It was morning, and the sun was supposed to be shining very brightly upon the goodness of Kingsmere.

Instead, Kingsmere was covered by huge grey clouds hovering across what was supposed to be a blue sky.

The Boras Masterclass Wine Store was already open, as expected.

In fact, it was almost never closed, making people wonder how the heck Boras managed to keep his legs kicking twenty-four hours a day, every day of the week.

No one ever knew.

Outside the store, chairs and tables waited patiently for people to sit on them and enjoy Boras' ageless wine, which he had apparently been brewing for eternity, being the hardworking man that he was.

Luckily for Boras, he already had a customer.

It was Raymond Kazerdale.

He sat outside the store, reading a newspaper.

Or not.

The newspaper was open in his hands, but whether Raymond was actually reading any of it was another matter entirely.

He wasn't enjoying Boras' best of the best wines. Instead, he was enjoying the well-made, God-given, and universally beloved beverage known as water.

A cold breeze passed through the street and brushed against his face before slipping through his well-styled hair, making a few strands move out of place as though some mischievous angel had decided to play with it.

The breeze reminded him of where he should have been.

In bed.

Being hugged by Mother Peace.

His sister had other plans.

She had woken him up rather unkindly by pouring water directly onto his face, then dragging him to this store without allowing him to bathe or eat anything. She knew very well that Raymond had hypoglycemia.

Apparently, his well-being had been temporarily demoted beneath whatever reason she had for bringing him here.

Raymond was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and grey trousers. There was nothing particularly loud about his clothing. Simplicity and style seemed to have reached an agreement upon him.

His shoes, however, screamed money.

He wore no chain, only a wristband and a couple of leather bracelets around his wrist. Nothing excessive. Nothing begging to be noticed.

Raymond had chosen his seat carefully.

From where he sat, he had a clear view of the store's entrance. He could see anyone approaching the door without having to turn his head, which was convenient because he was currently pretending to read the newspaper in his hands.

Pretending was the important part.

The wind occasionally lifted the edge of the paper, forcing him to press it down with his fingers.

Then a car pulled up in front of the store.

Raymond's eyes remained on the newspaper.

For approximately three seconds.

The car stopped.

The engine hummed softly before falling quiet, leaving behind the faint sounds of the morning street and the rustling paper between Raymond's fingers.

The Boras Masterclass Wine Store had a little fancy touch at its entrance. Some establishments preferred a red carpet.

Boras preferred brown.

It was the colour of the wood that framed his store, and it went rather nicely with the black pillars and charcoal exterior. Whether this had been carefully planned or Boras had simply decided that red was too predictable, nobody knew.

The driver stepped out.

He was dressed in a suit, naturally.

He shut his door and walked around the car.

Raymond lowered his newspaper by an inch.

The driver reached the other side.

His hand went for the door handle.

Raymond's eyes widened.

It was the sort of widening one might expect from a lion staring at a particularly promising piece of raw meat after an unfortunate two-month dietary arrangement.

Raymond wanted to know who was inside.

The driver opened the door.

And behold.

Arabella.

The daughter of Hugo Cavendish.

Hugo's crown jewel had arrived to collect one of her father's wines.

No.

Not merely one of his wines.

One of Boras' eternal masterclass wines.

Arabella stepped out that morning in a cream wool coat so elegantly draped it looked like it had already been to brunch and gotten a promotion. It hung open with the confidence of someone who had never once been told, "Zip up, it's cold."

The wide lapels fell like a lazy sigh of luxury.

Underneath, a deep emerald suit lurked like a secret. Its satin-edged lapels flashed dark green with every step, while matching cuffs peeked from beneath the sleeves as if to say, "Yes, we coordinated on purpose. No, we won't be taking questions."

A soft white knit top with an open collar kept things relaxed.

Or as relaxed as something could be when it was clearly expensive.

A fine gold chain rested at her neck. Tiny gold hoops caught the morning light whenever she moved, and a ring sat neatly against her fingers, adding just enough sparkle to announce expensive taste without shouting about it.

And the smile?

That was the final accessory.

Whatever she was there to do—be it a meeting, a date, or simply the good fortune of looking this effortless on an ordinary morning—the stone buildings behind her seemed to lean in and take notes.

In her hand, she carried a hint of greenery.

Because, of course, she did.

Even her errands had a colour palette.

Arabella looked at the driver.

"Jimmy, do you perhaps remember the names of the wines Father said I should collect? I seem to have forgotten them."

Jimmy looked up.

He thought about it.

Or, at least, he performed the general facial movements associated with thinking.

We all knew he didn't know much.

"No, I don't remember, ma'am," he finally said.

Arabella knew there was only one person who could possibly help her now.

Her loving father.

She took out her phone and called him.

Hugo Cavendish picked up almost immediately.

"Ara, have you collected the reserve?" he asked.

"Father, I forgot which ones you wanted."

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'll send the list right now."

"Thanks."

She hung up.

"Come on, Jimmy. Let's see what Boras has that I would love."

She walked towards the store.

At the entrance stood two guards.

Big ones.

Bald ones.

The sort of men who looked permanently offended by the existence of other people.

Any person with common sense would indeed wonder why a wine store needed two enormous men standing outside its doors looking as though they had been hired to guard a national treasure.

Perhaps, in Boras' case, they were.

One of the guards stepped forward and pushed open the double doors for Arabella.

She walked through without hesitation.

Jimmy followed behind her, and beside the two guards, he looked less like a professional driver and more like a dwarf who had accidentally wandered into a meeting of giants.

