Redemption of Eva

Coming Soon!

    The Narrow Way stretched to the horizon as Eva walked, her hand tucked in Perry’s.  A warm breeze stirred the air, carrying the earthy scent of ripened grain.  A nightingale sang nearby—a rich, fluid tapestry of gurgles, trills, and whistles.

    To her surprise, the lands of Beelzebub stretched beyond the Wicket Gate.  A stone wall flanked the path, dividing it from an orchard—but whether it was meant to keep pilgrims out, or to protect them, Eva couldn’t tell.

    Heavy boughs of small, pale, lustrous fruit spilled over the wall here and there.  She recognized it.  Nobles in Carnal Policy were fond of it—though she doubted any of them truly knew what it was.  The game was to see how much one could eat before falling ill.  Some of the stories she’d heard couldn’t possibly be true.  That much would surely kill a man.

    But she knew.  When she needed solitude—to think, to mourn a love that never was—she’d sit on the ferry landing, toes trailing in the River of Confusion, gazing at the ancient tree in the distance.  The Tree of Knowledge.  Its roots gripped the swirling waters, and it rose far above all others.  But the fruit was the same.

    She recognized it at once.  She’d read about it in one of the books she’d stolen from the chapel in the Dark-Lands.  Or was it from a wager she’d won with the vicar’s son?  It had been a long time ago.

    She reached toward the fruit—but her eyes caught Perry’s.  “The misery this fruit has brought into the world,” she murmured.

    Perry’s eyes flickered, and his jaw tightened—just slightly.  But he said nothing.  Made no move to stop her.

    She plucked the nearest fruit, her hand trembling slightly.  “Such a simple matter,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands.  “And yet…”

    She lifted her gaze and met Perry’s eyes.  Was he the man she believed him to be?  She held the fruit out.  “If I gave this to you… would you eat it?”

    “No,” he said, without glancing at the fruit—his gaze never leaving her.  His eyes told her he knew exactly what it was.

   “If I ate it?” she asked, raising it to her lips, which parted slightly.  “Would you follow me into ruin?”

   “No,” he repeated—calmly, but his expression flickered with pain.

    “He showed great love,” she said.  “Adam,” she clarified.  “He knew he was incomplete—and chose to be damned with her rather than left alone.”  

    Perry nodded slowly.  

    Eva let the fruit fall from her hand and exhaled.  “But you are not Adam,” She paused. “You’re something more.”  Bitterness curled in her chest.  Why had she tested him?

   “And I am not Eve,” she said quietly.  “I know what she didn’t—what she couldn’t.”  She swallowed hard.  

    “The pleasure that goes with it—but the guilt afterward.  Sweet, innocent Eve couldn’t have known.  That wasn’t love.”

    Eva forced herself to meet Perry’s gaze.  “I know because I’ve eaten the fruit.”  What will you do with me now?  The question stayed on her tongue, unspoken.

    Perry’s gaze was steady, warm.  “If the Prince doesn’t condemn you… how could I?”

   Then he extended his hand.  “Come, my dearest, the Interpreter’s House awaits.”

    Eva steadied her trembling hands as she stepped into Beelzebub’s throne room.  Perry’s boots struck the obsidian floor beside her—slow, even.  

    He will die.

    But he didn’t know.  He couldn’t.  He hadn’t seen what Megaera had shown her.  Megaera only showed truth.  That much she knew.  But she didn’t know what that truth meant.  You will walk alone.  The words haunted her.  Not yet. Not today, she pleaded.

    Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as they neared the throne.  It was carved from dark stone, etched with glowing silver script. Lamps of pale flame flickered in the alcoves, casting an otherworldly glow across the chamber—like moonlight with no sky.

    Perry stopped abruptly—just beyond the reach of the one seated on the throne.  Dread Lord Beelzebub.  Clad head to toe in black iron, spiked and etched with silver.  The opening of the helm showed nothing.  No eyes.  No face.  Just darkness.

    Beelzebub didn’t move.  He simply sat in silence, waiting.  Watching.  Eva could hear her own breathing, louder than she liked.  Ragged.

    Beelzebub rose.  There was no creak of armor.  Just silence, deafening in its weight.  Perry stepped forward, placing himself between them.

    “I am Peregrine Graycloak,” he said.  “Guardian to Lady Evadne.  Stand aside and let her pass.”

