Impostor Syndrome

by Mishell Baker

Let me tell you, there is nothing more awkward than an empty facade. They don’t breathe, they don’t blink . . . but they don’t get that waxy corpse look, either, and they stay unnervingly warm. Since we couldn’t risk any uninitiated people seeing this inexplicable phenomenon, the Residence Five guys dragged it through the LA5 Gate. Once it was in Arcadia, they set fire to it to make sure Qualm couldn’t “reactivate” it.

  The poor handling of Qualm was a huge source of tension between Alvin and Caryl, what with Qualm having murdered Alvin’s best friend and all. Alvin was hugely suspicious of Caveat, since she’d shown up offering to help a few weeks after Qualm’s disappearance. But Caveat was fey, and therefore couldn’t lie, and she’d said that the first she’d heard of the Arcadia Project was when Elliott had told her about it a few days before.

  Because prolonged stillness was torturous for a spirit, and because they couldn’t move on their own on this side of the Gate, Caveat usually cast herself onto a cat collar, which we placed on the Residence Four mascot, Monty, much to his annoyance.

  “Does she seem unhappy?” Caryl asked, context suggesting she meant the lonely little spirit. My boss seemed almost shy as she climbed the porch steps.

  “She says she’s fine,” I said, “but she’s hard to read. She’s certainly cooperative. She’s done everything we’ve asked so far. Even made herself into a ward when Song hired cleaners, to keep them from going upstairs.”

  Caryl sat down in the other rocking chair and drew in a slow breath. She wasn’t flushed, but her fingers were curled inward, not quite fists. Stress level 5: Tense. I had a whole system, borrowed from my therapist, Dr. Davis, to monitor her, because right now her moods were even more dangerous than my own. After months of study, I knew all her tells.

  “Are there bathrooms in Arcadia?” I blurted before she could start in on whatever Personal Unburdening she was going to try this week. The contents of her mind were fascinating, but there was only so much I could take.

  My question drew her up short, as I’d expected, and knocked her down to a level 4: Alert. I kind of missed the days when she’d been mysterious.

  “No,” she said, lowering herself tentatively into the other chair. “Fey biology does not work the same way as ours.”

  “Didn’t Claybriar use our restroom before he left last time?”

  “He was using his human facade, and he had drunk three caffè mochas.”

  “That was a fun day,” I said, trying to cover a renewed spike of anxiety. “Who knew the Seelie King became a five-year-old after a certain amount of caffeine?”

  “Is there a reason you’re asking this?”

  “Just curious.” I no longer wanted to think about it at all, since the answer was exactly what I’d feared. I let my gaze drift across the street to the row of pastel Victorian homes, their perfect lawns and gardens that made Residence Four look like a mangy mongrel at Westminster. “What is it you wanted to talk about this time? Love, or war?”

  She gave me a wry half smile. “War,” she said.

  I managed not to say thank God out loud. “How’s the effort going?”

  “As of today Tjuan and Inaya have officially abandoned plans to make the Gate at Valiant Studios functional.”

  “Damn it,” I said. “Why? I thought Valiant was key to our strategy. Financially, arcanely, the whole nine yards.”

  “It was, but Inaya and Foxfeather have not been each other’s Echoes long enough to serve as builders, despite their unusually strong bond. And even if they could, it seems the Gate can’t be made operable by merely removing pieces, as we’d initially surmised. We’d have to add new materials, and the Medial Vessel is locked down in London, of course.”

  “The Medial Vessel?”

  “To oversimplify: a container of infinite capacity.”

  “Is that the thing Alvin was trying to get someone in New Delhi to smuggle to him in November?” That hadn’t worked out; it seemed everyone on the planet was afraid to incur Dame Belinda’s wrath.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s still a bit obsessed with its loss. Gates can’t be built without it, which means our Project will be limited to those Gates already existing.”

  “And if someone manages to damage them, we can’t repair.”

  “Precisely.”

  “A Bag of Holding, though, wow. Dame Belinda could use that to screw with us in all sorts of ways.”

