“I don’t think questions about murder are normal in most agencies,” I said. “You didn’t tell us you’d already had your review.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to make you self-conscious before you’d had your brain picked.” Andy sipped his own coffee. “I can’t do much to make this easier. That was something I could do, and so I did it.”
“Thank you.” On the other side of the glass, Demi was rattling off her full name and looking at Ciara like she was afraid the other woman was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow the diminutive Pied Piper whole. I grimaced. “Better start another pot. Demi’s going to need it when she gets out of there.”
“I think chamomile tea might be a better bet,” said Andy.
I pressed the button to let us hear what was happening.
“Now, Demi, I understand that your awakening on the spectrum was triggered by Agent Winters,” said Ciara, looking down at her notes. “How did that make you feel?”
“Um,” said Demi. “Like I was losing my mind, or being pranked, or maybe both. For a long time, I thought this was all some sort of a really lousy joke, you know? Like a reality show on MTV, only probably not MTV because fairy tales aren’t edgy enough. Only I never signed any waivers, and then I saw things that couldn’t be real, and I guess I came to terms with it. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Ah, yes, choice.” Ciara turned a page. “Were you given a choice about whether or not to become active?”
It felt like my heart stopped in my chest.
We had been facing a pathogenic Sleeping Beauty scenario, an airborne narrative that could have taken out the entire city, maybe even the entire state. There are variations of the story where the kingdom, not just the castle, goes to sleep. If our target had been living one of those variations, we could have lost the country. So I’d done what needed to be done. I’d sent Sloane to find me a Pied Piper, someone who could pipe the disease into rats and send them off to drown themselves. She’d found Demi.
Sloane was supposed to be the villain of our team, but I was the one who’d insisted Demi be handed her flute and told what to play. I was the one who’d looked at a scared teenage girl and forced her to become a fairy tale. If I had the same scenario to run over again, I would do the same thing. I would destroy Demi’s life over and over, if that was what it took to save the world. But if they already thought I was favoring fairy tales over regular people, how was this going to look?
“Yes,” said Demi. “Agent Marchen explained what would happen if I didn’t. My family lives in this city. My grandmother lives here. I love my abuela. If there was something I could do to save them, I had to do it, no matter how bizarre it sounded. I didn’t really believe what she was telling me, so I guess on some level, I didn’t give informed consent, but she did her best to make me understand, and I’m not sorry. I’ve saved a lot of lives.”
“You’ve also endangered some lives, Demi. Birdie Hubbard was able to subvert your story, and you did some damage. How does that make you feel?”
“Sad,” said Demi. “Like I failed. But not like my team failed me. They didn’t set me up to be taken, and as soon as they knew I was gone, they started trying to get me back. Henry made sure I didn’t have to go away for rehabilitation—she got me back on the field team. My family wouldn’t have understood if I’d disappeared. I owe her a lot for that. She didn’t have to do it. It would have been easier to let me go.”
Easier, yes, but not better, especially not since Demi was active because of me. I sipped my coffee, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel Andy looking at me.
“Shit,” said Sloane. “Who knew the kid was so good at telling stories?”
“Not me,” I murmured. Demi wasn’t lying—quite—but she was twisting the truth like a beanstalk, turning it into something she could climb.
“I see.” Ciara made a note. “Do you feel like Birdie was in the right for wanting to let the narrative take over? There are more people on the ATI spectrum than most would suspect. Letting the narrative do as it likes might have some positive effects.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, you can tell that to the dead.” Demi frowned. “I may be a Pied Piper, but I know where most of the stories would be casting their peasants. My friends and family deserve better than a supporting role in some princess’s happy ending. And if the narrative tried to turn someone I care about into a Cinderella or a Katie Woodencloak, I would find a way to kill it where it stood.”
“Katie Woodencloak—that’s not a name I hear often,” said Ciara. “Where did you hear about that story?”