    Beelzebub’s helm tipped slightly.  “Guardian,” he said.  The words dragged.  “You?”  He stepped down from the throne.  Perry’s hand tightened on his staff.  “Mud on your boots.  Threadbare tunic clinging from the Slough.  Staff in hand, as if that means something.”  Another step down.

    Perry raised a fist.  “You should know better than to judge by appearances,” he said, voice calm, without a trace of anger.  He opened his hand.  The silver light caught the deep blue of the ring.

    “I hold the authority to summon Michael and bring this castle down stone by stone.  If a single hair on her head is harmed, nothing will remain standing.”

    Eva tensed.  He was telling the truth—but he’d added something.  She recognized the mask.  She’d seen it the first time they met.  Like a child playing with his father’s weapon, unaware of its true power.

    Beelzebub turned away from him and stepped toward her.  Perry’s grip tightened on his staff.  Her daggers called to her.  No. Not yet.

    Beelzebub reached into his armor, fingers closing around something unseen.  She froze.  Then forced herself upright, chin lifted the way she’d been trained.

   And then— he knelt.  The breath left her in a sharp gasp, the shock hitting harder than any blow ever could.

    Beelzebub lifted his head, the void of his helmet fixed on her.  Then he raised a hand.  In his iron gauntlet, he held a silver necklace—delicate and cold as moonlight.  A single blooming lily hung at its center, each petal etched with faint lines that shimmered like starlight caught in water.

    “You won’t understand yet.  But when the time comes, you’ll remember this moment.  Summon, and I will come.”

    Eva did not move at first.  She stared at the Dread Lord, still kneeling before her.  Her eyes caught the faintest etching of the same lily on his breastplate.  She glanced at Perry.  He nodded.  Then she stepped forward and took it from Beelzebub’s outstretched hand. 

    Beelzebub remained kneeling until Eva stepped back.  He said nothing more.

    The Wicket Gate lay just ahead.  Alecto led them back through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, returning to the place she had confronted them.

    Eva ran her thumb over the silver lily in her palm, as if weighing what it had cost—and what it still might.  Then she slipped it into the hidden pocket of her dress.

   She turned to Perry.  “Come, my dearest,” she whispered.

Commentary on Beelzebub

–

Dear Thoughtful—

    I was delighted to read in your letter that Perry and Eva’s encounter with Beelzebub took you by surprise.  That was exactly the effect I hoped to achieve.  I did leave a hint, though—on page 159 of the bound copy of Tears of the Elect I sent you, with a fuller explanation on page 352.

    This choice was not arbitrary.  It’s deeply rooted in the mythology I’ve built for the Dream-Lands.  This scene strikes at the very heart of who, or what, Beelzebub is supposed to represent in my stories.

    The first clue lies in Eva’s trials at the hands of the Furies.  I chose to portray Alecto not as the demonic force Bunyan describes, but to return to her roots in Greek mythology—as a pure force of justice.

    Tisiphone’s trial represents the inescapability of guilt—where no excuse, cause or reason can absolve it.  Alecto embodies the unforgiving weight of wounds inflicted by others.  Megaera tests loyalty, no matter the cost.  This should prompt the question: is Beelzebub truly evil?  The answer is no.

    The closest analogy—though not a perfect one—is Destruction from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman.  When you first introduced me to the series, I was struck by how closely its themes align with my own.  I suspect Gaiman has read a fair amount of French philosophy, especially Michel Foucault.

    Eva’s story takes place just before Christiana begins her journey with her sons—placing it around 1684.  Destruction, from what I can tell, abandons his post around 1689, for the same reason Beelzebub does.

    Michel Foucault identifies this period as the beginning of what he calls a new “episteme”—one that ushered in the Enlightenment, the French and American Revolutions, and the rise of modern thought, including democracy and capitalism.  In this new order, the overt oppression of Beelzebub is replaced by subtler forms of coercion.  Mammon.

    Destruction recognizes this shift and chooses to step away, while Dream resists—and dies.  In The Sandman, Dream embodies myth and narrative, which cannot survive the dissection of postmodern thought.

    Tears of the Elect parallels this perfectly.  It is the story of how I became disillusioned with the “old books”—the expectations and disappointments of the abandoned castle, the open gate, and the missing Cross.  The ruined Interpreter’s House symbolizes the loss of meaning in life, and the crumbling House Beautiful represents the modern church.  In other words, the death of the Dream.

