hand instinctively took hold of Alicia's arm before she recognized the mortician. "There was a murder at the music hall tonight." Hurriedly relaying the bloody stage and Silas Ward's end at the hands of the phantom, Missy added, "Alicia tried to help. We were just attempting to get her a change of clothes before heading to the Golden Stag." Chewing her lip, Missy looked between Jack and Alicia. "Perhaps it would be better if you didn't go anywhere they were expecting you... Maybe not for a couple of days. I may have something that would fit you back in my room at the Lincoln Palace. It's actually not far. Jack, would you escort us?"

Missy did her best to shelter Alicia as she led her through what remained of the departing crowd. Turning up the collar of Carlo's coat, Missy leaned in close over Alicia's shoulder, hoping to create a shield with the fabric and her own body against prying eyes. Trying not to alarm the smaller woman, she gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "Don't mind them. Just stay close. They'll thin out a bit once we're away from the marquee." The night air drew a sharp sigh from Missy's lips as they left the stifling heat of the music hall behind. Warm bodies, talk, and gas lights all contributed to the oven-like oppression in the opulent atmosphere, but out here, in the streets of Prospect Junction, nights could be cold. With cool paving stones and indifferent earth beneath them and only the dead stillness of a sky too thrifty to offer any relief beyond the midnight dew yet to come, Alicia and Missy passed beyond the whispers and agitated talk of the confused and frightened crowd until the murmurs were softer than the pulse of their own steps. From her late-night conversations with Jack Beckett, Missy knew abstractly where Alicia lived and she turned her steps that way as she spoke. "That was brave of you," Missy said, allowing herself to straighten up and release some of the protective posture she'd had over the other woman. "You have good instincts. Trying to leap up and help him. Not everyone does that. Least-wise when violence has been done. I've seen men freeze up at the sight of another man catching a stallion's hoof. You saw a man's throat opened and got there fast enough to make a mess of yourself in the process." Missy's lips fell into a soft frown. Tugging a little at the blood-stained garment by her black-gloved fingertips, her eyes fell as well, the expression neither one of disappointment nor disapproval. It was fear. The soft fear of knowing when tragedy is coming before its shadow reaches the doorstep. "You may want to suppress those good instincts of yours," she added quietly. "They nearly got you lynched tonight."

As Deputy Boone pocketed the shard of metal, the flash of it caught Missy's eye. There was something odd about it, something in the way it caught the light. A twist in her stomach caught and stopped the urge to ask the deputy to show it to her before she could speak. That wouldn't do. Too much interest in the case would draw interest to why she was so interested. If it was evidence, he'd likely show Thane, and then Missy could ask the sheriff herself... Meaning I'd owe him another favor. As Carlo draped his coat over Alicia, Missy busied herself helping to settle the garment over the girl's shoulders, mouthing a silent thank you to Carlo as she did. It wasn't only for the coat—though the combination of Carlo's swift response and seeing the play of his arms in only shirt sleeves was certainly cause for thanks—it was also an apology. Deputy Boone's request that Carlo stay meant he would be delayed for drinks, if he even made the Golden Stag at all... With a regretful quirk of a smile, Missy's gaze lingered in Carlo's for just a moment more before she turned away. "Come, Miss Alicia. We don't want to be in the men's way while they're investigating. Miss Gerenhart?" Helping Alicia to her feet, she started toward the stage steps. "We need to get you out of these blood-stained clothes," she said softly. "I'm headed to the Golden Stag directly after, but I can wait for you to change if you're also taking up Mr. Blackwood on his invitation."

"You're overdressed." *Laying my cheek on my knee and hooking a finger in his belt.* "It's hot and AC is expensive. So sorry--this bedroom is a 'no pants zone'."

Guilty. When I feel up to it, I have a falafel and pita I always enjoy. I make the dough for the pita and while it's resting, I whip up the falafel batter. Set that aside to firm up just a little and make my hummus. Then it's frying the falafel while I cook the pita. Bring it all together with chopped tomato, some onion I set aside to pickle that week, and kalamata olives if I splurged on any. Mmmm... kinda putting myself in the mood for it, actually. Maybe tonight. The next person has a favorite song that they could listen to multiple times a week without complaint.

Guilty. First a stage actress, then a missionary, then a teacher, then an author. The next person has been hypnotized at least once.