Raymond reached into his pocket to check his phone and met the first step toward death: he didn't have it with him.

Fortunately, it didn't give him a heart attack.

Raymond knew what was important, and he was here to focus on that only, even if he was currently about as useful as a one-armed John.

"Sir, could you please leave this area if you're not here to buy anything?" said the guard towering over him.

The man was so tall that he stood above Raymond's umbrella, as though even the weather had decided to give him some authority.

Raymond brushed his right shoulder with his left hand and remained calm.

The guard remained beside him.

Then Raymond noticed the movement of the man's hand.

The guard was reaching inside his suit.

More specifically, towards the inner pocket.

Raymond had no desire to discover what exactly the man kept there.

He had a fairly good idea.

Raymond had no choice but to comply.

And so he did.

As they say, it is generally better not to take a bullet head-on.

Raymond crossed the street, looking left and right as though he were searching for someone.

He wasn't.

At least, not anymore.

Then he heard something.

A faint vibration came from somewhere close to his heart.

Raymond stopped.

His long-sleeved shirt had a pocket on the left side, almost directly over his heart.

A pocket he had not checked.

The same pocket he had apparently forgotten existed while enjoying the luxurious atmosphere outside Boras' store.

He reached inside.

His fingers closed around a phone.

Raymond pulled it out and stared at it.

It wasn't his.

It was new.

For a moment, he simply looked at the unfamiliar phone in his hand.

Then he remembered.

His sister.

The morning.

Her dragging him towards her car while he was still half-dead from sleep. She had given him a phone, but Raymond had been far too tired to properly take it from her.

So she had put it somewhere herself.

In the pocket he had apparently decided did not exist.

The first step toward death had been survived.

Mostly because Raymond had been too stupid to check the other pocket.

Raymond picked up the call.

"Where is Calson? I'm late for my meal," he said.

"Sorry, sir. It turns out Calson is no longer with us. He had an incident with Alex yesterday," said the man on the phone.

Raymond was silent for a moment.

"Oh."

He looked down the street.

"Then how am I supposed to get home, Max?"

"Alex got you a new driver. Clover Fairchild."

"Fairchild?"

Raymond paused.

"Sounds like you're joking with me, Max."

"I'm not, sir."

"Kindly yell at Alex for me."

"I will gladly do that, sir."

Raymond hung up.

He walked a few steps.

Then he heard the slow hum of an approaching car.

It moved beside him at walking speed.

Raymond kept walking.

The driver's window lowered.

"Morning, sir. I'm Clover Fairchild," said the woman behind the wheel.

Raymond looked at her.

Then he looked ahead.

And continued walking.

"Sir?"

He ignored her.

"Sir, are you going to walk home?"

Raymond finally glanced towards her.

"Fairchild."

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you ever walked five miles wearing no shoes?"

Clover blinked.

"I have, sir. When I was young. But why do you ask?"

"Because you and I are walking home."

Clover stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because you're late."

"For what?"

"My meal."

There was a brief silence.

Clover slowly brought the car to a stop.

She looked at Raymond.

Then at the road ahead.

Then back at Raymond, who had already continued walking as though the matter had been settled several minutes ago.

"I think I fucked up," she whispered to herself.

She took off her shoes, opened the car door, and stepped onto the pavement.

Then she followed Raymond.

He didn't turn around.

He simply kept walking.

Luckily for Raymond and Fairchild, they eventually made it home.

They lived in the deeper part of Kingsmere, in a place known as Camel's Lot.

It was called Camel's Lot for many reasons, but the best one was the hills.

There were hills going up.

Then hills going down.

Then, because apparently one hill was not enough punishment for a neighbourhood, another hill going up again.

Imagine walking all of that barefoot.

You would be tired.

Very tired.

The sort of tired that makes you sweat like a miner trapped somewhere deep inside a cave, closer to the Earth's core than any sensible human being should ever be.

Luckily, the sun wasn't out.

Otherwise, Mr. Kazerdale and Miss Fairchild might have had their feet roasted like chicken on a Sunday afternoon.

By the time they reached the house, Raymond didn't seem particularly bothered.

His sweaty, majestic body suggested otherwise.

Fairchild was another story.

She practically crawled behind him, breathing as though Death itself had been knocking on the doors of her temples for the last five miles.

The house belonged to their father.

It had been built to be shared by all his children—all of them, to be exact.

It was big.

Not estate big.

Just big enough to make you feel lonely when there were only a few people living inside it, especially when the house was quiet.

Except it wasn't particularly quiet anymore.

Alex had her friends living there.

Her cousins.

Her favourite workers.

People came and went often enough that the place had slowly become something resembling her drug lord's house.

Or perhaps a mafia headquarters with better furniture.

As long as everyone kept the peace, Raymond was perfectly fine with it.

He reached the front door.

One of the guards opened it for him.

Alex had been handling enough of their father's work that having guards around them had become less of a luxury and more of a daily necessity.

Raymond walked inside.

Clover followed.

Then, just as she was about to continue after him, Raymond stopped at the doorway and looked back.

"Fairchild."

She looked at him.

"Yes, sir?"

"It's your first day. You shouldn't be leaving the car in haunted alleys."

Raymond turned and walked inside.

Clover stood there for a moment.

She looked down the street.

Then back at the house.

Then towards the direction of Boras' glorious street.

She sighed.

And walked back to retrieve the car she had abandoned five miles ago.

As Raymond wandered through the mansion, the housekeepers were already busy with their morning duties.