    But Gaiman, like me, doesn’t fall into the nihilism of postmodern thought.  Instead, he moves forward into what some call post-postmodernism—or metamodernism.  One of the key ideas in metamodern thought is “ironic sincerity,” popularized by writers such as David Foster Wallace.  Hence, the rebirth of Dream.  The return of meaning in the face of modern life.  In my case, this is reflected in the Interpreter and Sophia in Vanity.

    I’ve tried to write a layered story—though perhaps not very well.  None of what I’ve explained should be necessary for the average reader to understand.  Tears of the Elect can simply be read as the story of how I learned to be faithful to Beautiful and my family.  And Redemption of Eva as a story about a love willing to descend into Hell and rise to the heights of Heaven.  Perhaps it’s a modern retelling of Dante and Beatrice.

    There is more mystery about Beelzebub that I haven’t revealed—though I’ve left several clues, both in this scene and in Tears of the Elect.  I hope this eventual reveal is just as unexpected as this one was!

Sincerely,

Seeker

Dear Thoughtful—

    I sit in my study now, looking out over the River of Life, beginning to write the story of my life—how I left Uncertain, and everything that followed.  As you know Stephen King once wrote:

Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art.  The water is free.  So drink.

Drink and be filled up.

    I was once told that my writing style most closely resembles Tolstoy—but when I first opened War and Peace, I was immediately humbled.  My work felt amateurish and childish by comparison, especially when it came to dialogue.

    So I came up with a plan: I would rewrite War and Peace as a practice exercise—set in the Dream-Lands I love and call home.

   War and Peace opens with a party scene.  One phrase kept echoing in my mind: Party at Wanton’s.  I thumbed through the book Beautiful gave me and found the passage: 

Then Miss Light-Mind added as follows: ‘Come, put this kind of talk away. I was yesterday at Madame Wanton’s, where we were as merry as the maids. For who do you think should be there, but I, and Mrs. Love-the-Flesh, and three or four more, with Mr. Lechery, Mrs. Filth, and some others. So there we had music and dancing, and what else was meet to fill up the pleasure. And I dare say, my lady herself is an admirably well-bred gentlewoman, and Mr. Lechery is as pretty a fellow.’

    Madame Wanton fit the profile of Anna Pavlovna perfectly.  I would attend her party and speak with each guest, beginning with Miss Light-Mind, recording every conversation.  But even Dreams have rules—and they were only characters in my Book.

    So I created a Dream within a Dream—and a character to represent me:  Perry.  He had no backstory, no defined personality.  And yet, he chose his own name.  I can’t explain it.  As an act of pure mischief, I modeled his appearance on Faithful—the one Madame Wanton once tried to seduce at the Hill of Difficulty.

    My instructions to him were simple:  he would speak to one character per scene.  He could say or do anything he wished—free of consequence.  After recording each encounter, I would reset the Dream, and he could begin again.  Over and over, until he—or rather I—had learned to capture character and craft dialogue perfectly.  No one would remember anything—except him.

    His first attempt was a disaster.  He quoted Prince Vasily from War and Peace verbatim—but delivered it so poorly that Madame Wanton mocked him.  Miss Light-Mind only wanted to dance.  When he tried to pull her over for a quiet conversation, she immediately lost interest.  

    He seemed almost panicked by the experience.  I reassured him he could try again—this time, to capture Prince Vasily’s insincerity and simply dance with Miss Light-Mind.  But something strange happened.  Madame Wanton remembered.  And as he approached Miss Light-Mind again, Miss Inconsiderate bumped into him.

    Miss Inconsiderate’s personality completely took me by surprise—she was nothing like I imagined.  Her clumsiness and insecurity were so endearing that I felt a pang of heartbreak when I reset the Dream for Perry.

    Then Madame Wanton remembered again.  Their dance struck me as particularly strange—more a duel than a waltz.  And her name… Evadne.  Where had that come from?

    I was just about to reset the Dream again when she knocked on Perry’s door.  Her simple dress—and the name Eva—caught me off guard.  I watched, curious, as she led him outside the City and began to tell her story in the moonlight.

    But something didn’t make sense.  Perry could feel it too.  Why had she dragged him into the night just to tell him about herself?  Surely she knew she would remember again?

    It’s no exaggeration to say I was dumbstruck when she announced she wanted to go to the Celestial City and place her invitation in the King’s hand.  So much for my plans about dialogue writing and War and Peace.