Missy returned Boone's look with a performatively pleasant smile of her own. The deputy seemed sufficiently cowed, and as she nodded, face lowered, her eyes again flicked toward Edmund Blackwood. Something about the man continued to needle at her. Something in his words... his tone. From their previous exchanges and his poison-sweet attempts at luring her away from the stage at the Lincoln Palace, Missy knew him for a cobra of a man... seductive and hypnotic in his own way but every bit as dangerous. It may be that his interest was exactly as it seemed on the surface: Murdering ghosts that keep people from walking the streets at night are terrible for a brothel. And yet, he'd come down personally. He didn't want the problem simply 'handled'. He wanted to be looped in and kept involved in the investigation. Why? With the deputies taking control and the threat still lingering over Alicia and Millie, Missy knew she would not be able to search the theater the way she would like. Not tonight anyway. As much as the thought of accepting Mr. Blackwood's offer of drinks at the Golden Stag made her prickle with suspicion, she still needed to recover Jane from Edmund's clockwork manservant. And if there was a chance of discovering more about his motives here, it may be an opportunity she should not miss. And yet... the deputies had not yet released Alicia or Ms. Gerenhart. "Mr. Blackwood, thank you. I would be obliged to accept your invitation. However, the deputies have not yet released these ladies. I would stay with them until they are." Missy bent low, her hand gently rubbing Alicia's back in soft reassurance. And turning to look to Carlo once more, she quietly asked, "Is there perhaps a shawl or cloak backstage that we can borrow? Until we can get Ms. Von Vulf cleaned up, I would spare her the scrutiny of wandering about covered in blood."

Guilty. Not every night, but enough. If plushies count then six. The next person sleeps with something homemade (pillow, blanket, pajamas...)

Sounds like we're all on the same page then! Awesome!

Missy felt the tight pull of frustrated urgency in her chest. Though they had never spoken, in the course of her meetings with Joshua Thane, she'd become acquainted with Billy and Boone's verminous little faces and beady, all-too-easy-to-read eyes. They were small men, dogs who played at being wolves from the cover of Thane's shadow. But Missy knew too well that trampling a small man's pride was much the same as treading on a rattler—as small and stupid a fight as it was dangerous. But they were here now, and as much as her pounding heart demanded she throw 'lady-like' discretion to the wind and mount the ladders to chase the rapidly escaping specter, the deputies had Alicia and Millie in their sights. Placing a hand on Carlo's shoulder, Missy allowed the barest flutter of regret to escape through those fingertips as she said softly, "Whoever killed Silas may be escaping through the catwalks. I have this." Her pale eyes turned meet Carlo's pressing the importance behind her words as her gaze flitted from one mystic-blue iris to the other. God, even the smell of him was like a mystery begging to be teased open. A line from Missy's childhood rose in a distant part of her mind, a pitch for one of Professor Whitty's tonics that included 'spices and temple incense from far-off Araby'. She'd never quite known what that entailed, only that it couldn't be the pungent mix of wormwood and marigold the old conman had used. And while it couldn't be bottled, the mingling cologne and native scent of the musician nonetheless became that scent in her mind. It took a supreme effort of will for Missy to tear her gaze away, and feeling a small flush in her neck, she felt a blush of shame at being once again so easily caught up. Another time, she promised herself. Another time. Stepping forward to place herself between Alicia and the deputies, Missy gave the men a teasing smile, putting on the inviting expression she sometimes used in more intimate meetings after her shows. She did not react to Billy's open stare. The deputies' eyes were not the organs she was worried about. When she spoke, her practiced voice came out smooth and clear, an intimate whisper that was at once perfectly audible to everyone on the stage, the perfect mixture of innocent cooperation and sultry implication. "Deputy Boone, thank you for arriving so quickly. I'll be sure to mention your promptness to Joshua the next time I see him." The words were not as idle as they sounded. Fixing the man with a cool stare, Missy hoped the subtext was not too nuanced for the lecherous weasel: I know the Sheriff, remember? Tread carefully. Thane may not appreciate you being rough with his toys. "I can assure you Miss Alicia and Miss Gerenhart had nothing to do with the incident. There are, in fact, many witnesses who can confirm this. Mr. Blackwood, for instance..." Gesturing to Edmund, Missy slowed down to be sure the small man got the point, "Why, his word would be unimpeachable, don't you think?" Turning Edmund's way, Missy's voice lowered slightly, directing her next words to the casino-owner, "I dare say, we are all somewhat in your debt for being here to vouch for Miss Alicia's conduct." Missy had significantly more confidence in the older man's ability to read between the lines, a fact that nonetheless soured in her stomach as their eyes met and the unspoken meaning passed between them: Back up Alicia and I owe you. She did not care to be in Mr. Blackwood's debt, but the words came out reflexively, the protective feelings she had for the young woman making Missy far more impulsive than she liked. Two favors in one night. Missy couldn't pretend the rumored-magician wouldn't call them in, but she also couldn't think of that now. Time was burning.