They moved up and down the corridors carrying trays, sweeping, mopping, opening curtains and doing whatever else people who kept enormous houses alive were required to do.

Wherever Raymond passed, the same words followed him.

"Morning, sir."

Raymond's response was usually a look.

That was his version of saying good morning.

Alex took her father's business seriously enough to have an office inside the house.

But calling it an office would have been too ordinary.

The room was named Oubliette.

An oubliette was a particularly grim type of dungeon, one accessed through a hatch or opening in the ceiling where prisoners were left to be forgotten.

Or, depending on your beliefs, to eventually see heaven or hell.

A rather cheerful name for an office.

When Raymond reached it, the double doors were already open.

Inside, the place was filled with people wearing pyjamas instead of suits.

They lived luxurious lives while doing their work, and under Alex's hands, they had almost everything a person could ask for.

Food.

Money.

Comfort.

Freedom, more or less.

There was only one condition.

Don't push the crazy buttons on Alex's chest.

Nobody knew exactly where those buttons were.

Nobody was interested in finding out.

"Raymond, you're here?"

The voice belonged to Max.

Max was the sergeant of this particular dungeon—or at least that's what everyone seemed to treat him as. He was the leader of the people working under Alex and, whenever she wanted something done, he was also the unfortunate man who received whatever form of verbal punishment she had prepared for the occasion.

"Max," said Raymond.

His face remained completely nonchalant.

Max looked at him.

"I'm aware you're only here for two things."

Raymond's eyes widened slightly.

He gave a small nod.

"And those are Calson and Arabella."

Max leaned back.

"I don't know much about Arabella. You'll have to ask Alex about that one."

He paused.

"But Calson…"

Calson was like a knight in shining armour. The sort of man who would take a missile head-on just to keep Raymond's face untouched.

He was proud, well paid, and loyal enough that Raymond considered him almost a father.

Alex, however, had a particular problem with the people Raymond kept under his wing—or, as she sometimes seemed to see it, over his head.

And that night, she had just returned from Kingsbat, her new favourite place.

Her driver wasn't there.

Calson was.

She was already angry enough to imagine lifting him by his legs.

"I'm tired of your shit!" she yelled in her imagination, before slamming him headfirst onto the pavement, his skull kissing the ground like a watermelon.

That was how she imagined it.

What actually happened was far less deliberate.

Calson had been opening the door for her when Alex pushed him.

He stumbled into the street.

It was an accident.

A complete accident.

What happened afterwards, however, was not.

Alex called her biker friends from Kingsbat and had them hide Calson's corpse.

When Raymond was told what had happened to Calson, he wasn't surprised.

Well, he was surprised.

Not by Calson's death. By the fact that he had been handed a Fairchild.

"Why did you have to hire a female driver?" Raymond asked. "She'll be having problems with my work and projects."

"You can just fire her. But know that Alex hired her," Max said.

Raymond stared at him for a moment.

Max continued.

"I've got to get back to work, sir. We're trying to find Arabella's father."

That was enough.

Raymond left the Oubliette and walked towards his room, taking his time as though the rest of the house had nothing to do with him. His shoes made soft, measured sounds against the floor, fading as he moved farther away from the office.

For once, nobody stopped him.

Nobody handed him a problem.

Nobody needed him to make a decision.

He reached his room, opened the door and, without ceremony, threw himself onto the bed.

It was eleven in the morning.

Raymond did not care.

The mattress gave beneath his weight, soft enough to swallow the tension that had been sitting in his shoulders all morning. The room was cooler than the corridor, and the sheets carried that faint, clean smell of freshly washed fabric. He could feel the cool pillow against his cheek as his eyes slowly became heavier.

He had accidentally caught himself falling asleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the room had changed.

The sunlight had shifted.

Two hours had disappeared.

Raymond looked at the clock.

One o'clock.

He had fallen asleep like a friendly bird.

He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his face and ran a hand through his hair before getting out of bed.

And then he went where his true calling was.

Books.

One entire wall of his room belonged to them.

Not novels.

No.

Knowledge.

Quantum mechanics. Philosophy. Psychology. Arithmetic. Physics. History. Mathematics. Biology. Things with equations, arguments, theories and enough unanswered questions to keep a man awake for years.

The shelves were packed tightly enough that some books leaned against others, their spines worn from being pulled out and returned too many times. A few carried the faint smell of old paper and dust, while the newer ones still had that dry, clean scent that came from freshly printed pages.

Raymond ran his fingers along the spines as he walked past them.

He knew some of these books by touch.

He would pull one free, feel the roughness of its cover beneath his palm, open it, and let the pages fall beneath his thumb with that soft, rapid flutter that books made when they were being searched rather than read.

This was where Raymond was comfortable.

No guards.

No drivers.

No Alex.

No dead Calson.

Just questions.

And Raymond loved questions.

His shelves were practically a vault of knowledge, the sort of collection many scientists would dream of having access to. He spent his time reading, studying, researching and then taking whatever he learned and feeding it into his projects.

He didn't read simply to know things.

He read to use them.

You might be wondering what kind of projects this handsome—very handsome—man was working on.

And, honestly, they might shock you.

Raymond sat on his bed with a philosophy book resting in his hands.

A small glimpse of sunlight had managed to break through the clouds and slip into his room, spreading a pale warmth across the floor. Dust moved lazily through the beam whenever the air shifted, and the curtains breathed gently with the breeze coming through the slightly open window.

Raymond kept reading.