    Eva has proven a particularly stubborn character to write.  She refuses to do anything she doesn’t want to.  I’ve discovered this more than once—especially when she chose to endure the mud of the Slough rather than ever set foot in Carnal Policy again to take the bridge there.

    For now, she waits patiently at the Wicket Gate.  Good-Will has washed her feet, and she seems perfectly content to remain there with Perry while I write my own story.

    So I pick up my pen and begin to write—about how Mom and Dad abandoned me in Uncertain.  When I finish, I’ll bind and send you a copy.  Then, I’ll return to Eva and Perry’s story.

Sincerely,

Seeker

    Eva followed the Furies through the small village at the foot of the castle.  The people looked broken—like they had once set out on a purpose and failed and now couldn’t bear the weight of what that failure had cost.

    Perry walked beside her in silence—offering neither his hand nor his arm.  She was grateful for that.  Something in his bearing radiated quiet confidence… in the Author, perhaps.  She was grateful for that too.  There was no fighting the Furies.  No escape. But with him here, it felt… bearable.

    A stairway was carved into the stone of the hill.  At its summit, the massive portcullis stood open—waiting to devour them.

    In the courtyard, Tisiphone turned to face Eva, her sisters slipping into shadow.  The folds of her robe drank what little light remained.  Her gaunt face was lined with age—but there was nothing fragile in it.  This was the face of punishment that neither forgets nor forgives.

    In her hands, she cradled a human skull, her fingers resting against its teeth like punctuation.  Her expression revealed nothing—neither rage nor grief—but the cold finality of one who passes sentence without appeal.

    Tisiphone’s deep-set eyes did not blink—they only weighed.  Eva couldn’t look away.  They pulled at her, drawing her inward.  And when she blinked, she was no longer in the courtyard.  She was back in the Dark-Lands.

    Vee sat upright in the bed she shared with her older sister.  She was already gone.  The other bed was empty too—both had risen with the sun and gone to work in the fields.

    She packed quickly—some bread, her notebook, all she had.  Her hand reached for the curtain that separated the sisters from where her mother and father slept… but then she paused.

    She knelt and pulled a small box from beneath her sister’s bed, rummaging through its scraps and broken combs.  Her fingers found a pale blue satin ribbon—frayed at the ends, just wide enough to tie back her hair.  Her sister wouldn’t miss it.  But she didn’t tie her hair.  She slipped it in her pocket.

    Vee’s mother stood next to the stove, her back to her, stirring the pot slow and steady—just as always.  Her hands were stained and cracked; nails worn down to the beds.  Nothing like Vee’s own.

    She wanted to say, There’s more to me than this.  Or, I have to find out who I am.  She was Evadne.  Not Vee.  Not Vadna.  She had rehearsed it.  But in the silence, the words wouldn’t come.  She simply opened the door, stepped outside, and let it close behind her.  It was the softest sound she’d ever heard—yet somehow, it still echoed.

    She started toward the inn where the trader was staying—but Tisiphone stepped into her path.  She said nothing.  But the silence demanded an answer.

    Eva had no excuse.  She lowered her head.  “I hurt them, leaving like that,” she said softly.

    Eva blinked—and she was back in Beelzebub’s Castle.  Tisiphone was gone.  Alecto and Megaera stood before her, waiting.

–

    Alecto led them deeper into the castle’s labyrinth—dim corridors where torchlight flickered against cold, dark stone.  Then, without warning, she stopped and turned.  Her eyes were no longer molten bronze but deep impenetrable voids.  Ragged wings unfurled behind her.  A whip coiled in one hand.  She stepped forward, seized Eva by the hair, and yanked her close.

    Eva uncurled her fist and slapped Alecto—hard.  But Alecto didn’t flinch.

    She blinked.  It wasn’t Alecto she’d slapped—it was another aspirant at the boarding house in Carnal Policy.  Evadne twisted, trying to wrench free from the grip in her hair.  Bitch.  She thought it, but didn’t dare say it.

–

   “Lady Evadne,” the headmistress said, drawing out the title with a curl of contempt.  “You will learn to control yourself.”   Or?

    “Yes, mistress,” she said through clenched teeth.  She hastily smoothed her hair and rumpled dress, slipped off her shoes, and knelt—soles of her feet turned upward.