Not Guilty. I honestly don't even know where I would watch boxing or MMA. The next person has won a fight (a physical fight, not just an argument: The other person fought back and either gave up or was subdued.)

As Aldert Helsink retreated, Missy lingered to watch him go. Something in the older man's affect whispered suspicions that he would not be heading for the exit, but it was far from her main priority at the moment. Cutting for the stage steps on the wings, Missy clutched at her skirt, her steps punctuating the speed of her approach across the boards. Passing Edmund on her way, she paused long enough to fix him with a pointed stare and whisper, "I'll be by to recover Miss Montgomery later. Can I trust your brass butler has enough sense not to take a lady of her caliber to the Golden Stag?" Whatever his answer, Missy did not break her stride, making her way toward Carlo, Alicia, and the corpse of Silas Ward. "Are you all right?" Missy placed a gloved hand on Alicia's back, gently, leaning forward to assess the wound more closely. The assailant may dress herself as a specter, but the cut was as clear as any blade Missy had ever seen. Awaiting Alicia's reply, she tilted her head, eyes attuned to the theater's tricks and charms scanning the rigging for pulleys or loose lines between the narrow gangplanks that served as the upper rigging's catwalks, searching for anything that might give a hint to how Red Jenny had made her fantastic egress. "Mr. Amankona, I see a catwalk above. How is it accessed? Does it connect to the roof at all?" There were a dozen ways Missy had hoped her first words with the magnetic musician would go. Discussing the theater architecture had not been among them, and voicing the pressing inquiry added one more bitter drop to the bile she held in reserve for the phantom. [OOC: Missy didn't see Thane intercept Jane as TIAL-V was escorting her out]

Missy returned Blackwood's condescension with a demure nod, an anxious laugh, and a feeble "of course" that she held up like a paper fan to conceal the 'fuck you' dying to escape her lips. Watching the arrogant man stride away without further comment, Missy was bristling at the almost supernatural speed that those long legs employed to carry the casino owner to the stairwell. She glanced back with a hot sigh, her nose crinkling as she considered rejoining Jane. Not because she thought it was the better plan. It was purely the idea that in these shoes and this skirt, she'd look as if she was scurrying after Edmund Blackwood like one of his harem. Missy was willing to entertain a great many misconceptions about her character, but that idea found space between the adrenaline of the public murder and the anxiety concerning Lady Montgomery's whereabouts to make her skin crawl beneath her opera gloves. "Damn it." Gripping her skirt, Missy plunged ahead, heels stamping the carpet as her shorter strides fought to regain ground she'd lost to hesitation. She reached the ground floor just as Edmund called for Helsink's silence, and in an instant, she took in the scene: the blood on Alicia's hands. As Carlo called back to Blackwood, Missy cast a careful eye about. Helsink. Alicia. Blackwood. Carlo. Miss Gerenhart. And Silas Ward's bleeding corpse. Why had none of them fled? Carlo she could understand. But what were the rest of them doing? Where had Red Jenny gone? What am I doing here? Despite standing off at a distance yet, she felt exposed, the flow of evacuating patrons slowing her advance as much as her own hesitance. But as Helsink's accusing finger turned to the pale young woman cradling the victim once more, Missy felt her caution evaporate in a flare of protective anger. "Mr. Helsink, for decency's sake." Missy crossed to the older man as quickly as she could. Laying a palm on his arm, she took his hand with the other and pressed close. "Now is not the time. We all saw it wasn't Miss Alicia. It couldn't have been her. Please." Missy spoke slowly, a soft pleading in her tone as her face came closer to his ear in order to be heard.

