"There we are," she says at last, brushing away the final shard with a whispery flick. "All better. And really, what does a little munchkin like you need with a mirror anyway?"

There is a pause. A long one, like the hush before a kettle's first breath. Then a voice, very soft and shaped by sorrow, rises like a thread pulled from tangled yarn. "Countess Whisperbane says I'll never get to be my own boss."

"Other people can never decide whether you'll be a boss. That's for you to decide," Eileen says, folding her hands like a teacher offering a gentle scolding over tea. "Countess Whisperbane doesn't know a hushing thing about business if she's teaching you that. If I had to guess, this countess sounds a lot more like a meddling middle manager. And let me tell you, you'll meet a lot of those on your road to personal success."

The Little Wibbler turns, the snakes shifting with her. She glances toward the broken mirror peeking in from the other room, her voice a little stronger now. Not confident, exactly, but poised, as if preparing to start a conversation she's already had. Like someone trying to sound like they belong in a boardroom because they've practiced at night and therefore sound pretty great.

"Yeah, but... the compendium... literally says that using mirrors to practice your sales pitch on ectoplasmic synergy is, like, one of the best ways to start building a phantompreneur mindset. That's how you get rich by scaling your business and finding other like minded bosses. But the countess says that leaning on that kind of strategy means I've got limited downline potential, which could totally mess up my scalable soul targeting residuals."

The Little Wibbler pauses, brow furrowing, snakes twitching as if confused by her own explanation. "And I couldn't find anything about that in the UCAP, but like... all the nobles say the countess has the best closing skills, so…"

Eileen nods slowly, as if any of that made sense. "Is that why the mirror was destroyed in the bathroom?"

"Uhh... yeah. That was step one in the Banshee Breakthrough coaching program that the countess had me sign up for. It's... it's like this whole thing about letting go of physical items that are, um, anchoring your emotional revenue ceiling or whatever. It's supposed to make your growth funnel grow faster. Its a proven technique."

Suddenly, the woman jumps up and she spins into Eileen's arms. No warning, no gasp, no sign of fear. Just as suddenly she decides to push off Eileen in a downward kind of motion, deliberate and strange. Eileen reacts from instinct, catching her awkwardly around the lower waist. It's not a proper catch, but enough to let her land with a soft thump. Where in the Little Wibbler immediately begins rooting through the cushions with intent.

Eileen meanwhile follows tentatively behind, her hands hovering as if waiting to see whether help is still needed. But the girl isn't in distress for her movements are swift and determined, like someone chasing a thought that might escape if not caught quickly enough. "Well. Alright then, Little Wibbler." Eileen says gently, as if nothing about this shift is unusual.

Several seconds pass and the girl rummages deeper until at last there's a small, triumphant sound, a sort of muffled hah, and she draws out a cloak, the color of midnight, heavy-hooded and deep in its folds. Without hesitation, she swings it around her shoulders, layering it right over the bathrobe. The too large cloak settling with eerie precision, like it remembers her. Like it had been waiting, patient and sure, for exactly this moment.

Only then does she turn, facing Eileen directly for the first time. Her entire head disappears into the dark folds of the hood, and with it, the snakes. Even the air seems to hush around her, holding its breath, until Eileen's voice comes soft and steady, the same way one might ask a tulip its name before watering it. "What's your name then, my dear? Let's start with that."

"Xozo. My name is Xozo."

Eileen nods, a smile blooming slowly across her face like something fragrant and pale unfolding in morning light. "That's a very pretty name. My name is Eileen. Would you mind if I asked you more about this coaching program? I would be delighted to hear what neat things the youth get up to."

Xozo looks away, her hood turning toward the hole Eileen had slid in through. For a moment she is quiet, then she looks back, her voice smaller now, but still trying to sound official. "You aren't here to take me away?"

Eileen shakes her head, gentle and slow, the kind of motion made for rocking cradles and calming cats. "No, Little Munchkin. I am here to find the Dawkith Lorth. I need to bring their knowledge up to the standards of modern child rearing. They are severely lacking and in need of updating. But I stopped on my way when I heard some gentle noises from inside. I came to investigate, I'm certainly not here to take anyone away."

She chooses not to mention the disguised state of the hallway outside, just in case Xozo is unaware of it. "So... like... you're not? A phantompreneur boss with a growth mindset?" Xozo asks, and there's a brightness in her voice now, a hopeful rise shaped like relief.

Eileen smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling with fondness, even if she does not understand Xozo's play. "No, I am not Xozo. But I would love if you could tell me more about that and if Eileen is not a name your comfortable with. Call me grandmother or gran gran or sometimes I even respond to Miss Taffy."