    The rod came down—swift and hard—across the soles of her feet.  Where the “gentlemen” she entertained wouldn’t see.  The pain was blinding, but Evadne made no sound.  She would smile.  She would flirt.  Just as she’d been taught.  Not retreat to her bed like the others.  She’d be seen—poised, pleasant, untouched.

    When the blows ceased, she rose slowly—wincing but silent.  Alecto stood before her, impassive, whip still in hand.

    “They hurt me.  Badly.”  Eva lifted her chin.  Alecto’s eyes met hers—once again molten bronze—then she turned and continued down the corridor.

–

    At last, they came to a massive doorway—thick wood bound in black iron.  Alecto and Megaera turned to face her.

    Megaera stepped forward.  She looked young, but there was nothing soft about her.  Her long red hair was tied with a large black bow—mocking innocence.  Her dress was formal, immaculate: a black corset, puffed white sleeves, lace trim.  Her smile was cold and hard, like it had been painted onto porcelain.

   Megaera gave a formal curtsy and gestured for her to step forward.  

    Lady Evadne stood on the marble bridge of Carnal Policy, gazing over the rails at the mud of the Slough.  She had read his letter a thousand times.  He’d promised he would come.  Promised they would be together.  But the sun was nearly set.  He had never intended to build something true.  The words stung.  They are all the same—every aspirant knew that.  She had been a fool to believe otherwise.

–

    She just walked away.  The lies and rumors followed quickly.  They called her Wanton.   So, she threw parties.  Wore the mask.

    She stared at Megaera, impassive.  She had no answer—and would give her none.

–

    The air around Eva thickened with sulfur.  Patches of flame burned across the scorched ground.  She was… underground?  Blood dripped from the daggers in her hands.  She wiped them clean on her dress—already stained with blood and gore—then slid them back into her sleeves.  It was a dress she’d never worn before—white, embroidered with silver.  And this was a place she’d never seen.

    The awareness hit hard.  This wasn’t memory.  This time, Megaera was showing her what would come.

    A sword and shield lay discarded at her feet.  She pulled off her helmet and dropped it beside them, breath heavy.  Before her loomed a massive shape, indistinct in the dim, flickering light.  At its side, crumpled and still, was a smaller figure. Perry!

    She ran to him and dropped to her knees, clutching his hand in both of hers.  His body was broken, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath him.  He looked at her, eyes soft.  “Eva,” he whispered—then coughed, choking on blood.  “I’m sorry.”  His eyes fluttered.  “I never told you, I…”

    The words died on his lips.

    His gaze lost focus.

    His breath stopped.

    Eva kissed his face again and again, her tears falling hot and unchecked.  “How am I supposed to live without you?” she whispered, voice breaking.

    She blinked.  She was once again standing before Megaera.  They are all the same.  He will leave you.  The words weren’t spoken—but they hung in the space between them.  When Megaera finally spoke, her voice was flat.  Cruel.  “In the end, you will walk alone.” 

    Eva didn’t hesitate.  Her eyes locked on Perry, standing at her side.  “I still choose him.”

    Megaera turned without a word and stepped into the shadows.

    Alecto swung the door wide.  

   “The Dread Lord Beelzebub will see you now.”

    Perry stood at the crossroads, studying the paths.  Behind them lay the Slough.  Ahead the road widened and curved gently left.  To the right, a narrower trail rose toward Sinai—the path Mr. Worldly Wiseman had taken back to Morality.  Perry extended his hand to Eva.

    Eva pointed to a cloud drifting overhead.  “Look,” she said.  “He waited for us.”

    Before them lay a faint trail—barely visible, but there.  This was the way the Bear was leading.  With her free hand, Eva brushed aside a cobweb stretched between two trees, and with the other, gently drew Perry forward.

    A brilliant light shone from a wall that stretched from mountain range to rocky outcropping.  The Bear waited patiently above it.

    “The Wicket Gate,” she said.  “Mr. Wiseman would call it the way of fools.  Tribulation.  Peril.  Persecution.  Hunger.  Nakedness.  The sword.”  She smiled slightly.  “And it’s the way forward.”

    Perry made out a small wooden gate set into the wall—aged timber, washed in the beacon’s glow.  The wall ended at a sheer cliff face, barren but for wind-scoured grass and jagged rock.  Atop it perched a castle of black stone, slick with old rain—and older blood.  Its towers leaned slightly toward the Wicket Gate, as if keeping watch.