I am concerned (also worried about Thane intercepting Jane, but... one crisis at a time) @MagnificentBastard I'll wait on you here since Edmund has the reaction for this beat. (No rush, just didn't want you waiting on me or anything).

No worries at all! We'll be here.

I think it might be. I'm sorry. I'm not sure why, but I'm having so much trouble being consistent with this one (or just consistent in general right now) and I didn't want to keep stringing you along waiting for a reply from me. It's me. Thank you for being as patient as you have been.

The first scream was ice water down Missy's back. It broke her from the wide-eyed shock that had held her gaze to the stage as surely as a knotted fist grasping the back of her head. A sickening and ominous twist snared her stomach, and Missy felt her mouth go dry as her lips hung apart in a moment of disbelief. It was one thing to hear barroom gossip and read the speculation of the Prospect Junction press. It was another to see the so-called apparition in the flesh. There was no mistaking. No denying. Bright and gleaming with wet blood and steel, it was the phantom. Her phantom. "Missy—what's happening?" Jane's fingers clutched down hard, her own eyes reflecting the bloody red sparkle of Red Jenny's veil along with the last contribution Silas Ward would make to the stage. They had to get away. No, she needed to get Jane away... The Montgomery family couldn't be here while... whatever this was... transpired. Whichever sin of Missy's had caused the imaginary woman to step from her stage show and into the living world, she had to stop it... had to 'undo it', whatever that meant. But she couldn't do it while playing the lady... If Jane saw even a glimpse of the real Missy Fisher... "Come, Jane," Missy said rising smoothly to her feet. Despite her intentions, her came voice clipped and low—too hard for her age—restrained, as if the specter on the stage might overhear and apparate at their side. Tugging at her companion's arm, she urged her to the curtain and into the hall beyond. "Come, we have to leave. Now." "But my mother—!" "—will be fine. I'll... I'll find her. But right now, I need to get you—" Passing through the curtain, Jane let out a frightened squeal as the pair nearly collided with another party making their own swift escape. Two women in scandalously cut corsets flanked an automaton shaped to evoke the image of a gentleman's manservant. Beside them, cutting toward the stairway leading to the ground floor, the tall and richly-dressed figure of Edmund Blackwood was breaking away. Missy's pale eyes narrowed. Why wasn't he fleeing too? The question burned through the chaos like distant cry of a tea kettle through the din, and the tension in the pit of Missy's stomach coiled tighter. Why was the most selfish, self-interested, piggish, scandalous viper-of-a-man it had ever been her displeasure to know... running into danger? There was no time to ponder though. Making a choice, Missy stepped in front of the automaton. She knew it from the frequent overtures Blackwood had made to engage her in his Casino, and while she knew better than to trust the snake-like aura rolling off the moneyed older man, she calculated the clockwork servant would be sufficiently safe... for the moment at least. "Jane, go with them," Missy said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. Then, feigning a softer, concerned glance, she gave Jane's gloved hand a squeeze. "I'll find your mother and meet you outside. Go. Stay with them and you'll be safe. Please, protect her." Addressing the final words to the automaton, Missy rushed past, lifting her skirt to clear her ankles and make a better pace. "Mr. Blackwood," she called ahead. "A moment." As she caught up, Missy turned her eyes on him with a fixed stare that was one-part curious, one-part accusing. "That way is the stage. There's been a murder, Mr. Blackwood. Shouldn't you be evacuating with the rest of them?" Them. Not us.

Guilty. I don't know if recovered is the word, but I'm clear of all the holiday stuff and focused on trying to start this year right. The next person still has their holiday decorations up. (I did! I made them along with a challah loaf braided into a yule wreath, some oatmeal cookies, and homemade vegan eggnog. 10/10, roommate approved, and I will be making them again next year.)

