CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- ECHOES OF ENDECOTT

  Sunday 24th August, 1710- COLONY OF WILLOW IN FRENCH AMERICA

  (6:25 AM)

  Nathan stood at the edge of the clearing, the early morning light casting long shadows over the town of New Salem behind him. The horizon, tinged with gold, marked the start of a new day, a day he hoped would bring answers, or at least a path forward.

  Beside him stood Marie de La Salle, one of the most skilled cartographers in the region. Her long ginger orange hair glowed under the sunlight, contrasting sharply with her emerald green eyes, which surveyed the area with a sharpness Nathan had come to rely on. She wore an officer’s uniform similar to his own, a sign of her stature and the lineage she carried as Robert de La Salle’s daughter. Though in her late 30s, Marie’s presence commanded respect, and Nathan felt a surge of relief knowing she was with him on this journey.

  Ahead, Morris and Kai waited by the stables, their forms half-illuminated by the soft morning sun. As Marie and Nathan approached, Morris lifted a hand in greeting. “Bonjour, Mr. Noir and Miss de La Salle”, he called out, his voice strained with the remnants of the night’s tensions.

  “Bonjour, Morris and Kai”, Marie replied, her voice calm but firm, nodding toward both men.

  Nathan, just behind her, carried two large leather backpacks, one slung over each shoulder. Kai’s curious eyes darted between the packs and the newcomer, his gaze lingering on Marie for a moment before landing on the horses behind them.

  “We managed to borrow three horses”, Morris explained, gesturing to the animals, “But the guards refused to lend us more than that. It means one of us will have to share”.

  “That’s no problem”, Nathan said with a wave of his hand, “Kai can ride with me. He’s the youngest, after all”. Nathan gave Kai a half-smile, which the boy returned with a quick nod of agreement. Morris, relieved by the decision, gave his approval with a grunt.

  Morris stepped closer and lowered his voice slightly, as though trying to avoid prying ears.

  “Mo jwenn sa ki mo kapab. Manje, dlo, bwa pou dife, lwil ak kèk lòt nesesè — (I got what I could. Food, water, firewood, oil and some other essentials)”, he spoke in Willowish Creole.

  “Alguns tiend lakoupé, pero la mayoría des commer?ants dans la ville non te tcho ami après lanuit passé. Palabra su incident ak Baptiste rápido wapup. Ils nous llam tcho ladrones — (Some of the shops were closed, but most of the traders in town weren’t exactly friendly after last night. Word about the incident with Baptiste spread fast. They’re calling us thieves)”, he continued in the pidgin language.

  Nathan sighed. He had expected as much. “Pardón, Morris. Mo te dévra étre pli vit pou cherche Marie. No es fácil levé yon moun nan mitan lanuit pou expliké ke nou ale nan yon vwayaj — (I’m sorry, Morris. I should’ve been quicker getting Marie. It’s not easy waking someone in the middle of the night and explaining we’re off on a journey)”, Nathan said in Willowish Creole.

  Morris waved away the apology in Willowish Creole, “Pa gen pwoblèm. Nou jwenn sa nou bezwen — (No harm done. We got what we need)”.

  A moment of silence passed between them as they saddled the horses, the weight of the journey ahead heavy in the morning air. Morris adjusted the reins of his horse, then turned to Nathan, his expression more serious.

  “There’s something else”, Morries said, reverting back to standard English, “Chief Meztilaou’s moved the tribe’s camp. It’s further out now, beyond Lake Academia. The settlers pushing further into our lands have forced us to move. It’ll take us two days to get there, but I can guide us”.

  Nathan paused in his work, his brow furrowing, “And what about the other Natives?”, he asked, “The ones who were with Kai and you, will they cause trouble while we’re gone?”.

  “They won’t cause any trouble”, Morris assured him, “But what about Baptiste? If he comes after us again...”

  Nathan straightened, a flicker of steel in his eyes, “If he does, he’ll have to answer to Robert de La Salle. Baptiste may think he has authority here, but I put Robert in charge, not him”.

  The three men exchanged a look, understanding the weight of what was to come. As Nathan tightened the last strap on his saddle, he noticed Kai watching him, his young face marked with uncertainty.