    Wooden hoarding jutted from the parapets—temporary, ramshackle platforms lashed to the upper walls.  Perry could feel them before he saw them—the goblin archers crouched in silence, waiting.

    “I was never going to turn back here,” Eva muttered, glancing once at Perry.  Come, if you are coming.

    “And I was never going to leave your side,” he said—more to himself than to her.

    The castle stood in absolute silence.  No creak from the hoardings.  No whisper from the towers.  Only the shadows of drawn bows flickered.

    Mud squelched beneath their boots.  Somewhere in the stillness, a hound growled low.  The air was taut—like the silence itself was waiting for permission to become violence.

    Eva’s gaze lingered on the towers, on the unseen archers, then on the hound crouched in the grass.  Her posture didn’t shift.  Her hands didn’t tremble.  She took a step forward.

     “If I’m going to be shot,” she murmured, “let it be standing tall.”  Each step forward was deliberate.  Measured.  Defiant.

    The Bear watched over them, calm and steady, from above the Wicket Gate.

    “Dread Lord Beelzebub demands your presence, Lady Evadne.”  The voice rang out—cold and merciless.  

    A figure stepped from the shadows, cloaked in deep charcoal.  Her hood shadowed eyes that glinted like molten brass.  Veins of dull gold threaded her robes—cracks in the darkness, like lightning caught and frozen.

    Around her neck hung a heavy key on a cord.  Not decorative.  Not symbolic.  Functional.  At her back, a scabbard, contents unseen.  Her face was as cold as her voice—sharp-angled, with a beauty so terrible it could not be held.  Or even admired.

   Before Perry could blink, Eva dropped into a fighting stance, daggers already in her hands. 

    Perry reached into his satchel and withdrew a ring—gold, thick, and warm to the touch.  It was encircled with a continuous inlay of lapis lazuli, deep blue and veined like a night sky caught in stone.

    The Author had given it to him while Eva slept in the thicket.  He’d said something Perry hadn’t quite understood—about deus ex machina, and someone named Chekhov.  But he’d said Perry would need it.  And that he’d know when.  Perry was sure this was the when.

    His grip on the staff eased—just slightly.  “Lady Evadne,” he said—quiet, steady—as he stepped in front of Eva.  Or so he hoped he sounded.

    Eva stood tall again, her daggers vanished to wherever they’d come from.  Her jaw tightened, her voice low.  “I’ve heard of her,” she said.  “The one who writes the names.  Keeps the debts.  Locks the doors.”  She tilted her head slightly.  “If I refuse, she’ll follow.  If I go, she’ll try to keep me.”

    She exhaled—just once.  Not in fear, but in resolve.  Then she stepped forward and stood next to Perry.  

    “I’ll go,” she said at last.  “But not because Beelzebub”—her voice dropped—“or Alecto demands it.”

    Alecto stepped forward, her cloak whispering over the grass.  The hound at her side didn’t flinch.  Didn’t growl.  From the shadows behind her, Alecto’s sisters emerged.

“The Furies,” Eva whispered. “Alecto. Tisiphone. Megaera.”

    Tisiphone was robed in red so dark it nearly bled into black.  Her eyes were rimmed in ash, her mouth set in perpetual judgement.  She carried an unlit brand that smoked faintly, the scent of scorched justice trailing her like a veil.

    Megaera was the smallest of the three.  Her bare arms were knotted with cords—names once whispered in rage.  She carried a dagger carved from a single ivory tooth.  Her smile was a crack in porcelain.

    They did not speak.  Instead, they walked a slow arc around Perry and Eva.  Not touching or threatening.  Just seeing.

    Alecto raised her voice—flat and precise.  “The Lady Evadne and her companion.  By command of Dread Lord Beelzebub.”

    With that, the three Furies turned and led the way.

 

    Perry felt Eva’s hand tighten in his as they spotted the gentleman standing just off the path beside a weathered milestone.  He carried a modest satchel, and a writing quill was tucked neatly behind his ear.  This had to be Mr. Worldly Wiseman—the one Perry had heard about.

    The man stood tall—too tall, as if posture could substitute for presence.  His boots gleamed, and his spectacles gleamed even more.  He looked like someone who had never sweated, never stumbled, never doubted.  And yet, something in his stance felt brittle, as though he had mastered everything—except how to face someone who no longer sought his approval.

    Perry released her hand and stepped back—just enough for her to breathe, but close enough so she’d feel he was still there.