“Our archivist gives me homework. I do it, ma’am, because I want to be better at my job, and because I never want anyone to get the drop on me the way that Birdie did, ever again.” Demi’s expression hardened. “I’m still me when I’m the Pied Piper. I’ve always been a Pied Piper, I just didn’t know it. But when Birdie twisted my story around to make me bad, I wasn’t me anymore. I was an idea somebody else had. I didn’t like feeling that way. If knowing more about stories most people don’t remember can help keep me from ever needing to feel that way again, then I’m happy to learn.”
“I see.” Ciara made another note. “You were planning to be a concert flautist before all this started. Has that changed?”
“Since I don’t want the entire audience to follow me home, yes,” said Demi. “I’m going to stay with the Bureau. I’m going to learn everything I can, and someday, when the Bureau says I’m ready, I’m going to have my own field team. It turns out I like saving the world.” Demi’s smile was fleeting but sincere. “I think I could wind up being pretty good at it if you give me enough time with the right people.”
“Do you feel that your current teammates are the ‘right people’?”
Demi glanced toward the two-way mirror before focusing on Ciara and nodding firmly.
“Yes,” she said. “I really do.”
# # #
“We’re almost out of coffee,” said Sloane.
“That’s probably a good thing, since I’d like to sleep again this century.” I looked down into my empty cup. I couldn’t help wishing I had something to put in it, like more coffee, or better yet, whiskey. This whole process was nerve-wracking, and not only because I couldn’t tell whether we were giving the right answers. I had downplayed the more problematic aspects of the truth. Demi had outright bent it. Sloane . . . Sloane had been Sloane, which was both the best and the worst we could have hoped for.
Now it was down to Jeff, and I wanted nothing more than to stick my head between my knees and hyperventilate until someone told me the review process was over.
“I’m going to call for pizza,” said Andy. “We can’t survive on donuts alone.”
“Great,” I said. “It should get here right about the same time as my pink slip.”
“Don’t be silly, Princess,” said Sloane. “You’re not gonna get a pink slip. You’re gonna get an all-expenses-paid trip to rehab, and find out firsthand why I’ve always been so resistant to going back there. Won’t that be fun?”
“Not funny,” I said tightly.
“I wasn’t joking,” said Sloane. There was genuine regret in her voice.
What we all called “rehab” was a prison slash counseling center for people afflicted by spectrum-related complications. We called it Childe. Sloane had been sent there repeatedly over the years, after her Wicked Stepsister nature attempted to rear its ugly head and make her start spiking everybody’s drinks with strychnine. She had managed to avoid rehab during her most recent bad patch only because I had vouched for her, and I hadn’t been fully active yet. She seemed to be under control, but how certain was that? What would happen if I was replaced by somebody who didn’t understand that her constant threats and back talk were how she blew off steam and kept herself from doing something that couldn’t be undone?
Sloane smiled sadly as she saw the realization march across my face. “Now she joins the party,” she said. “You’ve been pretty focused on w
hat happens to you if this shit goes south. What happens to the rest of us, Henry? Demi’s barely trained. I’m on a short list to be shipped to Siberia. Jeff’s had one flare too many.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Andy, putting a hand over his phone. “Everybody needs a big guy who can smile for the media.”
“Thanks Andy,” I said.
“Anytime,” he replied, and went back to ordering pizza.
“We’re the best field team this office has had in a hundred years. We close more cases and avert more stories than anybody, because we’re close to those stories,” said Sloane. “That also makes us dangerous. The records will bear that out.”
“How would you know that we’re the best field team in a hundred years?” I asked.
Sloane smiled. Technically. She showed me all her teeth, at least. “Because I was on the last best field team.”
“Um, wow.” The voice was Demi’s. We all turned to see her standing in the doorway. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“We watched your interview,” I said. “You did good. And we saved you some coffee.”
“Thank God.” Demi made a direct line for the pot. “You really think I did good?”
“I really do.”