  “Do you really think Chief Meztilaou will listen?”, Kai asked quietly, “Do you think you can make things right?”.

  Nathan placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder, his voice soft but resolute. “Kai, there’s always a way forward if you believe. Trust in Dieu, Christ and l’Esprit Saint to guide us”, Nathan said as he made the Sign of the Cross, as if trying to show Kai its importance, “The Chief will listen, but we must be prepared for what comes next”.

  Kai’s eyes shone with a glimmer of hope, and for the first time that morning, his tension seemed to ease.

  Once they were all saddled and packed, the small group mounted their horses, the quiet sound of hooves filling the air as they set off down the trail. Behind them, the town of New Salem began to fade into the distance, swallowed by the forest and mist. Ahead, the path stretched into the unknown, toward Chief Meztilaou’s camp and whatever future awaited them in the wilds of Willow’s woods.

  Wednesday 23rd May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  (8:09 AM)

  The Artist stirred awake to the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and the soft hum of machinery. Blinking against the harsh overhead lights, they groggily scanned the room, disoriented. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and it only took a moment for the realization to hit— they were in a hospital.

  A familiar voice pulled them from their haze. “You’re finally awake. Good morning”, Sir Haggins Hopkins said warmly, his British accent cutting through the fog of confusion. He was seated in a chair beside the bed, looking very much like a man out of time. His sharp, elegant black overcoat and waistcoat paired with his immaculate shirt and golden cufflinks gave him the air of an old-world gentleman, though his sky blue eyes were filled with concern. Despite his advanced age, there was a timeless strength in his demeanor.

  The Artist winced as they shifted slightly, feeling the weight of fatigue still clinging to their body. “Where…?”, they began, their voice hoarse.

  “You’re in St. Louis Medical Hospital”, Haggins explained gently, “It’s based in New Salem. You’re safe now, I promise. We had to bring you here after…what happened in Endecott Forest”.

  The mention of Endecott Forest sent a wave of memories rushing back— pain, chaos, the blue dust, and then... Lilly. They closed their eyes, trying to sort through the fragmented images in their mind. “Lilly…she saved me”, The Artist muttered.

  Haggins nodded, “Yes, you remember correctly. Lilly was the one who managed to get you out of the forest and to safety. She did well, very well. From there, I was able to arrange for your transport here. Claire, too”.

  At the mention of Claire, The Artist’s eyes shot open, “Claire? Is she...is she okay?”.

  Haggins smiled gently, “Yes, she’s alive, though she hasn’t woken up yet. She’s receiving the best care possible, thanks to the Red Society. Your friend, James, and another woman, Kaitlyn, brought her here. She’s stable but still in recovery”.

  Relief washed over The Artist, a deep breath escaping their lips as they leaned back against the pillow. “Where is she? Can I see her?”, they asked.

  Haggins shifted slightly in his seat, his expression one of calm reassurance. “You’re both on a hidden floor within the hospital. It’s magickally protected, so no one can find you unless we want them to”, he said, “Claire is just in the room next to yours, receiving her treatment”.

  The Artist nodded, taking in this information. It was a relief to know that Claire was close by and in good hands. But something still gnawed at them, the fragments of what happened in Endecott pulling at their thoughts. There was so much they didn’t understand— so much they needed answers for.

  “Sir. Haggins”, The Artist began, their voice steadier now, “Before you go…I need to talk to you. There are things we need to discuss”.

  Haggins stood, his posture as impeccable as always. “I understand”, he replied, “But I must inform your friends, Matt and Dan, that you’re awake. They’ve been waiting for a long time to see you”.

  The Artist gave a small nod, “Alright. Just…promise me you’ll come back. I have questions. Important ones”.

  “I shall return”, Haggins assured The Artist, “Take this time to rest, and your friends will be here shortly”.

  With that, he turned to leave, his leather shoes clicking softly against the pristine hospital floor. The Artist watched him go, their mind still swimming with the echoes of Endecott and the weight of everything that had happened. There was so much to unravel, but for now, they allowed themselves a moment of peace, knowing that their friends were close by and that they weren’t alone in this fight.