The pages made a soft, papery sound beneath his fingers each time he turned one.

It brought him peace.

Not the temporary sort of peace that came from finally getting away from Alex or escaping the Oubliette.

A deeper one.

The kind where, if the world decided to end at that very moment, Raymond wouldn't have been particularly bothered.

His day already felt like a day well lived.

He could die now and be satisfied.

Which, in retrospect, was perhaps not the best thing for him to be thinking about.

Hours passed.

Eventually, Raymond closed the thick, knowledgeable book and stood up. He walked over to the shelf and slid it back into its place.

The book squeezed between the others with a satisfying little scrape before settling into the space it had occupied for hours.

Raymond looked back at his bed.

Every now and then, as he moved around the room, he let out a deep exhale.

It was such a lovely afternoon.

Better than the morning.

The kind of afternoon that made everything feel strangely lighter.

It was nice.

It was wonderful.

It was concerning.

So Raymond decided to get his phone.

He walked over to the door, where he usually hung his coats and jackets. His coat from yesterday was still there.

He reached into the pocket.

Nothing.

He searched the other pocket.

There it was.

His phone.

Safe and sound.

Raymond pulled it out and looked at it for a moment, satisfied that it had survived the day.

Then the door opened.

"Raymond!"

One-Armed John stood there with a huge smile on his face, his happiness arriving with enough force to qualify as an assault.

Raymond barely had time to turn.

His phone slipped from his hand.

It hit the floor.

Crack!

The room went silent.

Raymond looked down.

The screen had shattered.

For a moment, he simply stared at the phone as though he were witnessing a murder.

Then he looked at John.

John looked at the phone.

Raymond looked at John.

John looked back at Raymond.

Neither of them said anything.

The silence became so complete that the tiny ticking of the clock suddenly sounded offensive.

John slowly decided that leaving was probably the safest contribution he could make to the situation.

He turned around and walked away.

Raymond closed the door.

Then he crouched down and began picking up the pieces of his phone.

He had barely collected a few of them when there was another knock.

Raymond stopped.

He opened the door.

Lena stood outside.

"Afternoon, sir. Alex is requesting you come to her office."

Raymond looked at her.

"Tell her to call me when she can revive Calson."

Lena nearly laughed.

She caught herself just in time, pressed her lips together and gave Raymond the most professional expression she could manage.

"Of course, sir."

She closed the door.

And, for her own safety, she did her absolute best not to look down at what Raymond was doing on the floor.

A while after Lena had gone, the door opened again.

No knock.

Of course.

Alex stepped into the room wearing a black blazer so oversized and unbothered that it looked as though she had borrowed it from someone twice her size and decided it belonged to her now. Beneath it were shorts, suggesting either that she had dressed in a hurry or had simply decided trousers were a lifestyle choice she was not currently interested in.

The white shirt underneath was half-tucked, carrying the unmistakable energy of someone who had raided somebody else's wardrobe earlier and would happily do it again.

And then there were the heels.

Actual heels.

In Raymond's bedroom.

On a perfectly ordinary day.

Alex wore them with the confidence of someone who could walk into another person's room, take the charger they had been hiding from her, and leave without once breaking eye contact.

Her hair was tousled, her goldfish-blonde colour bright enough to catch the afternoon light. She dyed it so often that the colour seemed to have become less of a hairstyle and more of a long-term negotiation between Alex and whatever bottle of dye happened to be nearby.

Raymond was standing by the window.

The curtains shifted gently beside him as the afternoon air entered the room, carrying the faint smell of the garden with it. In his hand was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, still cold from the kitchen. The surface of the drink caught the light as he tilted the glass, and the sharp, sweet scent of orange hung faintly around him.

It was the sort of orange juice you could taste before drinking.

Fresh.

Cold.

Simple.

Alex stepped into the room wearing a black blazer so oversized and unbothered that it looked as though she had borrowed it from someone twice her size and decided it belonged to her now. Beneath it were shorts, suggesting either that she had dressed in a hurry or had simply decided trousers were a lifestyle choice she was not currently interested in.

The white shirt underneath was half-tucked, carrying the unmistakable energy of someone who had raided somebody else's wardrobe earlier and would happily do it again.

And then there were the heels.

Actual heels.

In Raymond's bedroom.

On a perfectly ordinary day.

Alex wore them with the confidence of someone who could walk into another person's room, take the charger they had been hiding from her, and leave without once breaking eye contact.

Her hair was tousled, her goldfish-blonde colour bright enough to catch the afternoon light. She dyed it so often that the colour seemed to have become less of a hairstyle and more of a long-term negotiation between Alex and whatever bottle of dye happened to be nearby.

Raymond was standing by the window.

The curtains shifted gently beside him as the afternoon air entered the room, carrying the faint smell of the garden with it. In his hand was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, still cold from the kitchen. The surface of the drink caught the light as he tilted the glass, and the sharp, sweet scent of orange hung faintly around him.

It was the sort of orange juice you could taste before drinking.

Fresh.

Cold.

Simple.

Raymond took another sip.

He was enjoying it.

He was about to stop enjoying it.

"Before you say anything," Alex said, closing the door behind her, "hear me out."

Raymond didn't turn around.

"I…"

Alex hesitated.

For once, the woman seemed to have misplaced the speech she had prepared.

"It was my fault."

Raymond's eyes remained on the window.

"I fucked up. I fucked you up. Everyone, actually."

She took a breath.

"And I'm deeply sorry. I apologize for Calson's death."

That got Raymond's attention.