  Caryl examined one of her gloves. She still wore them out of habit, said she felt naked without them. “Likely not,” she said. “The Vessel is another of those ancient artifacts whose construction secrets are lost, and it’s so vital to our Gates that Barker has always been strict about limiting its use.” Caryl had stopped calling her Dame Belinda around the same time she’d found out that the woman was responsible for her unspeakable childhood trauma.

  “I think all bets are off right now,” I said. “Someone who knows more about this than I do might want to consider how she could use it to fuck with us.”

  “Fair enough,” said Caryl. Still at a 4, though. Which was weird.

  “Why are you so calm?” I said. “So far I’ve heard nothing but bad news.”

  That half smile again, this time a little smug. “I was saving the good news for last. King Winterglass has agreed to meet with us on Monday.”

  “Uhh,” I said. “This is good news how? Last time I saw him, he exploded Brand and then helped corner my Echo into becoming king out of pure spite.”

  Caryl pushed up the sleeve of her blazer, exposing a forearm still riddled with ugly pale pink scars. “As you may recall, he ‘exploded Brand’ to save my life.”

  “That wasn’t Brand’s fault.”

  “There wasn’t exactly time for debate. My point is that I find it very difficult to imagine that His Majesty will be able to look me in the eye and tell me that we’re on our own.”

  “You think you can win him over to our side?” Suddenly I started to put together what she was getting at. At the moment we had the Queen of the Unseelie and the King of the Seelie on our side. If she could turn Winterglass . . . “We’d have the whole Unseelie Court. She’d never dare fuck with us if it would piss those guys off.”

  “More than just that,” Caryl said. “Her Project would have no access to Unseelie magic whatsoever. She’d be forced to cooperate with us just to get permission to interact with anyone in the Court.”

  “What would she need Unseelie magic for anyway?”

  “Not all inspiration is uplifting and beautiful, Millie. Fear and anger, channeled through human restraint and ingenuity, can be a powerful force for change. Some of the greatest artists in history have had Unseelie Echoes. King Winterglass himself—”

  “Dostoyevsky, I remember, yeah. I get it. So suppose we get him. Suppose Belinda stops threatening to bring us into line and honestly lets us run our own show over here. No one’s told me how we’re actually planning on doing that.”

  I watched her climb instantly to a 6: Stressed. Oops. “You’ve been with us for three months,” she said. “I’m not obligated to bring you in to every discussion.”

  “I know you aren’t obligated,” I said in as soothing a tone as I could manage. “I’m not yelling at you for keeping things from me. I’m asking you to give me at least a general idea, now, so I can help.”

  Still at a 6—anything above 5 meant a flush started to creep into her cheeks, but her hands weren’t shaking yet—she took a deep breath and considered for a moment. “New Orleans would remain as the United States headquarters, as it is the most central of the Gate cities. But we’d be setting up Valiant Studios as a new international hub.”

  I sucked in a breath between my teeth. “You don’t just want to cooperate with her. You want to replace her. Does she know this?”

  “Not unless Alvin has told her. You are the third person to know.”

  “What makes us qualified?”

  “We’re not, particularly. But we’re also not evil and insane. If we can get more of the world to believe our side
of the story, we’ll have a wider pool of people to choose from to take her place.”

  “Are we having any luck with that?”

  “Alvin says that Mexico City and New Delhi may be persuadable—Nayantara in particular would be a tremendous international leader—but as of now they both fear they’d simply get destroyed along with us if they show sympathy.”

  “Not Toronto?”

  Caryl shook her head. “Dominic and Tracy have always been very close. Dom would never turn against New York.”

  “And Alvin can’t convince New York.”

  “Barker has done quite a number on them. Also, Alvin worked in New York in his youth, when he was a bit less . . . stable, and Tracy was there too.”

  I sighed and raked a hand back through my hair. “If we have the Unseelie Court, though?”

  “Other nations will line up behind us in droves,” she said. “Even the ones who dislike us. They all need their Unseelie Echoes.”

  “I can’t believe we’re pinning our hopes on King Puppykiller.”