  (8:39 AM)

  The hospital room door creaked open, and The Artist shifted in their bed, glancing up to see two familiar figures enter. Dan Russell and Matt Turner. Dan walked in first, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the light as he gave The Artist a charismatic smile, while Matt followed, his sky blue eyes filled with a quiet relief.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes”, Dan said, motioning for Matt to close the door behind them. His natural charm was undeniable, but there was something serious about his demeanor today, “Glad to see you awake”.

  Matt nodded in agreement, adjusting his faded purple baseball cap, which bore the familiar Willow Bobcats logo. “We’ve been worried”, he added, “It’s good to see you’re pulling through”.

  The Artist smiled faintly, “It’s good to see you both too”.

  Dan stepped closer, his dark brown eyes glinting with unspoken thoughts. “We wanted to say how sorry we are for not being there during Endecott. We would’ve helped if we could”, there was genuine regret in his voice, though it was tempered by his usual pragmatic tone.

  The Artist waved it off gently, “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known. Besides, you’ve already done more than enough. Those weapons you provided Claire saved me and James”.

  Dan chuckled, though there was an edge to his laugh. “Claire was pretty insistent about that. Threatened my life if I didn’t get the right stuff, actually. I didn’t have much choice”, he winked, but his expression turned more serious, “The Red Society helped too. They sent me the silver, the Occulirium, and the Holy Water to make the ammunition. So I really didn’t have to pay for anything”.

  The Artist smirked. “So, do I still have to come to work?”, they asked, trying to inject some humor into the heavy atmosphere.

  Dan’s face shifted into a mock stern expression. “Of course. Where else am I gonna find a bartender who can mix a cocktail while fighting in the occasional supernatural showdown? Sarah can’t cover everything forever, y’know”.

  Matt grinned, adjusting his crooked silver-framed glasses. “He’s right. But seriously, when Dan and I heard what happened in Endecott, we cancelled our mission. We were going to infiltrate one of Division X’s aircraft carriers, the USS Jackson, as planned but it wasn’t worth the risk. You guys were already spread too thin, with you, Lilly and James running out and about”.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The Artist raised an eyebrow, “Do you think Division X knows what happened at Endecott?”,

  Dan crossed his arms, his tone colder now, “Word got out about the altercation between The Order of Dawn and The Cult of Blair. Division X caught wind of it, though I doubt they know about you specifically. But things are more complicated now. My C.I.A buddy has even refused to meet us now, saying that he can’t get in the crossfire of secret government bureaucracy”.

  The Artist frowned, “I’m sorry if I’ve messed anything up. Maybe we can come up with a new plan when Claire and I recover”.

  Dan’s expression hardened, along with his tone. “Claire’s not needed for this one”, he said bluntly, “We’ve got enough bodies as it is. Lilly, James and the new girl…the park ranger, Kaitlyn, have already volunteered to come along. We don’t need any more. And honestly, I doubt Claire’s going to recover anytime soon”.

  The Artist felt a pang of concern for Claire but kept quiet, processing Dan’s cold assessment.

  “Matt…”, The Artist said, turning to him, “…are you okay with this? Is it the smart thing to do?”.

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes thoughtful, “Yeah, it’s the right call. We’ll make sure everything’s set, and I’ll keep you updated over the coming weeks. Once you’re back on your feet, I’ll explain everything in detail before we move forward”.

  Dan glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. Got some business deals to handle at the bar. JayJay’s won’t run itself”, he gave The Artist a nod, “You take care of yourself. And don’t worry about Claire, we’ll handle things from here on out”.

  Matt lingered as Dan made his way to the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his plaid shirt. “Do you want me to stick around?”, he offered with casual Southern accent.

  The Artist shook their head, “No, I’ve got some private matters to discuss with Sir. Haggins Hopkins. You can come by later”.

  Matt smiled, adjusting his glasses once more. “Alright. I’ll catch up with you later”, he said as he followed Dan to the door, but before leaving, he turned back, “We’ll call Haggins for you on our way out”.

  “Thanks”, The Artist replied softly.

  With a final wave, Dan and Matt disappeared from the room, leaving The Artist alone with their thoughts. As much as they appreciated their friends’ visit, there were still so many questions swirling in their mind, and only Sir. Haggins Hopkins could provide the answers they needed.