He turned slowly, the glass still resting in his hand.

Alex stood with her hands loosely at her sides.

"I chose Fairchild because she's the best of the best," she continued. "She has a fucking university degree in martial arts and physics. She can calculate the speed of someone's punch."

Raymond stared at her.

Alex gave a small shrug.

"She's qualified."

"Your drivers are shit," Raymond said. "And they die often, Alex."

Alex's mouth tightened.

"The point is, I was trying to show my level of sorryness, big brother."

Raymond took another drink.

The cold glass touched his fingers as he lowered it.

"The point," he said, "is that I'm seeing Theo Pembroke and his sharks walking into our yard without knocking."

He turned away from the window.

Alex watched him.

Raymond's voice remained calm, but the easy atmosphere of the room had changed. The orange juice was still in his hand. The sunlight was still on the floor.

But the afternoon suddenly felt less peaceful.

"That," Alex said, "is where I was heading."

She smiled.

Not a nervous smile.

A knowing one.

"Apparently, you are the one who's supposed to be running this whole machine."

Raymond said nothing.

"But life keeps pulling you toward great mischief, brother."

She leaned slightly against the door.

"Theo is here for his son."

Raymond's eyebrows lifted.

His mouth opened slightly.

"Why is he here?"

"There are many reasons."

Raymond looked at her for a moment.

Then:

"Just give Theo his son back."

Alex's smile disappeared.

"If I could, I would, dear brother."

The room became quiet again.

Raymond looked at her.

Alex looked back.

Neither moved.

"Get out."

Alex didn't argue.

She simply pushed herself away from the door and walked out, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

The door closed behind her.

Raymond stood there for another moment.

Then he finished the last of his orange juice.

The glass was empty.

He placed it down, walked back to his bed and sat on the edge of it.

For the first time that afternoon, he looked less like a man enjoying his peace and more like someone who had just realized that peace had never actually been his to keep.

The day had already passed surprisingly fast.

Yet somehow, it seemed to have no intention of ending.

Raymond was still in his room when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Max stepped inside carrying a tablet with both hands.

"Afternoon, sir."

Raymond turned towards him.

"The water project has been showing great success," Max said. "We've managed to make it move in the shape of a person. We've even captured the experiment on video."

Raymond's interest immediately shifted.

He looked at the tablet.

"Best if I go there and check it myself when I get the time."

Max nodded.

"Yes, sir."

He turned towards the door.

Raymond followed behind him.

They left the room, and Raymond pulled the door shut behind him. Max headed in the opposite direction while Raymond continued towards the entrance.

His shoes echoed softly through the hallway.

Step after step.

The house had settled into that strange afternoon quiet again. Somewhere farther inside, a door closed. A housekeeper moved through another corridor. The faint hum of the mansion seemed to sit beneath everything.

Raymond reached the entrance hall.

He was about to walk down the stairs when he stopped.

Someone was standing at the bottom.

Theo.

He was accompanied by three men who looked as though they had been issued weapons instead of business cards.

Theo, however, seemed almost relaxed.

The long brown overcoat was doing a lot of heavy lifting here—double-breasted and sweeping, the kind of coat that suggested he was either about to inherit an estate or foreclose on one.

Underneath was a waistcoat and tie combination that said, I dressed for the weather of 1890 and also for maximum intimidation.

His wide-brimmed hat remained firmly in place, casting just enough shadow across his face to make his stare from the bottom of the stairs feel like the opening of a very tense conversation.

His hands hung loosely at his sides.

Almost deliberately relaxed.

The coat pooled slightly around his ankles.

He didn't move.

He didn't need to.

There was a particular stillness to a man who had all the time in the world and intended to make you feel every second of it.

No weapon needed.

No raised voice.

No dramatic entrance.

The silhouette alone said:

We need to talk.

And judging by the way Theo was standing there, this was not going to be a fun conversation.

"I'm here for my son, Raymond," said Theo.

Behind him, his three hellhounds already looked as though they were itching and drooling with rabies all over Raymond's carpets. Charming men. Probably excellent dinner guests.

"Of course you are, Theo," said Raymond.

He stood where he was, completely nonchalant, staring Theo directly in the eye.

"I heard he was last seen with Alex yesterday at the party," Theo said.

Raymond knew exactly which party he was talking about.

It was the party where Calson had been sent to another world by a car.

"So I have heard, Theo," said Raymond.

Neither man moved.

They simply stared at each other, as if whoever looked away first would lose some ancient masculine contest that neither of them had actually agreed to participate in.

There was something almost absurdly manly about it.

The sort of staring contest that could probably outlive the end of the world.

Theo stood three steps up the staircase, leaving four steps between himself and Raymond.

"Can I look around?" he asked.

"You can stay as much as you like, Theo."

Raymond paused.

For the first time, he broke eye contact, turning his head slightly toward the painting hanging on the wall.

His mother and father.

His favourite picture of the two of them together, carefully framed and kept in a place he passed almost every day.

Then Raymond looked back at Theo.

"But what will you do if you find something you don't like?"

Theo considered him for a moment.

"I'll break a few glasses," he said. "As long as you don't mind."

Raymond smirked.

Theo smirked too.

And there they were.

Two men standing on opposite ends of a staircase, smiling at each other as though they had just agreed on something neither of them intended to explain.

"Well, let me help you look," Raymond said. "I'll take two of your men. You can search with the other."

Theo gave a small nod.

Two of his men stepped forward.

Raymond turned and began walking.

The two men followed.