Missy had heard the humming, too. There was something uncanny in the sound, and as Adelaide stood, Missy's spine stiffened, her breath catching as a disquieting in her spirit abruptly arrested her lungs and forced a stillness to better listen closer. She nearly lifted a hand, nearly asked the lady to sit and think nothing of it, to not venture beyond the curtain into the halls. But that was ridiculous. Why should she? People hummed. There wasn't anything odd in it. And they were in a music hall; if there was anywhere one might be expected to wistfully give voice to a nostalgic melody, surely it was a place like this. And yet something in that snippet of sound unsettled her. "Lady Montgomery—" Missy said, her mouth hanging open just a finger's breadth as the older woman turned to face her. As soon as she did, Missy remembered who she was talking to. She remembered what she was here for. The first rule of a con: don't show your hand. State your guesses boldly, and hide what you know with guesses. Missy didn't know what that humming was. Making an assertion about it or acting worried might backfire in ways she couldn't understand yet. Better to play it safe. After all, not even she really knew what disturbed her about the sound... "... The show's starting," Missy said finally. "If there's not an usher at hand, please don't miss Carlo's opening." The older woman gave a light toss of her head and said, "Missy, you're a dear, but I won't be able to enjoy the show until I'm sure some whistling jaybird isn't going to be prancing the halls at my back. Now, you girls enjoy. I'll be back directly." As her mother left, Jane's hand closed around Missy's. The excitement in Jane's breathless voice did a good deal to sweep away the unease in Missy's heart, and with a quick lick of her lips, she leaned in to meet the young aristocrat shoulder to shoulder and nearly ear to ear. "You know... he's not just a singer," Missy said with a conspiratorial grin. "He plays too. I've never seen a man so adept with his... fingering." Slipping her fingertips across the paper-thin kid of Jane's own opera gloves, a stray lock of Missy's hair drifted in the breeze of Jane's fanning as she whispered. "I'm sure Carlo is a man of many talents. And I'm sure no one here would question his stamina... as a performer." With a light laugh at Jane's final comment, Missy replied, "Oh? Well, I suppose we do have high hopes for Carlo. I'm sorry to say, Jane, more often I'm worried if a man can survive ten minutes, let alone the night." The lights began to dim, and Missy looked up, her cavalier attitude banished instantly as she peered through the dark toward the stage.

Missy feigned a respectable shock, covering her mouth with a slight turn of her black-gloved hand to half-obscure her smile. "I know exactly what you mean, Jane. It's like he sends his very soul out to ride on the music. When Carlo performs, I also find myself exceedingly... moved." Capping the comment with a conspiratorial glance to the younger woman, Missy turned her gaze back to the stage. And her mind strayed to the memory of her first time hearing Carlo Amankona. Millicent Fisher had often played the medium and described the sensation of her spirit drifting unmoored above her body like a buoy on the open sea to gawking marks around her séance table. It was a fantasy, spun out of her audience's vague expectations and her own dramatic flair. But when she heard Amankona's song... something in her stirred. Something that had drawn her here tonight. A whisper. A quiet beneath the sound like the animal understanding in the moments before the lantern is blown out and—as Jane had put it—you're bare as the day your were born. It was ridiculous of course. Missy was about as psychic as a jacketed potato. The only 'gift' she had was gab. And she had outgrown silly notions like 'soulmates' almost as quickly as she'd outgrown her first proper bodice. Whatever was happening was strange, but who was to say it was any stranger than the chemical caress of laudanum? Perhaps this musician had discovered the secret of sedative and arousal through the waves of sound. Perhaps it was a passing fancy brought on by nerves. She'd know soon enough. She'd listen and watch, and she'd see. A single bad note or unflattering turn in the melody and she'd see those blue eyes belonged to a man no different from the rest. A flash of silver caught Missy's eye, and a prickle between her shoulders drew her back from her reverie. The smirking stare of Joshua Thane caught her, and Missy felt her stomach sour. She returned the look with a faint smile and the ghost of a nod, the unsettling, knowing look making her pulse jump a moment as she turned away in a show of indifference. But the damage was done. He'd seen her in Adelaide Montgomery's box. And Missy knew what that meant. Any show of her 'good fortune' was an invitation for Joshua Thane to come claim his cut. Swallowing a groan of frustration, Missy wished that at least for this night, the lawman had found some other poor soul to vent his psychopathic misanthropy on. "Oh! Missy. Look there!" Following Jane's fingertip, Missy found the bald spot in the auditorium, like a spot of mange in the rustling dark fur of a dog. And at it's center a pale, slender creature in black frills of a European design. "The vampire..." Jane whispered. Missy felt a note of pity in her chest at the sight. The stares were all too apparent, even from this height. Nobody strayed close. Nobody spoke to her. A few even looked on with open hostility. Though some seemed to keep a polite inattention, including the woman in a pale blue dress who— "Millie?" Missy blinked. The vibrant red hair of the machinist made her identity unmistakable, and a soft chuckle unexpectedly bubbled out of Missy. "Who? What is it? Why are you laughing?" Jane peered over the railing trying to see what Missy had. "Oh, never mind, Jane. It's just... Do you see the woman in the blue dress? There, beside Miss Alicia." Leaning closer, Missy put a hand on Jane's knee. "That's Miss Millicent Gerenhart. She's the engineer at Gearheart Repairs." Jane's dark eyes widened. "No! I've never seen her out of those sooty leathers. Why is she here?" "For the same reason we are, I imagine, darling." Giving Jane a nudge with her shoulder, Missy didn't let on that she'd been thinking the same thing. There was no reason to think Millie hadn't simply come to enjoy Carlo's mystical music. Then again, who was that beside her? And why did she seem so preoccupied? Was it simple coincidence she had taken her seat so near to Alicia? All of these thoughts flashed in Missy's mind. Though, only for a moment. The sight of the lovely mechanic in her folksy, floral-print dress had her realizing the same thing Jane had. She had not seen Millie out of her shop leathers before... And from there, Missy wondered what other outfits she might like to see her out of.