  (9:12 AM)

  The hospital door opened again, and Sir Haggins Hopkins entered the room with his usual elegance, though there was a hint of weariness in his posture. He glanced at The Artist, seated up in their bed, and gave a small nod.

  “I heard you sent Matt to call for me”, Haggins said, his British accent soft but firm.

  The Artist nodded. “I did. We need to talk, Haggins. There’s a lot that happened at Endecott…things I don’t understand”.

  Haggins took a seat by the bedside, resting his hands on his lap, “I’m listening”.

  The Artist began recounting the events, their voice low but intense as they spoke of Kaitlyn’s arrival, the Hollow attack and the encounter with Chloé. Haggins listened carefully, his expression impassive as he took it all in.

  But when The Artist paused, their gaze hardened. “There’s something else…something you never told me”.

  Haggins raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “You never told me my father, James, was part of The Order of Dawn. Apparently, they called him, James of Faubourg Saint-Germain”, The Artist said, their frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

  Haggins sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you, and for that, I apologize. I made a promise to James that I wouldn’t speak of MBCs to you…and even after I broke that promise, there were still hard truths that I couldn’t bring myself to reveal. James being a former member of The Order, as I am,was one of them”.

  The Artist clenched their fists, their voice rising with a mix of anger and confusion. “Then why did Lucius tell me that both my parents, James and Samantha, were part of The Cult of Blair?”.

  Haggins’ eyes widened; the shock visible in his usually composed face. “What? James...part of The Cult of Blair? That’s absurd!”, he shook his head, his voice trembling slightly, “The James I knew would never…could never join something so vile”.

  “But my mother?”, The Artist asked, their voice edged with suspicion.

  Haggins paused, his sky blue eyes clouding with uncertainty, “Samantha…was always an enigmatic woman. She kept many things hidden, even from James. I can’t speak for her”.

  The Artist exhaled sharply, rubbing their temples as they struggled to piece everything together. “Claire and I found her at Oak Valley Plantation, Haggins. She was partaking in The Cult’s rituals. And Claire…she suspects my parents were involved with Elizabeth and Blair. That Elizabeth even knew me when I was a baby”.

  Haggins shook his head, disbelief etched into his face, “Impossible. I was there when you were born, at New Salem Charity Hospital, I…”

  The Artist cut him off, their frustration boiling over, “Then why didn’t you tell me that? And how come I’ve never heard about it until now? Or is this Rei Hajime’s doing? Has he been pulling your leash this whole time?”.

  Haggins looked down, clearly taken aback by The Artist’s anger. After a moment, he sighed, “You’re right. I’ve kept things from you. More than I should have. And for that, I’m deeply sorry. There are truths I owe you, but I needed you to be ready before I revealed them”.

  The Artist glared at him, not entirely satisfied with the explanation. “When I fully recover, I expect to hear all of it. No more secrets”, they demanded.

  Haggins nodded. “I promise. When the time comes, you’ll know everything”, he stood up, glancing toward the door, "But for now, I have to leave. There are matters with the Red Society and its Regents that require my attention”.

  The Artist narrowed their eyes, “Is that just an excuse to avoid answering my questions?”.

  Haggins stopped in the doorway and looked back. “No. I’ve told you all I can for now. But rest assured, we’ll talk again soon, perhaps tomorrow even”, he motioned toward the door as two doctors entered, ‘In the meantime, these two will take good care of you”.

  The doctors were MBCs yes, but unlike any The Artist had seen before. One, a female Elf with striking pink skin in a Nurse’s uniform, moved gracefully toward the bed. Her delicate fingers checking The Artist’s vitals with a stethoscope. The other, a male Kraljan doctor with avian features— red feathers, wings on the back and a sharp beak, nodded respectfully before checking the chart at the foot of the bed.

  Haggins lingered for a moment longer, looking back at The Artist. “Remember, Lucius Decanus and Elizabeth Kedward are manipulators and liars. They’re trying to get into your head, to twist your perception of the truth. And as for Claire’s suspicions…she may be making the wrong guesses. The James I knew would never have allied himself with The Cult of Blair”.

  With that, Haggins left, leaving The Artist alone with their thoughts as the doctors began their examination.