“Did you notice that the lady from HR has blue hair?” Demi waved her hand at the level of her hairline, just to make sure I understood what she was saying. “It was weird.”
“She’s a Bluebeard’s Wife,” I said.
Sloane jerked. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“I knew I got narrative off of her.” Sloane shook her head. “I didn’t want to dig too deep. She could’ve been a princess, and then I would’ve had to spend too much energy on not strangling her.”
“On behalf of the ATI Management Bureau, we appreciate your restraint,” I said.
Demi was frowning. “I thought Bluebeard always murdered his wife.”
“Yes, but there can be a long window between activation and spousal homicide,” I said. “Dr. Bloomfield understands the risks, and she seems to have found a good balance. I’m not going to criticize her life choices.”
“Not until after she’s out of our hair, anyway,” added Sloane.
We arrayed ourselves around the glass and waited. Seconds ticked by; Ciara rearranged her notes. The door to the interview room opened, and Jeff stepped inside, adjusting his glasses with one hand, the way he always did when he was nervous. It seemed suddenly difficult to breathe.
The main thrust of this review might have been determining whether I was still competent to stand as leader of a field team, but I wasn’t the only one in danger. Sloane and Jeff risked rehab for their recent narrative flares. Demi risked rehab, and worse, imprisonment: she had gone over to the dark side of the story, after all, even if we’d been able to lure her back. There were so many possible bad endings to this tale, and it was all riding on Jeff, who looked nervous enough to throw up on the table as he sat.
Andy leaned over without prompting and pressed the button to let us hear what was going on in the other room. I didn’t know whether to thank him or curse his name.
“—Bloomfield,” Ciara was saying, introducing herself one last time. “I’m going to be conducting your review today. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I know your narrative can manifest as a sort of nervous disorder, so I just wanted to reassure you that you are not in any trouble at all: this is a fact-finding visit.”
“Jeffrey Davis,” said Jeff, offering his hand across the table. “And bullshit, ma’am, if you don’t mind my being so forward.”
Ciara blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“This isn’t a fact-finding visit. The fact-finding visit happened weeks ago. It happened in the Archives, rather than in the bullpen, so I suppose I can understand why you think the field teams wouldn’t have noticed, but you’ve accessed all our records.” Jeff sounded perfectly calm, even a little bored, like he was reading from a book of essay questions. “You know when I went active, and when Sloane asked for help. You know when and why and how Henry manifested her narrative. You have the facts. You’re here to get context on them, and to make yourself feel better about whatever it is that you’ve already pretty much decided.”
“I see.” Ciara made a note. “It’s interesting that you’d mention the Archives. I’ve heard a great deal about your accomplishments there. Is there a particular reason you haven’t accepted a position there? I know the archivists would be thrilled to have you with them full-time, rather than sharing you with a field team.”
“I enjoy working with the field team,” said Jeff. “It’s an interesting challenge. It keeps me from getting bored. I don’t know if you have to deal with boredom in Human Resources, but there’s only so much filing I can do before I start feeling the urge to do something else with my hands.”
“Is that an oblique reference to making shoes?”
Jeff shook his head. “No. There’s nothing oblique about it. Being on the field team offers me constant challenges. It keeps me from sinking into my own head. I’m aware of the danger that my story represents. Since I’d rather not let it win, I manage myself through the best means I have available to me. That includes field work.”
“Does your relationship with Agent Marchen influence your desire to stay in the field?”
“My relationship with Agent Henrietta Marchen is the only reason I would consider leaving the field.” Jeff looked at her coolly. “If you say to me, right here, right now, that we can’t both be out there, I will cede my position to her. She’s more important to this work than I am.”
“Because she’s a princess?” asked Ciara, leaning forward, like a hawk getting ready to swoop in for the kill.
Jeff’s expression turned disgusted. “Because she’s a damn fine field agent,” he said. “What else is required?”