That sounds good to me!

The tamping of the fine carpet under Missy's heels was like the slow tapping of fingertips behind the rainfall cacophony of the music hall crowd finding their seats: dramatic, deliberate, nearly a ceremonial step. Walk slow-like. You move fast an' you'll blend in. Everybody's in a hurry, so you rush and all of a sudden you're just part of everybody. And you're not, Missy Fisher. They don't know it yet is all. So it's up to you to convince 'em. Clarence Whitty's sideshow barker cadence cracked through into Missy's mind, tucking itself between the cool silver blossoms of her Art Nouveau earrings and the silent recital of her prepared greeting for Ms. Adelaide Montgomery. Clarence had been a potent cocktail of father-figure, mentor, boss, and—by the end—lover, and the memory of him sometimes put a sour feeling in her like the first taste of food after a bad night of drinking. After a few years, Missy would have thought all these aphorisms and rules he'd drilled into her would become hers. She'd tried rephrasing them, writing them out, but even now they came out in his voice. That's fine, she told herself. Nobody cares how you know. They only know what they see, and they only see what you show 'em. And with each deliberate step, she showed them. As expected, heads turned, men and women who knew her from her shows at the Lincoln Palace—or from the rumors that inevitably spread about singular women such as herself and Ms. Montgomery. Others turned simply from the banal scandal of an unescorted woman walking through a place as politely carnal as a music hall. Missy knew the effect her silver-grey eyes had on them, particularly in the dim of the gaslight hallways leading to the balconies and box seats. She had chosen a high-throated bodice paneled in a midnight shade that complimented those eyes and drew an inviting backdrop for the provocative aigrette in her slanted hat. If not for the golden brown of her hair and the rosy blush of life in her cheeks and lips, Missy might have looked the part of a daguerreotype picture come to life—as moonlight white and soulless black as the ghosts she communed with in her stage show. There were a few figures whose stares were coarser, the sort that made her answer with an indifferent tilt of her chin or a riposte of a smirk—men whose epauletted shoulders did not shift to allow her to pass, whose golden pocket watches were worth more than her entire wardrobe, including the 'safety cash' she had stored in a set of leather boots in the lowest cupboard of her room at the Lincoln Palace. She had been invited. But those eyes made it clear that did not mean she belonged. A woman in silk ribbons and a hat affixed with a taxidermied swallow made this clear, adjusting her chatelaine as Missy passed and catching a fold of skirt dear enough for the fabric to emit the short scoffing sound of minor rip. A bolt of anger stiffened Missy's spine. A bit of her former life reared in her as her instincts told her to match the insult with a tear of her own across the woman's cheek. Missy paused instead, rooting her feet to the ground. Clasping her hands together, she stilled them and turned to the woman, whose husband seemed unsure whether to meet the gaze as well or to continue pretending that he hadn't already been staring at Missy on her approach. "My apologies, Ma'am," Missy said demurely, lowering her chin just a finger's breadth. She could have walked away then. Should have walked away then. But then she noticed the sidelong look in the husband's eye. Lifting a hand and patting his chest, allowing her fingers to linger a moment, Missy added, "This was my fault, sir. I was thinking of something else. These skirts can be dreadfully difficult to manage in crowds like this." As if to demonstrate, Missy tilted her hip, tugging the edge of the skirt with her free hand as she did. The dark fabric fell against her thigh suggestively, and as the woman's face flushed, her husband gawked then stumbled to catch up and find some reply. Missy simply gave his chest a final pat and walked away. This wasn't the game she'd come to play tonight. "Enjoy the show." By the time she reached the Montgomery family's box, Missy was certain she'd rather be at the Lincoln Palace, having a whiskey and stripping down to her chemise where no one could judge her. But that wouldn't get her anywhere. She was painfully aware of how many bottles her dwindling cash reserves would buy anyway. No. She needed to keep to the plan. Let them say what they like, the vipers. She wasn't part of everybody else. She was Missy Fisher, dammit. "Jane!" Missy's gloved hand swept around the younger woman's shoulder as she bent close in a light embrace, their cheeks touching in a giggling imitation of what Missy had learned was a 'sophisticated' European greeting. Pouring all the affection she could muster into the look, she stood and gave Jane's hands a small squeeze before turning to give a bow to the girl's mother. "Ms. Adelaide. Thank you so much for allowing Jane to invite me. I've been looking forward to this night." Taking her seat, Missy opened her program, her eyes lighting on the prominent name at the center. A familiar name. A flash of otherworldly blue eyes appeared in her mind... and for a moment, Missy forgot to breathe.