  (12:53 AM)

  “You’re finally awake…”, Claire’s voice came through the darkness like a whisper, low but piercing enough to jolt The Artist from their sleep. Their eyes fluttered open, and they blinked against the dim light in the room.

  Still groggy, The Artist mumbled, “You can’t keep waking people up like this…”, they rubbed their eyes, attempting to orient themselves in the sterile hospital room. But then they froze, their mind catching up to the voice that had pulled them from their dreams.

  “Claire?”, The Artist turned to her, seeing Claire sitting upright in her hospital gown, looking fully alert. The Artist’s brow furrowed. “Wait, this…this shouldn’t be possible. The doctors said, and Haggins…”

  Before The Artist could finish, Claire cut them off, “I heard everything. I’ve been listening since I woke up”.

  The Artist blinked in confusion. “Listening? But you were unconscious…”

  Claire shook her head, her gaze steady, “I was faking it. I woke up before you did”.

  The Artist’s mouth fell open slightly as they tried to process this, “You were faking it? Why?”.

  Claire let out a sigh, glancing toward the door, almost as if she were expecting someone to barge in at any moment. “I didn’t want Haggins or anyone else from the Red Society to interrogate me. They’re all smiles and politeness when you’re around, but I know they’d have other plans if it was just me. I needed to be cautious”.

  The Artist frowned, “Haggins is just being hospitable. He’s always been that way. You’re paranoid”.

  “Am I?”, Claire’s voice grew tense, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t you think it’s suspicious that he’s hiding things from you? And what about James and Samantha? He knew your father, but nothing about your mother? How does that add up?”.

  The Artist shook their head, exasperated, “You’re one to talk about hiding things, Claire. If you were completely honest with me, you’d have told me right from the start that there was a connection between The Cult and my parents”.

  Claire winced, the accusation hitting its mark. She looked down, guilt flashing across her face. “I’m sorry”, she whispered, “I should have told you. I…I’ll explain everything later”.

  The Artist wasn’t letting it slide that easily. Their voice sharpened, “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Claire with Blair. You’re dodging the truth, just like Haggins. If you want my trust, you need to stop avoiding things. Be frank with me from now on”.

  Claire met The Artist’s gaze, her expression softening. “I will”, she promised, though her voice was tinged with uncertainty. “But there’s something you need to understand”, her eyes flicked toward the ceiling and then the door again, “I’m almost certain the Red Society is watching us. They could be spying on us right now. Listening”.

  The Artist’s gaze narrowed, “What are you saying?”.

  Claire leaned in slightly, her voice dropping lower. “I’ve been concentrating on a Silence spell, just subtle enough to keep the medical staff from hearing us. Right now, as far as anyone else knows, we’re both still fast asleep”, she gave a small, strained smile, “I can’t guarantee it’ll last long, but it’s the best I can do for now”.

  The Artist exhaled, running a hand through their hair as they processed everything, “So what now? You said you’d tell me some things. What are you hiding, Claire?”.

  Claire hesitated, biting her lip. “I don’t know how safe it is to tell you everything right here, but…I’ll start with this. Whatever Haggins thinks, whatever he told you about James, your parents were deeper into the world of MBCs than you could ever imagine. And they weren’t alone”.

  The Artist’s heart pounded as Claire’s words hung in the air.

  Claire leaned back in her chair; her expression pensive. “Think about it”, she began, her voice measured, “From the moment you came back to Willow to restart your art career, have you wondered why none of your dad’s close friends, Carl Webster, Steven Weinstein or Daisy Bruce-Miller have personally visited you? Two of them are MBCs and one is human. All of them were involved with the Red Society. They claimed to have been searching for your parents for two months before you showed up, but none of them came to you directly”.

  The Artist’s brow furrowed, recalling the silence from their father’s old circle, “I just thought maybe they were too busy, or that there was nothing to find”.

  Claire shook her head. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Especially not with MBCs involved. They always find ways to stay in the loop, even with The Veil Policy. I think the Red Society is keeping them away from you”.

  “Keeping them away?”, The Artist echoed, the realization beginning to sink in.

  “I believe Detective Minnesota and Sgt. Constantine are bullying them into submission— either intimidating them into silence or keeping them under close watch so they don’t tell you something they shouldn’t. Webster, Weinstein and Bruce-Miller probably know more than they’re letting on, details that would have filled in gaps in your parents’ disappearance. That’s one of my leads”.