Xozo nods quickly, the hood bobbing over her face. Then, with the sudden energy only sixteen year old's and startled goats possess, she grabs Eileen's hand and scrambles up the tunnel. Eileen manages to keep her footing, barely, pulled along like a kite tied to a determined squirrel with an acorn in its mouth.

At the top, Xozo bursts into the open, bumps into a potted plant with a surprised grunt, and tumbles to the floor in a cloak wrapped heap. Eileen follows well enough, though she steadies herself with a hand on a brass wall lamp that shifts but does not fall.

"Are you all right, Xozo?" Eileen wheezes, watching the girl scramble to her feet as the snakes, some of which have fallen from the hood, blink and adjust as if waking from a nap.

Xozo readjusts the hood with both hands, tugging it forward so the fabric swallows her face again. "I mean... I've been better," she mutters. But with no real force in her voice except for the unmistakable sound of frustration given form with a kick to a nearby potted plant. Which wobbles dangerously in its pot, its leaves trembling, but it holds its ground as though used to these outbursts.

"But no matter how many bloody requests I make. The staff just never stop leaving these stupid potted plants outside the entrance to my home! I get it, alright? Everyone keeps saying the Shattered Sun Calendar can't be wrong, but how many freaking times do the dread cogs have to spin and shatter before anyone finally admits that things are breaking down in here?"

She exhales hard, the kind of breath that fogs the air and leaves a tension hanging like a half finished sentence. Then she turns back to Eileen, rubbing one sleeve across her nose in a gesture that flickers between irritation and apology. "Ahhh, Sorry. You said the Dawkith Lorth?"

Eileen nods once, patient as moonlight. "I've never heard of anyone like that in this blasted, soul wretched place," Xozo mutters. "But if anyone can help you, the Ebony Quills can. Follow me."

With one step and a sharp, deliberate kick, Xozo strikes the ornate door in front of them, a thing carved from some lordly old tree, proud in its polish and lined with inlaid roots. The lock gives with a sound like splintered pride, and the door slumps backward, half off its hinges, destined to remain that way for the foreseeable future. But Xozo pays it no mind.

Instead she shoulders whatever remains of the remaining halves open. The hinges creaking with a high wounded groan that sounds vaguely like startled geese. Without turning back, Xozo strides through like a gust grown opinionated, rugs wrinkling in her wake, a tapestry exhaling on a nearby wall. Shadows scurrying off to the corners, ruffled and offended.

Eileen follows, unhurried, her shoes whispering across the stone, a hush behind the storm. The air isn't quite magical, but it has changed, there is less stillness now, more heartbeat.

For the Little Wibbler... the Little Munchkin, the soft eyed thing with too many questions has vanished before her. In her place walks someone louder, unbuttoned, unafraid. A version with sharp corners and no apology.

It is the kind of transformation only the elderly know how to watch for. More a leap then a reveal and a small, crooked smile crosses Eileen's face, the kind you give a fox you raised from a kit when it bares its teeth for the first time and remembers what they are for.

Then Xozo grabs her hand, fast, hot. All at once.

Eileen stumbles half a step. The smile slips, loosens like a button gone soft at the thread. In its place, a soft crease of worry blooms slow and green across her brow, like lichen finding home on old stone.

The hallway ahead stretches longer than it should, lit by thin violet lamps that do not hum so much as remember humming. Not that Xozo seems to notice or care. Her brisk steps carrying her forward with a purpose she does not explain, her cloak sweeping behind her in practiced arcs that feel meant to discourage questions. Eileen lets herself be pulled along, her arm still caught in Xozo's warm grip, her feet just managing to keep pace. It is not quite being dragged, but it is also not quite walking, it is disconcerting.

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When they round the next corner, they slow together, not out of urgency but curiosity. A small spice cart has rolled into view, trundling forward under its own power, looking equal parts dignified and ridiculous. It is made of polished metal and patchwork joints, like a chariot designed for a condiment board and assembled from attic scraps.

Eileen lifts her feet deliberately, coming to a gentle stop. She does not yank Xozo to a halt, but her stillness is enough to anchor them both to the moment. The cart continues its slow, steady pace, as though unbothered by being observed. Its top shelves are crowded with dozens of tiny jars, rattling softly as it moves. Many of the labels are faded or written in alphabets Eileen cannot quite place, some loopy and ornamental, some blocky and abrupt. One even seems to be stitched with embroidery floss.

A few of the jars glow faintly, but most are dull on the outside. It is the contents that shimmer, each one holding something luminous in colors that do not belong on the ordinary spice spectrum. There is a dream orange, a patient blue, and a bitter green that feels like time borrowed too late.

Eileen leans in, fascinated, and the jars begin to whisper. Not all at once, not loudly, but in a soft sequence, like the warmup of a seasoned choir that has no conductor to lead it yet.

