And with it, a quiet certainty: that some part of her, already knew, not where but when she needed to arrive next.

  Closing the door, Xozo and Eileen find themselves in a different hallway than the one they came in through. This one is quieter... not empty, exactly, but quiet the way a teacup is, after it’s been drained. As if their presence had been held here once, and only now they have returned to find the moment waiting.

  Turning, the pair scan both corridors for any obvious direction. But there is none. Only hallway, going both ways, long and quiet. Stretching on and on without complaint. The walls a soft mauve like untreated leather left too long in the sun.

  Suddenly Eileen turns left. Not with purpose. Not with hesitation. Just because something beneath her ribs tells her it’s the right way. She doesn’t question it either. Doesn’t wonder. Her feet simply move along the not-so-quite-carpeted floor.

  While behind her, Xozo lags slightly, dragging a fingertip along the wall. The surface giving just faintly, like old paint over soft clay, and her nail digs in now and then, testing. Not for stability, but instead for reality. As if to see if any part of this place can be leaned on.

  Neither of them speaks at first. The air still tastes of the room behind, old ink, toasted coconut, and something else. Something faintly bitter. Like loneliness dressed up to feel important. “So,” Xozo says eventually, her voice flat in the way only the deeply overwhelmed can manage. Her feet just barely keeping pace with Eileen's. “Was that table supposed to unlock the universe for us? Because it kind of felt like it was about to. Then didn’t.”

  Eileen hums. A noncommittal sound, friendly and hollow, until her brow knits with concern. “Finding their father. Fixing this. I had thought this would be more straightforward. It's beginning to feel like this Dawkith Lorth doesn't even want to be in their lives... Even I can’t force a father to parent... there has to be...”

  Xozo scratches the back of her head. “Ahhh, I was talking about the room we were just in...”

  Eileen stops humming, letting it come to a natural end. Glancing to the side, she looks at Xozo, offering a smile one part sheepish, one part kind. “Ah. I’m sorry. Sometimes I start solving problems that haven’t quite arrived yet.”

  Xozo shrugs, not unkindly. “It’s fine. Yours are probably more important, you're older, you matter,” she says it casually before adding "Not that that’s a bad thing. That’s just how it works, isn’t it?" The words scuff the floor as they fall. Xozo then stops for a moment before moving again. "I mean, you get listened to. Not like it’s a contest, but you do..."

  “Tell me about this Countess of yours, then. What is she like?”

  Xozo skips ahead at the invitation, delighted to speak, though the excitement lands more as reflex than clarity. Her feet move with purpose, but her mouth hesitates. “You don’t have to deflect,” she says, her voice gentler now, touched with something quieter than confidence. “I know that felt like a waste. And it was. The Quills know everything. They should know everything. They should have given you an answer. Not just dropped us off in some random hallway.”

  Eileen tilts her head, smile softening but not slipping. “Was it not?” she asks, voice somewhere between curiosity and tea that’s been left to steep a few minutes too long. “I thought it was rather persuasive.”

  Xozo throws her hands up. “Well. If you thought so. I bet it wasn’t intentional!”

  She twirls on her heel, cloak spinning behind her like punctuation. “The whole thing was just…atmosphere. And ominous metaphor. It was like a soft launch for an existential dread product line. I mean beautiful packaging, I'll give them props for that, but no clear instructions. No call to action. No referral code.”

  Eileen chuckles, the sound like an old envelope being opened carefully. “You sound a little disappointed, love.”

  “I’m not,” Xozo replies too quickly. Then pauses. Thinks. “Okay... maybe a little. I mean, if you’re going to make the whole room feel like you're about to sell a prophecy, the least you could do is hand out a brochure.”

  “Paper would’ve caught fire,” Eileen notes, mild and absent, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Too many verbs in the air.” But Xozo doesn't laugh.

  Instead they pass together beneath several arches of bone chimes, carved thin and crescent-shaped, suspended in delicate clusters like jawbones from some ancient insect order... delicate, alien, and a little too precise. Which of course seems to encourage Xozo who reaches up to flick one with the back of her finger. It sways but doesn’t chime. Instead, the hallway responds with a soft compression, the air tightening as if holding a breath, then letting go all at once with a hiccup, like it had been waiting for permission to relax.

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  Meanwhile Eileen finds herself ducking beneath the rest of the arches, while making small, cautious glances behind her. Not afraid. Just alert. Like someone sensing a draft from a door that had been locked earlier.

  “All I’m saying is the pageantry was just a cover. A very elegant dodge around the actual question. ” Xozo continues, her voice rising into performative frustration. “Orrynthal be gone! I was more startled that it ended. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a sales pitch, they were pretty persuasive!”

  Eileen doesn’t answer right away. Her smile remains, but her voice changes, lower, a little closer to her ribs. “Persuasive?” she echoes. “It felt like a warning.” But Xozo doesn't catch it, instead she throws her hands up again. “Exactly! But I don't think it was on purpose. I think they just make naturally good sales...”