# # #
Jeff appeared in the doorway of the observation room and blinked, taking in the edifying sight of the rest of us waiting for him. Sloane slid off the counter where she’d been sitting, and carried him a mug of tea without saying a word. Jeff blinked again, looking from her to the liquid, before he appeared to decide that the threat of poisoning was less important than his need for tea. He took a long drink.
“Well?” asked Demi.
“Well, what?” He lowered the mug. “I’m assuming you sat in here through my interview?” We all nodded. “Then you know as much as I do. She took notes. She asked questions. She didn’t quite imply that I am completely ruled by my genitals, but she certainly edged around the subject.”
“If I’d known Henry was such a great lay, I would’ve seduced her years ago,” said Sloane.
“Hey!” I yelped. She smirked, and showed me her middle finger.
“You really do function well as a team.” We turned to the doorway, where Ciara was standing, her notepad held against her chest. She smiled as we stared at her. “It seems like you shouldn’t. Four disparate narratives and one man who’s never been touched by the narrative at all? You should be at best a mess, and at worst completely dysfunctional. But you work. Why is that, do you think?”
“The whole ‘ragtag bunch of misfits’ trope came out of fairy tales a long time before it came out of movies,” said Sloane. “Maybe we’re something older and stronger than you know.”
“Maybe so,” said Ciara. She looked to each of us in turn. “If any of you want out, if any of you want a transfer, tell me right now. No one will think you’re being disloyal. No black marks will go into your file. But if this team is not what you want, you need to say so.”
None of us said anything.
“Very well. It was . . . pleasant, meeting all of you. You’ve managed to build something surprisingly coherent out of a bunch of pieces that shouldn’t fit together, and I respect that. My recommendation will take everything you’ve told me today into account.”
“Wait.” I stepped forward. “Am I suspended?”
“Suspended? Why, Agent Marchen.” She smiled. “You have work to do
. I don’t open doors that are better left closed. That sort of thing gets a girl in trouble. Good luck out there.”
She turned, and walked away, leaving my team—shaken but intact—staring after her.
“Well, boss?” said Andy, once Ciara was out of sight. “Now what?”
“Now?” I turned and smiled at him. At all of them. “Now we get back to work.”
BROKEN GLASS
Memetic incursion in progress: tale type 315 (“The Treacherous Sister”)
Status: ACTIVE
It was never quiet in Childe Prison.
Night and day, screams and laughter echoed from the walls. The more dangerous prisoners were kept sedated as much as possible, but they were surprisingly resilient and had a way of shaking off their restraints as soon as the guards weren’t looking. The prison, built in an old sanitarium originally intended to house victims of tuberculosis, followed a ring system. The deeper you went, the farther you were from the sun, and the more dangerous the stories around you became.
There were Sleeping Beauties on an inner ring, going slowly out of their minds from the drugs that kept them from sleeping. There were men and women who had eaten of the flesh of the White Snake, clawing at their ears as the rats in the walls told them terrible lies. There were Pied Pipers and Rumplestiltskins and Thumbelinas and Clever Jacks, all of them weeping in their boxes. But they were not the innermost ring: no. They were the heroes and heroines of the stories that had shaped them, and while they might have been dangerous enough to warrant locking away in this terrible place, they were nowhere so terrible as their villains.
Evil Queens. Wicked Kings. Robber Bridegrooms and False Princes and Sea Witches and Untrue Loves. All the darkest faces of the fairy tales were there, locked away where no one could reach them, sealed behind iron bars and strong stone walls. The guards were on the spectrum but fully averted, narratively dead. Anything else was too much of a risk.
On the edge of the inner circle, in a cell without windows, a pale-skinned girl with a mass of frizzy, coppery hair lay on the floor, her cheek pressed to the stone. She was whispering, a low, constant stream of nonsense syllables that had attracted some attention from the guards during her first days in the prison. They had checked the behavior against her tale type—315, The Treacherous Sister—and against her records, which said that she’d been apprehended while trying to manifest a Cinderella scenario.
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