Just a couple small points. Your copy has Jack Bennett and I think from my own sheet and the board, it should be Jack Beckett. And Jane Montgomery was moved from Relationships to Resources. She just needs to be added in Resources as... 2d8 Jane Montgomery (Respectability, Sympathy) - She drinks my lies like wine. Daughter of Automaton Heiress, Adelaide Montgomery, Jane lives a privileged life. However, her controlling mother and the expectations of high society have left her anxious and adrift in a sea of contending voices. Private aura readings and spiritual healing sessions with Missy have given her a place to vent her fears.

Missy's Step 9! Draw an arrow from any circle or diamond to another circle, diamond, or square. -Otis 'Sparks' Tully to the Golden Seven Church (Day after day, he can't keep away) Label your arrows to other Lead squares (copy these labels as your relationship statements for each relationship). -Already done Optional: Switch out any Relationship or Resource currently on your sheet for a new Relationship or Resource (the same type you removed) at the same die rating and draw an arrow to a new or existing circle or diamond as appropriate. -Opting not to. Optional: Remove any d4 Relationship and step up another Relationship or Remove any 2d4 Resource and step up another Resource. -Opting not to. Identity: The Mirror You’re the reflection that others don’t want to see, the rival, the opposite, the foil who forces people to face their own truth. You play both sides when it suits you, not because you can’t choose, but because you understand that every choice costs something. Who do you constantly find yourself opposing, and why? What truth are you trying to expose or hide? Do you enjoy the game, or does it weigh on you? Step up a Distinction. -Stepped up Snake Oil Salesman (d4->d6) Step up an Extra or Relationship. -Stepped up Missy's relationship with Kojo (d4->d6) Step up a Relationship, Asset, or Resource. -Stepped up Extra 'Judge' Holland Buck (2d6->2d8) And, I think that's Missy done! We're getting there, and I'm excited! Missy is either at Gearheart Repairs, discussing the logistics of a clockwork stage prop with Millie while she makes it clear how thoroughly impressive she finds her, ooooor she would be at the Montgomery House giving a reading to Adelaide, Jane, or both Montgomery women together. Looking at the board, Joshua Thane and Willis Sloan both look poised to kick a hornet's nest and set drama tumbling. The Exchange's investigations into Alicia and Edmund also feel like they are a fire just waiting for a spark. But I've been interested in seeing where the weird and mystical intersect in our story: the Blue Hour Lady, Red Jenny, the Thane-Cash Music Hall all have a little hook in me (and they feel like they naturally overlap with Edmund, Koto, and Alicia's personal stories).