"Just a pinch." "Too much is just enough." "You're flavoring for something else." "Someone has oversalted the memory again." "Marinate before metamorphosis." "You call that a rub?"

"Forgiveness simmers. Regret burns."

Xozo hears that last one and plucks the jar from its place without hesitation, tucking it into her cloak as though collecting a receipt. Eileen raises an eyebrow, but the jars continue their murmured procession without missing a beat.

"Your palate lacks closure." "Salt your endings." "Emergency garnish."

Xozo mutters the last phrase, "Emergency garnish." under her breath and gives Eileen a sideways glance. "Don't worry. They don't mind."

The cart gives what could only be described as a polite rattle before moving on, it then veers through a narrow swinging door that Eileen is not entirely sure existed a moment ago. She opens her mouth to ask, but before the question can form, Xozo is pulling her forward again. They turn down a new corridor, and the air changes once more. It now smells of cumin and daffodils and something fibrous, like plant pulp and clay.

It is a scent that Eileen tries to place, something layered and earthen, almost familiar, but her thoughts are swept aside by a sudden burst of steam. It rolls across the hallway in a damp wave just moments before a loud clatter of pans rings out ahead. A heartbeat later, the unmistakable sound of cooking begins... sizzling, hissing, bubbling, only none of it sounds patient. It is food being made in a hurry, food being chased as it cooks.

Xozo pulls them forward through a wide arched doorway, and they enter a kitchen that is somehow both cavernous and full to the rafters. The space is enormous and far too loud. Steam curls from silver pipes that vanish into the ceiling like roots growing upward. Rows of metal prep tables stretch like pews in a sacred hall, and all around them, dozens of penguins bustle with a kind of precision that should not be possible in creatures shaped like this.

Each penguin wears a chef's hat. Not just plain ones, but hats tailored with such care and detail that Eileen feels momentarily underdressed. One has a tiny fork perched in felt above the brim. Another's is stitched with gold filigree, curling into a delicate spiral of spice. Still another wears a ribbon shaped like a flaming spoon. The hats seem to denote rank, or perhaps personality, though the logic behind them is unclear. What is clear is that their is a rhythm for they move in waves, whistling in coded tones, some sharp and short, others long and melodic. Their system is airtight, and not a single one collides, even as they dart and dive between carts, ovens, and precarious stacks of plates.

Eileen watches one penguin leap from a wheelbarrow of cream cheeses, somersault midair, and land squarely atop a teetering stack of teacups without a single chirp. It is breathtaking, and yet the others barely react to the feat. As if to say the action was simply already at the expected level of performance.

Still, for all their spectacle, it is Xozo that holds Eileen's eye. The Little Wibbler slows among them, her steps no longer bold but careful. She tucks her shoulders inward, not shrinking but refining her shape. Her voice, however, has not softened, if anything its gotten louder.

"We need something plump and fresh," Xozo calls out, her words sailing above the clatter and whistle. "Preferably uncooked. So no baking, no roasting, grilling, broiling, frying, boiling, or steaming. Even poaching can be dangerous. Ideally, it should be something just hovering between death states. And it needs a naturally shiny surface."

Eileen pauses only a moment before offering her contribution. "What about drunken shrimp?"

Xozo opens her mouth as if to reply, but before she can speak, Eileen has already moved. She slips between two penguins in deep purple hats who are mid whistle in a tightly choreographed exchange. They fall silent as she passes through, her presence quiet but commanding, the kind of authority only earned through generations of keeping kitchens in one piece.

She approaches a younger penguin at the far end of one of the tables, this one wearing a plain sky blue hat with no stars, no flourishes, just a soft cotton dome that sits a little too far back on its head. It holds a knife awkwardly, flipper bent in a way that makes Eileen's fingers twitch with concern. The blade is too close to its soft feathers, its motion jerky, uneven.

"No, not like that," Eileen says, her voice not sharp but firm, the kind of tone reserved for spilled milk or near misses. She reaches out without hesitation and gently eases the knife from the flipper's grip. "You'll take your body off like that, dear."

The penguin looks up at her with wide, startled eyes. It does not whistle or trill, only watches as she turns the blade slowly in her hands, showing the balance, the weight, the curve of the edge. "Like this," she explains, guiding the flipper back to the handle. "Gentle and even, rock the blade back and forth. Let momentum do the work, the blade wants to help you, dear. Let it."

The young penguin chirps, a soft, high sound, something closer to a sigh than a word. It is not coded. It is simply pleased. Eileen smiles and pats its head once, then twice, returning the knife with both hands like passing over a promise. The penguin receives it with a reverence that makes her heart ache in the most tender way.

When she turns, the two purple hatted penguins are watching. Their stares are not unkind, but they are sharp, assessing, and silent. Eileen straightens her shawl without a hint of apology. "We have to take care of our youth," she says, a phrase shaped more like a proverb than a correction.