    Mr. Wiseman’s face lit with pleasure.  “Evadne!” he said warmly, as if greeting a favorite pupil.  “By heaven, you’ve traded silk for sackcloth.  And yet—you’ve never looked more luminous.”

    If he noticed the mud on her, he gave no sign.  He didn’t glance at Perry.  Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.  His attention belonged entirely to her.  Eva didn’t smile.  Didn’t flinch.

    “It’s Eva,” she said simply.    

     Mr. Wiseman laughed—not with mockery, but with a practiced warmth.  “Of course.  Eva.  Forgive me.  Names are slippery things.  I’ve known you through many.”  He stepped closer, eyes watchful.  “You look like someone heading into the unknown.  How fortunate I happened to be passing through.”  He gestured toward a narrow path that veered off to the side.  “There’s a village nearby.  Fresh bread.  A decent bath.  And I still have friends who could help you both…”

    Then, as an afterthought:  “…Unless of course, you are bound for the Wicket Gate.  But surely you know better than that by now.”

    Perry bowed with a quiet flourish.  “Mr. Worldly Wiseman.  Your reputation precedes you.”  He glanced at the man’s coat—purple and green, trimmed in gold.  “Tell me,” he added, “how have you come so far without a speck of dirt on you?”  Then with a touch of mock formality.  “Forgive me, my lord.  I haven’t introduced myself.  I’m Perry.”

    Mr. Wiseman watched the bow with a theatrical smile.  “A pleasure, Mr. Graycloak.”  Mr. Graycloak.  Not Perry.  This wasn’t a chance encounter.

    His eyes drifted in the direction of the Slough.  “Yes… dreadful place, isn’t it?  But no—I didn’t come that way.”  He tapped his satchel.  “I came down the winding road from Morality.  By way of Sinai.”  He smiled, pleasant as ever.  “You must know—if one carries the proper credentials, the descent—or ascent—isn’t so treacherous.  You simply need to present the right papers.”  He lifted a brow.  “Shall I write you a letter of passage?”

    His eyes flicked—just once—to Eva.  He’s not your equal, you know.  But I’ll be kind.  The words weren’t spoken, but they hung in the air all the same.

    “Letter of passage?” Perry blinked.  “I’ve walked the streets of Morality.  Prayed in its cathedral.  But I don’t recall needing a letter.”  He tilted his head slightly.  “It is, as I’m sure you know, far easier to reach Morality by way of the bridge in Carnal Policy.”

    Mr. Wiseman’s expression shifted—something like admiration.  “Ah.  But you were a visitor, not a resident.”  His tone changed—measured, deliberate.  “A pilgrim may wander Morality.  Even kneel in its chapels.  But to influence it… one must have standing.”  He leaned in slightly.  “And standing, Mr. Graycloak… doesn’t come from devotion.”  He let the silence stretch. Then with a half-wink, added, “You wouldn’t believe what they let you carry—provided the paperwork’s in order.”

    He turned to Eva.  The shift in tone was subtle—like music changing key.  “She understands, of course.  She once knew the city well.”  His eyes swept over her patched dress and scarf still flecked from the Slough.  “Though she chose to turn away from it, to walk a harder road.”

    Something darker slipped into his voice—not cruel, but deft.  The old blade, sheathed in concern.  “Tell me, Eva.  When you left Carnal Policy, did you truly believe they would let you back in?  You were a beloved figure—respected, protected.  But a woman who disappears is rarely welcomed home with open arms.”

    Eva’s jaw tightened.  Her eyes narrowed.  “Maybe I don’t want to go back,” she said, cool and controlled.

    “Then why do you carry… that?”  His gaze dropped to the oilskin pouch, knotted at Perry’s belt.

    Eva stood very still.  She didn’t look at him—only the lingering gray of the Slough.  She didn’t notice Mr. Wiseman’s gaze on the oilskin bundle.  Instead, a flicker of confusion crossed her face, and her hand darted to the hidden compartment in her sleeve.

    Then—“Because I don’t know if the King sent the invitation… or if He wants it back.  Because I want it to be real, and I don’t trust myself to know if it is.  Because if I throw it away—and it was meant for me—I’ll have proven them right.”

    She looked up at Mr. Wiseman.  Not defiant, not angry.  Just exposed.  “That I was only ever what they said I was.”  She didn’t blink.  She didn’t cry.  She just stood.  In truth.