  She claps her hands once, her body almost physically jumping in the air, like a sharp Eureka moment! “Oh my gods. It was all a setup. The map? A diversion. The metaphors? Smoke. We were meant to leave. That whole room was a polite shooing-out wrapped in awe.”

  Then, as quickly as it arrived, her bravado falters, just a little. One beat. A crack behind the curtain. But she powers forward. “If you think about it like a business... then we were the captive audience, we wanted information from them and they used that attention to awe us.”

  She smacks her forehead with one hand. “Oh my gosh! I shouldn't have listened to my gut, not the stories from the others. I definitely could’ve signed that faerie into my downline. They had the tone. The branding. The mystique. I mean if I had the chops that Countess Whisperbane has, I would’ve spun that into a five-tier growth ladder before they even offered tea. She’s got the materials, the samples, the rewards ladder. She’d teach them how to turn all that mystery into a product of transformation, self-possession, and…”

  Eileen listens, expression soft and patient, with the kind of interest one offers a confident squirrel on a window ledge. She lets Xozo run on for a few minutes before tenderly interrupting her at a natural pause, “And does your Countess know where she wants to go?”

  “Yes! Of course...” Xozo hesitates. Her lips purse, “I mean, do I know exactly where she wants to go? No. But I’m sure she knows. She’s very confident.”

  Eileen’s next question isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It slips into the space like honey into tea. “And are you?”

  Xozo slows. Her mouth opens. Then shuts. She shrugs, looking down at her feet, then at the wall, then anywhere but Eileen. “I know how to sound like I am.”

  Eileen doesn’t reply right away. Instead, her hand drifts to the basket on her arm. Not to search. Just to retrieve. She produces a cookie wrapped in waxed paper, oatmeal and nutmeg, warm even through the paper and holds it out, not as a solution, not even as a kindness. Just a presence. Something solid. Something warm in a place that seems to have forgotten how to be.

  Xozo turns toward it. Hesitates. Then takes it. "It’s not enchanted,” Eileen says, her eyes gently teasing. “Unless you count calories.”

  Xozo stares for a moment, then makes a half-hearted attempt to laugh, but it doesn't linger. Still, Eileen sees that something behind her cheekbones considers it if just for a moment.

  Together they continue their walk in silence with Xozo holding the cookie like it might shift weight in her palm if she looks away. She nibbles slowly. Not daintily, just cautiously, like she’s learning the flavor of reassurance one bite at a time.

  The silence between them isn’t awkward; it’s just wide. The kind of silence that makes room for something old to be said without being spoken. One step, then another. The air hushes again, gently, like it’s listening in case anything important gets said on accident.

  After a while, Xozo mutters, not to Eileen, not to herself exactly, just to the in-between. “I’ve been in so many broken systems, that I’ll always be able to tell when something’s just… off.”

  She doesn’t stop walking, but something in her tone shifts, thinner now, like she’s not sure if she’s speaking aloud or just thinking too loud. “That room… it wasn’t just theatrical, it was curated. Like the Quills wanted the whole room to feel like it meant something, that it was important.”

  She gestures vaguely now, hands open, like she’s trying to catch the shape of the feeling before it disappears. “Maybe they think that’s what honesty is. Confusion with good lighting. As if to say that their special object, their illustrious table, doesn't make sense, so therefore it must be profound.” Her voice dips, quieter now. “But it didn’t do anything. Not really.”

  “It listened,” Eileen says, quietly.

  Xozo frowns, finishing the cookie and brushing a crumb from her robe. “Yeah, and?” she says, a flicker of false bravado leaking in. Then she unwraps the wax paper, looks at it... creased, translucent, warmed by her hands... and tosses it behind her like she is trying to make a profound statement.

  She only gets two steps before stopping, then sighs. Turns back, crouches. Picks it up. Folds it into a perfect square, the kind of fold someone makes when they don’t know what to say but want their actions to be neat. She tucks it into her sleeve.

  Eileen watches but doesn’t speak. And Xozo doesn’t look up. Not yet. She just exhales again, and it catches on the edge of something unspoken.

  “And sometimes,” Eileen adds, “simply listening is the doing.”

  The words don’t echo. But they do land. Not sharp. Not deep. But present. Like a pebble dropped into a pond already frozen. Which Xozo nods at. Half-heartedly. Before starting to walk again, slower.

  A few steps later, her voice returns, carrying the shape of something she didn’t expect to say. “Sure. But if nothing’s asked of us... if we’re not held to something... how do we know if we’re doing it right?”

  She doesn’t say it like she’s arguing. She says it like she’s feeling for a handrail that might not be there. So Eileen slows to match her pace and when she speaks, her voice isn’t soft. It isn’t sharp. It’s full. Like it’s held this answer for a long, long time, waiting for the right person to need it.

  “Who told you anyone needed to ask?” she says. “Or that your path has to make sense?"