  Her flush deepened, and I saw her hands begin to tremble, just a bit. We’d reached 7: Frazzled. “He—he cares for me, deeply. If we make this personal, we may be able to overcome his complacency.”

  “If you say so,” I said. “So I assume you’re here because you want me to attend the meeting?”

  “It . . . it would help me to have you there.” She looked at her hands.

  “Just use Elliott,” I said.

  “I will. But . . . Millie, you’ve been the source of our best ideas over the past several months. I value you tremendously, and not just because . . . because . . .”

  Her unspoken words pushed me up out of my rocking chair and away. “I know,” I said, putting distance between us.

  “I don’t expect anything from you,” she said quietly. “But I also can’t change what I feel.”

  I slid both hands into my hair, massaging my scalp, trying to mitigate the disproportionate panic I felt rising into my throat. I didn’t want to be the center of her universe right now; I didn’t want my every word examined, every flicker of my face interpreted and reinterpreted. Not now.

  “What should we do?” said Caryl.

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning back to face her. “What I know is what we don’t do, which is keep talking about it right now.”

  “Do you anticipate a better time?” The question would have worked better in her old tone, dry and emotionless. Now it just sounded petulant.

  “Don’t push me, Caryl,” I said. “I’m serious. Contract or no, you know I’ll just bail, regardless of consequences. Look at my history. You know that’s what I do.”

  Caryl gave me a long look, then got up from her rocking chair. Elliott reappeared on her shoulder as she walked back to her SUV.

  “Caryl,” I said, gritting my teeth. I didn’t want to talk anymore, but I hated her walking out.

  “I expect you at the meeting on Monday,” she said, without looking back. She went around to the driver’s side, got in, and slammed the door.

  “Happy birthday,” I said.

  I wanted to chase after her; I wanted to break her windows; I wanted all kinds of things, but I just leaned back against the house and closed my eyes and turned my attention to my breathing. In and out, in and out.

  Her car started; I heard the tires squeal as she pulled out. Shit. Driving at a 7 or 8, not good. She was going to get herself killed.

  Almost before I realized I’d done it, I brought both fists up and struck myself, twice, knuckles to forehead, hard enough for the pain to linger like the high sharp note of a bell.

  I went back to the rocker and sat on my hands, breathed some more. Elliott would realize she wasn’t driving safely. He’d ask to help. She’d let him. She wasn’t stupid. And even if she did crash her car, it wouldn’t be my fault. She was a grown woman. Sort of.

  I couldn’t seem to calm down, which only upset me more. I hadn’t been this bad in months. Knowing I’d been doing better and then watching myself slide backward made my self-loathing all the more intense. The white-hot need I felt to punish myself, to physically demonstrate how very deeply I knew I was horrible—it was like the voice of the siren queen.

  I opened my eyes and found myself meeting the beady gaze of that damned crow. It cocked its head to one side.

  “I don’t have any food,” I said to it shakily.

  “Caw,” it said. And then strode decisively toward me.

  The surprise was enough to shock me out of my spiral. The stupid bird hopped right onto the porch steps and stared at me.

  “Nevermore,” it said.

  No. It just said, “Caw.” But six of one, half a dozen of the other, at this point in my delusion.

  “Can you understand what I’m saying?” I asked it. “Did you hear me say ‘food’?”

  “Caw.” It lifted its wings abortively, then let them fall. Almost a shrug. Except it wasn’t. It was a bird being a bird, and I was crazy.

  Unless I wasn’t?

  I resisted the urge to hit myself in the head again. Instead I stood up and went into the house where the damn thing wouldn’t be able to stare at me anymore.

  3

  Tjuan didn’t get home until around nine thirty that night. I desperately needed his take on what to do about my suit, because I knew until I solved that problem my dysphoria was just going to escalate, but I knew better than to jump right on him the second he walked in the door.

  Phil knew better too, but didn’t seem to care. Phil was the grouchy bearded pianist who’d been dating Tjuan’s previous partner when she died. He was also the second-highest ranking agent in the house, after Tjuan. Tjuan and Phil seemed to have a long history, but as neither was particularly fond of opening up to me, I didn’t know much about it. Their familiarity made them talk in elliptical half thoughts to each other, making eavesdropping pointless.