They had barely gone ten steps before Raymond realized he had forgotten one important detail.

He knew exactly where Theo's son was.

Of course he did.

But there was no reason for Theo to know that yet.

The house was large enough to make getting lost inside it a perfectly reasonable possibility. It wasn't an estate-sized palace, but it had been built with the kind of money that made the concept of too much space sound like a problem for poorer people.

The corridors stretched farther than they appeared from the entrance, opening into sitting rooms, libraries and little passages that seemed to exist simply because someone had once had enough money to say, Why not put another room there?

Paintings covered portions of the walls, some of them framed so heavily that the frames themselves looked expensive enough to insure.

The floor beneath their shoes was polished to such a degree that the light from the chandeliers seemed to travel across it.

There were vases everywhere.

Beautiful vases.

Tall ones.

Short ones.

Ancient-looking ones.

One stood on a pedestal beneath a portrait of Raymond's grandfather, decorated with patterns that probably had a history longer than several governments.

Raymond passed it without looking.

One of Theo's men did look.

Raymond noticed.

"Don't touch it."

The man immediately moved his hand away.

"Why?"

"Because if you break it, you'll probably spend the rest of your life paying for it."

The man looked at the vase again.

Raymond continued walking.

"And that's assuming Alex doesn't kill you first."

They continued down another corridor.

The mansion seemed to keep unfolding.

A staircase appeared where there hadn't seemed to be one before. Beyond it was another hallway, then a balcony overlooking part of the lower floor. Somewhere in the distance, the faint clatter of dishes could be heard from the kitchen.

Housekeepers moved quietly through the corridors, carrying trays, polishing surfaces and disappearing through doors as though they had been trained never to interrupt the house itself.

Raymond barely noticed them.

He knew the place.

He knew which corridor led where.

He knew which doors were usually locked.

He knew which rooms belonged to whom.

And eventually they reached a set of enormous double doors.

Raymond stopped.

"This is Alex's office."

The two men looked at the doors.

There was nothing particularly welcoming about them.

"This place is private unless permission has been given," Raymond added.

One of the men glanced at him.

"You have permission?"

Raymond looked at him.

"I am Raymond."

That seemed to answer the question.

He pushed the doors open.

Inside, Alex was sitting behind her desk, still on a phone call.

She looked up.

Her conversation stopped halfway through whatever she had been saying.

For once, even Alex seemed to understand that this was an interesting moment.

Raymond stood in the doorway.

His eyes moved across the room.

Then stopped.

He was genuinely amazed.

There, in the middle of Alex's office, was Theo's son.

The poor gentleman had somehow been reduced from whatever respectable life he had previously enjoyed to scrubbing the redness from Alex's white carpet.

He looked exhausted.

And deeply unhappy.

Raymond stared at him.

Then looked at Alex.

Then back at Theo's son.

Alex slowly lowered the phone from her ear.

Neither sibling said anything.

"Take him," Raymond said.

Theo's son looked up.

Alex looked at Raymond.

Then she gave the smallest shrug imaginable.

The sort of shrug that said:

I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.

Raymond nodded.

"Right."

Theo's two men moved forward.

They helped the young man up and guided him out of the room.

Raymond watched them leave.

Then he closed the doors.

Silence returned.

He turned around.

Alex was already laughing.

Not loudly.

Just enough to make Raymond wonder whether she found the situation funny or simply found his expression funny.

Raymond smiled slightly.

Then dismissed it.

He walked over to the couch positioned across from the enormous wall-sized window.

Beyond the glass, the backyard stretched beneath the afternoon light, perfectly maintained and almost offensively beautiful.

Raymond sat down.

The couch sank slightly beneath him.

Alex remained behind her desk.

For a few seconds, neither sibling spoke.

The garden outside was peaceful.

The house was quiet.

And somewhere in the mansion, two very confused men were probably wondering how a kidnapping had somehow ended with them retrieving a half-exhausted man from a carpet.

A perfectly ordinary day in the Kazersdales household.

"You know," Raymond said, settling into the couch, "a deliveryman doesn't go around kidnapping children and hitting people with his delivery truck.

"He takes whatever is being delivered and delivers it.

"If you gave him a box containing holy guns, blessed by God himself, and told him to deliver them to Dad in Hell, he'd deliver them."

Alex glanced at him.

Raymond continued.

"He wouldn't open the box. He wouldn't ask why Dad was in Hell. He wouldn't kidnap whoever owned the box."

Alex opened her mouth.

"But—"

"You can stop," she said.

Raymond looked at her.

"I know. I'm at fault for everything, dear brother."

She exhaled and leaned back in her chair.

There was something almost impressive about the way Alex could accept blame while still somehow looking as though she had been personally inconvenienced by the concept of blame.

Raymond continued.

"But that's what sucks about being a deliveryman. People keep expecting you to live up to whatever crazy expectations they throw at you."

He paused.

"Bloody hands."

His eyes settled on Alex.

"Like yours."

Alex stared at him.

Raymond stared back.

Neither seemed particularly offended.

That was the strange thing about the two of them.

They could say things to each other that would probably end friendships between normal people.

"What did you find out about Hugo?" Alex asked.

She stood from her chair and began walking around the room.

She was wearing shorts.

Very short shorts.

Raymond's eyes followed her for half a second before immediately deciding that this was a terrible place for them to be.

Alex noticed.

She always noticed.

"Hugo is dealing with gold," Raymond said, standing from the couch.

"Not delivering it. He's looking for people who will."

Raymond walked toward her.

"And we aren't those people."