    With the faintest curve to her lips: “But I didn’t come back to ask permission.  I’m walking forward now.  Mud and all.”  She stepped closer.  “And when I reach the gates… I’ll give it to the King myself.”  Then she stepped back—and said nothing more.

    Perry spoke.  “Tell me, Mr. Wiseman… is there anything you love without gain?  Is a prayer in Morality’s cathedral worth less because it’s offered by a pilgrim?  This is the path Evadne has chosen.”

    Mr. Wiseman’s smile faded.  He drew a slow, searching breath.  “Ah,” he said quietly.  “That’s the question, isn’t it?  Is there anything I love… without gain?”

    He looked past Perry.  His voice dropped—not bitter, not sly.  Almost tender.  “I once believed I did.”  There was a young man—a student of mine.  Earnest.  Bright.  He came to me with trembling hands and a fire in his eyes.  He wanted to walk to the Gate.”  He paused.  “I told him how hard it would be.  How long.  How uncertain.  But he went anyway.  And I…” He hesitated.  “I marked the day he would return.”

    He looked at Perry—tired now.  “But he never did.  And I wonder… did I love him?  Or did I only love being the one he came to before he left?”  He adjusted his coat.  Straightened it.  The moment passed.

    “So, to answer your question… I try not to love what I cannot influence.  It keeps the heart quieter.”  He glanced between them.  But you, you’ve chosen the noisy road.  Both of you.”  He looked at Eva one last time.  “I do not condemn you.  But I do not envy you either.”  He picked up his satchel.  “I hope you find what you’re looking for.  I truly do.”

    And with that, he turned and walked, calmly, deliberately, back toward the winding road to Morality.

     Perry turned to Eva.  “I almost pity him.  Almost.”

    “Almost,” she echoed, softer still.

    She stood in silence a long while.  Then said, “He taught me how to speak like that.  To answer without answering.  To wound with concern.  To offer a letter while stealing the pen.”

    Her voice wasn’t bitter—just worn, like fabric frayed at the edges.  “I used to think I could keep up.  Now I know… I was just afraid to be simple.”

    She looked down the path ahead and the Bear, waiting.  “I don’t want to be clever anymore.  I want to be understood.”  She turned to Perry.  “Even if I don’t like what it shows me.”

    Eva gazed down the path as it vanished into the pale haze.  She lifted her hand and slowly traced the shape of a cloud—an ear, a shoulder, a paw.  Her movements were deliberate, like she was remembering something the rest of the world had forgotten.

    She felt Perry’s eyes on her—not on the sky, but the movement of her hand.  She didn’t turn.  Didn’t speak.  But part of her wanted to ask what he saw.  It wasn’t just a cloud.  She was tracing a constellation from memory.

    She started with the tail and traced along its back.  The way it curled over the sunlit clouds was strangely familiar.

    “Do you see the Bear?” she asked, eyes still on the sky.

     He followed the motion of her hand until he found it too—and smiled.  “I do,” he said.   “Let’s walk, dearest.”

    They moved together, their steps soft along the path.  She listened to the hush of his footsteps falling in rhythm with hers.  Or maybe hers had fallen into step with his.  It didn’t matter.

   Their sleeves brushed with every stride.

   Footstep.  Sleeve.

   Footstep.  Sleeve.

    The birds sang in the hedges nearby, and above them, the Bear walked too—silent, high, and watchful.

    Eva tilted her head back, letting the sun chase away the chill the Slough had left on her skin.  She brushed at the dirt flaking from her sleeves, but it clung stubbornly.  The scent of the mire still lingered in the folds of her clothes.

    When the wind shifted, it carried the stench back to her.  She shivered.

   Perry offered his arm.  She didn’t hesitate.  She took it.  The closeness felt right.

    Then—there they were.  She saw them first: a scatter of wild irises, blue and gold, nestled beneath the boughs of an old olive tree.

   She laughed.

   Not carefully.  Not for him.  Just laughter—sudden and free, like something inside her had finally remembered how.

    When Perry turned, she was already reaching for him.  Not for support.  Not for comfort.  Just—to share it.  He took her hand.  Said nothing.  Didn’t squeeze.  He simply stood beside her, watching the wind stir the blossoms—like they’d been waiting all morning for someone to notice them.

   I’m not carrying the Slough anymore, she thought.  And for the first time, it was true.