  “Did you sign them?” Phil asked, literally before Tjuan had even finished putting his keys back in his pocket. I was sitting patiently on the living room couch, scratching behind Monty the cat’s missing ear.

  “Fuck off,” said Tjuan.

  “It’s been three weeks, Teej.”

  “Sign them your own damned self.”

  “Gotta be the senior agent.”

  Ah, that’s what this was all about. Alvin had promoted Tjuan over Phil in October, and Phil was still pissy about it.

  “Just file an X-2,” said Tjuan.

  “X-2s aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on right now.”

  “Deal with it, Phil. Find a way. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  I had no idea what they were talking about—Caryl had known better than to assign me to paperwork duties—but whatever it was sent them both back to their separate rooms in a huff. Phil shut his door pretty hard.

  I looked down at Monty, who was purring fitfully, like an old-timey pencil sharpener. “This seems like a good moment to hit him with my thing, right?” I said to him. I’d taken to talking to the cat recently, since Caveat was usually bound to his collar and I figured she got lonely.

  I waited a few moments, then put Monty on the floor, headed back to Tjuan’s room, and gently knocked on the door.

  “Go away,” Tjuan said.

  “It’s me.”

  “I know.”

  “Tjuan, how do you pee in Arcadia?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “I whip out my dick, like everywhere else.”

  “Tjuan, I’m serious.”

  The door opened just wide enough for my partner to glare at me with merciless obsidian eyes. “Millie,” he said very slowly, in the sort of three-deep-breaths tone you use with children. “I . . . do . . . not . . . have . . . time . . . for . . . your . . . shit . . . this . . . evening.”

  “I’m having a bad spell, Tjuan, and I just—I just feel like if I had an answer to this problem I would sleep better. I’m chewing on it and I can’t let go. I’ve tried, but I just—I’m stuck on it.”
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  He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and leaned against the door frame. “Stuck on what exactly?”

  “They’ve made me a suit, like a diving suit, sort of, that I can wear to keep spellwork safe in Arcadia. But . . . you know, it zips up the back, and I—it—”

  “You’d have to peel the whole thing down,” he said. This was a thing he’d started to do recently when I was fumbling. Part of me hated being interrupted, but another part of me liked being understood, anticipated.

  “Also,” I said, “I can’t really . . . squat? Not anymore.”

  “Get one of those portable toilets hikers use, fold it up and carry it with you in a backpack or something. They’re like thirty bucks.”

  “Oh.” I looked at him in astonishment. “But . . . I’d still have to get naked.”

  “Why’s your suit gotta be all one piece? Just grab some scissors, snip snip, pants and a shirt.”

  We stared at each other for seven cold seconds.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Now will you leave me the fuck alone?”

  I smiled a little. “Hard day?”

  He snorted. “When I showed up at the writers’ room, someone had taped a sign above the door that said ‘Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.’ ”

  “That’s . . . pointed. What’s going on?”

  “The usual. Ever since that demon-dog of Naderi’s kicked the bucket, she’s grown three rows of teeth to replace his.”

  “Oh, she’s always had those.”

  Tjuan and his boss, Parisa Naderi, had never been best buddies; neither had she and I, for that matter. If not for their connection via the Arcadia Project, Tjuan would probably still have been making unsteady money doing uncredited script rewrites. Naderi herself certainly wouldn’t have been elevated to partnership in Valiant Studios if we hadn’t found her Echo—and then promptly gotten him killed. Technically it was King Winterglass who’d exploded Brand, but if you traced the tragedy back far enough, it was pretty much my fault. My sickening guilt over it had kept me from being the comforting friend I’d hoped to be to her afterward.

  Unsurprisingly, relations between Naderi and the Project had been tense after that. But Tjuan, better known in Hollywood as T. J. Miller, was a damned good writer, and Naderi hadn’t risen to the pinnacle of power in the biz by failing to recognize talent.