Alex stopped.

Raymond looked at her.

Then his eyes dropped toward her shorts.

There was a pause.

"What?" Alex asked.

"The shorts are too much."

Alex looked down at herself.

Then back at him.

"Just because I'm a lady doesn't mean I should wear shorts?"

"Those aren't shorts."

Raymond turned and walked toward the door.

Alex stared after him.

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're trying to become underwear."

Raymond opened the door.

Alex stared after him.

"Raymond."

He kept walking.

"Raymond!"

He didn't turn around.

Alex looked down at the shorts one more time.

Then shrugged.

She had bigger problems.

Probably.

Raymond left Alex's office and continued toward the entrance hall.

The same direction he had been heading before Theo appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

At last, he was going to leave the house peacefully.

Or so he thought.

As Raymond passed the gaming room, he caught movement through the wide open entrance.

One-Armed John was jumping across the couches.

Laughing.

Again.

He landed on one cushion, bounced onto another, nearly slipped, recovered himself with the sort of confidence possessed only by people who had never learned the meaning of embarrassment, and continued laughing at whatever had apparently made his day wonderful.

Raymond kept walking.

Faster.

He didn't look inside.

He didn't need to.

He knew John.

If John saw him, there would be conversation.

If there was conversation, there would be questions.

If there were questions, Raymond would still be inside the house five minutes from now.

So Raymond walked faster.

Almost a jog.

He was nearly past the room when John suddenly stopped.

"Raymond!"

Raymond stopped too.

Very slowly.

John looked at him.

Raymond looked at John.

A silence passed between them.

"I've been trying to catch you," John said.

Raymond sighed.

"Why?"

John's expression changed.

He looked almost embarrassed.

"Actually…"

He walked toward Raymond.

"I wanted to apologize."

Raymond stared at him.

"For what?"

"For earlier."

John scratched the back of his head.

"I probably annoyed you."

"Probably?"

John smiled.

Raymond was about to answer when a housekeeper appeared from the corridor carrying a tray.

She looked at Raymond.

Then at John.

Then back at Raymond.

Her eyes dropped briefly to his hand, which was resting against his stomach.

"You haven't eaten, sir?"

Raymond looked at her.

"I was going to."

The housekeeper immediately understood the situation.

She turned toward John.

"Would you like some chocolate cake?"

John's face changed.

"Chocolate cake?"

"And a bottle of the 1653 Boras wine."

John's eyes widened.

"The one that came this morning?"

"The very same."

John forgot Raymond existed.

His face lit up with such immediate happiness that Raymond almost felt offended by it.

"I'd love that."

The housekeeper smiled and walked away.

John followed her.

He took three steps before turning around.

"Oh, Raymond—"

Raymond looked at him.

John smiled.

"Sorry again."

Then he disappeared after the housekeeper.

Raymond stood there for a moment.

Silence returned.

Finally.

He rubbed his stomach again and looked toward the entrance hall.

"Extremely happy people annoy me."

And with that, Raymond continued walking.

This time, nobody stopped him.

The front doors came into view.

Cool air slipped through the opening as one of the guards pulled the door wider.

Raymond stepped outside.

For the first time that afternoon, he could breathe without someone shouting his name.

Peace.

Actual peace.

Raymond walked down the steps, hands in his pockets, leaving the mansion behind him.

He was standing in the gravel outside the house when a truck rolled through the gates.

The side of it read CARSTOHIRE in large letters.

It came slowly into the yard, its tires crunching over the gravel before the driver reversed toward the open space near the entrance. The engine growled softly as the truck settled into position.

A man climbed out.

He walked around to the back, pulled open the doors and disappeared inside.

Raymond watched.

A moment later, the sound of another engine came from within the truck.

The man had climbed into the car being transported inside it.

The headlights came on.

Then the car slowly reversed out of the truck.

Raymond's eyes followed it.

White.

Clean.

Polished enough for the afternoon light to slide across its body.

The man brought it to a stop, stepped out and shut the door.

"Evening."

Raymond nodded.

The man looked down at the papers in his hands.

"Mr. Kazersdale?"

"That would be me."

"Sign here, please."

He held the papers out.

Raymond took the pen and signed.

The man checked the signature, handed him the keys and gave the car one final glance before walking back toward the truck.

The doors closed.

The truck started moving.

And just like that, they were gone.

Raymond stood beside the car.

For a moment, he simply looked at it.

The paint caught the light beautifully. The curves were low and aggressive, almost too clean for a machine that was actually supposed to be driven. Raymond ran his fingers lightly along the edge of the roof.

Then he heard motorcycles.

Several of them.

The sound grew louder beyond the gates before a group of bikers entered the yard, engines growling and exhaust hanging faintly in the evening air.

Raymond turned.

Brad, the leader, removed his helmet and walked toward him.

He stopped beside the car.

His eyes widened.

"Well," Brad said. "Seems you got yourself a beauty, Ray."

He slowly walked around it.

"Ferrari KC23 488 GT3 Evo."

He whistled.

"Oh, I'd love to ride her for a whole day."

He placed his palm lightly against the rear of the car.

"She's a rare one."

"She is," Raymond said.

Brad looked at him.

Then back at the car.

"We're here for Alex."

Raymond glanced toward the other bikers.

They were already sitting on their motorcycles, helmets resting beside them, casually drinking beer as though they had arrived at a barbecue rather than a house belonging to people whose day had involved kidnapping, death and several armed men.

Raymond's eyes stopped on one of the bottles.

He knew that bottle.