Above her a few motes blink into existence.

+3 Green Motes: Broken Pattern Rewoven +1 Brown Mote: Quiet Work Honored

There is a long pause. Then one of the purple hatted penguins waddles forward and silently hands her a slip of red paper. It is glossy and thick, covered in curling white script that loops like vines, elegant and entirely unreadable. Eileen frowns as she turns it in her hand. "I can't make heads or tails of this," she admits quietly.

Xozo peeks over her shoulder, her hood tilting forward. "Oh wow, that's a priority requisition order," she says. "I don't know what it says, but I do know who handles the supply chain in this section."

Eileen nods, tucking the paper carefully into her sleeve. She gives a small wave to the purple hatted penguins, who whistle back in what sounds like a coordinated farewell, their tones low and ceremonial. Together, she and Xozo move toward the back of the kitchen, passing beneath a softly clinking arch made from hanging ladles and wind chimes shaped like smiling dumplings.

Beyond the double doors, the space opens into something vast and echoing. It feels too large to be a kitchen's back room, more like a hollowed cathedral or a repurposed train station, built by someone who loved echoes and thought silence ought to have layers. The walls stretch high into shadow, their upper corners lost in a haze of cool blue light that settles on the skin like water that hasn't yet remembered it's supposed to be wet.

It reminds her of the aquarium tunnels in the capital, the ones that wind beneath saltwater domes and let children press their noses to curved glass to watch silver fish drift past like slow ideas. It has that same hush, the same reverent quality of something delicate moving just out of reach. Or perhaps it is like the space before waking, when the dream has forgotten its own name but still remembers your face.

At the far end of the chamber, three portals hover in quiet sequence. All of them are blue, though each carries a different shade. One leans toward turquoise, light and open like skies on the edge of rain. Another leans deep into navy, almost black, so dark it seems to hum. The third flickers as though water is trying to become static, a slow pulse of light trapped in liquid breath. All three breathe, not with sound but with motion, a slow rhythm that reminds her of lungs beneath bedsheets, quiet and constant.

But Eileen's attention is drawn not to the portals at first, but to something closer. Xozo has stepped forward to approach a towering figure near a central pillar. It is a golem, tall as the ceiling will allow, made from cooled fire basalt and stone shot through with memory. Its joints are shaped like they were carved by centuries, and its surface glows faintly with lines of quartz that pulse beneath the skin like distant lanterns under snow.

Xozo offers the red slip of paper wordlessly, and the golem takes it with careful fingers. It does not speak for its eyes flicker once, a soft checking light behind pale crystal lenses. Then it nods and turns, moving down an aisle with the steady patience of a tide moving through stone.

Eileen watches it go, her gaze trailing after the basalt back until something else catches her eye. A flicker of movement, a glint not quite in place. She turns slightly, drawn by instinct, and sees it. A tall, dark panel of glass fitted into the far wall. Her reflection stands there, just as it should, mimicking her posture and shawl and the slight tilt of her chin.

But the eyes are closed.

Not in sleep or weeping or blinking. Just closed as if the reflection is listening for something. Or waiting for her to do something it cannot begin without.

Eileen does not move closer though and she does not speak to it. It is the kind of stillness that feels like it ought to not be disturbed, and she knows that kind well. Instead, she turns her gaze gently away, back toward the aisle where the golem had vanished.

But it is no longer gone.

She hears it first. The soft, deliberate groan of old wheels turning over polished stone. Then she sees it, returning from the depths of the warehouse with the same slow certainty, though this time it is not empty handed. Behind the golem, a hand truck rolls obediently, its wooden frame trailing a single blue drum strapped tight with leather bindings and runic etchings that glimmer faintly in the low light. The drum itself is glossy and bright, the shade of overdyed denim or wet sky, the kind of blue used for syrup barrels and dream fermenting, or for holding things better left politely unspoken.

Its lid is new, not wood, not metal. Not quite membrane either, but something in between. It shifts faintly with the motion of whatever is inside. Not jostling, not wild, just constant, deliberate, wet.

Eileen steps slightly to one side to view it better, her hand brushing her shawl with the lightest touch, as if to check that it is still there. Her thoughts shifting between fascination and concern. She is not yet afraid, but she is no longer entirely sure that fear would be out of place for what could these Ebony Quills possibly need a drum like this for.

Something wriggles beneath the surface of the lid or many somethings, more likely. But it is difficult to say, the motion is smooth but irregular, like fingers pressing against thick glass or sea creatures curling toward light they cannot quite reach.

"Oh wow," Xozo breathes, stepping forward and peering into the drum with something close to delight. "Say whatever you want about the black tux syndicate, they sure are great at figuring out parties and gifts."

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