  The Artist exhaled sharply, frustration welling up inside them, “So, what do we do about it?”.

  “We confront them”, Claire said simply, her voice sharp with determination, “After we deal with Dan and Matt’s Division X plan, we go straight to them. Together”.

  The Artist nodded, “That sounds good. What else?”.

  Claire crossed her arms, her eyes gleaming with the hint of a plan, “My other leads involve the Salem Marauders and the Hellcats. But I’m confident that James Sanchez can handle the Marauders on his own. He’s been working on that angle for weeks”.

  “Agreed”, The Artist replied, “James knows how to deal with them. But what about the Hellcats?”.

  “Not my priority right now”, she replied, “I’ve been keeping tabs on them, but I don’t think they’re involved in any of this, at least not directly”.

  “And Nate Black?”, The Artist asked, bringing up the leader of the War Dogs and their Deathstalker trainer.

  Claire smirked, “That’s all you. You’ve got a rapport with him that I don’t. If anyone can get the War Dogs talking, it’s you”.

  The Artist nodded thoughtfully, “Alright, I’ll deal with Nate. What else?”.

  Claire hesitated for a moment before dropping her final bombshell, “There’s one more thing. My real employer. The one I’ve been keeping a secret, even from The Cult is— Mistress Night”.

  The Artist’s eyes widened in shock, “Wait, Mistress Night? The leader of the Children of Night? That means you’re…”

  “A Sister of Night”, Claire confirmed with a faint smile, “Yes. And I’ve been working for her long before The Cult of Blair ever found me”.

  The Artist’s mind reeled, “What does Mistress Night want with me?”.

  “Same thing she’s always wanted”, Claire replied, her voice soft but serious, “To protect you. She’s known about you from the time you arrived back, and she’s been working behind the scenes to ensure your magick isn’t used to revive The Willow. That’s why she’s kept me close, even when I infiltrated The Cult”.

  The Artist was quiet for a long moment, their mind trying to process this new revelation. “But that doesn’t make sense”, they finally said, “I’ve heard that Mistress Night and Rei Hajime are allies”.

  Claire nodded, “They are, but even alliances have their limits. Mistress Night has her own goals, and those don’t always align with Rei’s. She would like to meet you, tell you everything you need to know from her side of the story, about what’s really going on”.

  The Artist’s thoughts turned to Bo?te de Minuit, the secret headquarters of the Children of Night, a place they had only heard of thanks to Haggins, “So when are we going to Bo?te de Minuit?”.

  “Like I said…”, Claire repeated with a faint grin, “…after the Division X thing”.

  The Artist shook their head in disbelief, “This explains a lot. Like why you dress like a goth chick most of the time. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if you’ve met Black Mercer too, huh?”.

  Claire let out a genuine laugh, the tension between them easing for a moment, “Yeah, I’ve met her. Intimidating as hell, but she’s more bark than bite…most of the time”.

  The Artist chuckled, but their mind was still whirling with questions, with uncertainties about their past and future. “Claire”, they said, “This is…a lot. But I trust you. Just promise me, no more secrets”.

  Claire gave a solemn nod, “No more secrets. Not between us”.

  As Claire made her way to the door, her hospital gown rustling faintly with each step, she glanced back at The Artist. Her eyes, though weary, still held that familiar spark of determination. “When you’re ready to leave”, she said softly, “We go together, whether or not the Red Society gives their blessing”.

  The Artist smirked slightly, feeling the rebellious energy between them, “I’m thinking about convincing the doctors to discharge me tomorrow. Or the day after”.

  Claire raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her expression, “If you can manage that, then I’ll just miraculously wake up too and tell them I’m perfectly fine”.

  The Artist chuckled, “Sounds like a plan. But just so you know, we’ll probably be riding in Red Society transport. They usually send this guy named Joel. He drives a Black SUV. They’ve used him to shuttle me around since I got here”.

  Claire nodded, unfazed, “That’s fine. As long as we get where we need to go”. She reached for the door handle, then paused for a moment, glancing back one last time to The Artist. Her voice softened, “Goodnight. Get some rest. We’ve got a lot to deal with soon”.