The same brand.

The same kind of drink Calson had been around before his unfortunate appointment with a moving vehicle.

Raymond looked back at Brad.

"She isn't feeling well."

Brad raised an eyebrow.

"Alex?"

"Yesterday's incident."

Brad's expression shifted slightly.

He understood.

"Right."

Raymond handed the keys from one hand to the other.

"It's probably best if you leave her alone today."

Brad nodded.

"I hear you, sir."

He put his helmet back on.

Then paused.

"And Ray?"

Raymond looked at him.

"Don't speed with that thing."

Brad pointed toward the Ferrari.

"I heard Camel's Lot isn't exactly friendly to fast drivers."

Raymond glanced toward the hills beyond the property.

"Thanks. I won't."

Brad nodded.

"Good."

He walked back toward the others.

Engines started one after another.

The quiet yard suddenly filled with mechanical growls, exhaust and the sharp crack of throttles being opened.

Raymond stood beside the white Ferrari as the bikers rode away, their tires scattering little stones across the gravel.

He watched until the last motorcycle disappeared through the gates.

Then he looked at his new car.

Then looked back at the house.

There, behind one of the windows, stood Alex.

She was watching him.

Raymond lifted one hand and gave her a casual wave.

Alex stared at him for a second.

Then she raised her middle finger.

Raymond smiled.

Fair enough.

He turned around and opened the car door.

The leather was cool beneath his hand as he lowered himself into the driver's seat. He closed the door, and the outside noise immediately became distant.

His fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.

For a moment, he simply sat there.

Then he started the engine.

The car came alive beneath him.

Raymond felt the machine respond through the seat and beneath his feet, a deep mechanical vibration travelling through the cabin.

He smiled.

The beast was finally in his grasp.

He shifted into gear, pressed the accelerator and drove out of the yard.

Behind him, Alex remained at the window.

Ahead of him was Kingsmere.

OneLastGlass Club


By the time Raymond arrived at OneLastGlass, the sun had disappeared completely.

The entire street seemed to have stayed awake just to compensate.

Lights spilled from the club entrance and stretched across the pavement, mixing with the headlights of cars parked along both sides of the road. There were so many of them that the street looked less like a road and more like a very expensive parking lot that had forgotten it was supposed to remain a road.

Music escaped from the club every time the doors opened.

People filled the pavement.

Some were already drunk enough to have forgotten where they had parked.

One man was walking down the street with his arm around his friend, laughing at something that probably wasn't funny anymore.

A couple stood beside a car talking quietly.

Another group had just arrived, fixing their clothes and checking themselves in the dark reflection of a window before joining the queue.

Others were already leaving.

Some looked tired.

Some looked victorious.

Some looked as though they had spent the last four hours making decisions they would explain badly tomorrow morning.

And then there was the queue.

It stretched from the entrance along the pavement, people standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the streetlights, talking, laughing and checking their phones while they waited.

"Bro, if we don't get in by ten, I'm going home."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, and now I mean it."

"You're not going anywhere."

"Why?"

"Because you spent thirty minutes fixing your hair."

"Shut up."

Near the entrance stood two guards.

They were broad men, dressed in black, watching the crowd with the bored concentration of people whose entire evening depended on noticing the wrong person before the wrong person noticed them.

Between them stood a man holding a large book.

His job was simple.

He checked the names of people on the guest list, collected entrance fees from those who weren't on it, and decided who got past the door.

A surprisingly powerful little book.

There were probably men in governments with less authority.

Raymond crossed the street.

He was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand.

Behind him, the white Ferrari remained parked beneath the streetlights.

It had already attracted attention.

A few people glanced at it.

One guy stopped talking halfway through a sentence.

Another nudged his friend.

"Is that his?"

"Looks like it."

"Damn."

Raymond didn't look back.

He simply walked toward the entrance.

His clothes were neat, his posture relaxed, and his expression carried none of the nervous excitement surrounding him.

He didn't look like a man trying to get into the club.

He looked like a man who had already decided he was going inside.

When he reached the entrance, the man with the book looked up.

Raymond stopped in front of him.

"I believe I have a reservation for a private room," he said. "Under the name Mr. Jeffiston."

The man continued checking names.

"Jeffiston?"

"With a T." said Raymond.

The man glanced at him.

"Do you work for Mr. Jeffiston?"

Raymond waited.

"No."

"Then what is your relation to him?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

The man gave a small shrug.

"We get people coming here with the same move you're making right now."

He pointed vaguely toward the queue.

"Say they have a private reservation. Say they're meeting somebody important. Say they forgot their invitation."

He looked back down at his book.

"Usually they just don't want to pay."

The people in the queue continued talking behind Raymond.

Someone laughed.

Someone complained about the price.

A woman asked her friend if she still looked good.

A guard turned his head toward the street.

A car horn sounded somewhere behind them.

The whole street carried on.

Raymond looked at the man.

Then reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a thick stack of money.

Without saying another word, he placed it gently on top of the man's book.

The man stopped.

He looked at the money.

Then at Raymond.

Raymond gave him a polite smile.

"Does that answer the question?"

The man stared at him for another second.

Then he gathered the money.

Raymond walked past.

The guards opened the way.

And just like that, he entered OneLastGlass.

Behind him, the queue continued moving.

Nobody knew exactly who Raymond was.

But several people had just watched a man walk past the entire line carrying a bottle of wine, wearing the calm expression of someone who had never considered waiting an option.

The street swallowed him into the music.

Inside OneLastGlass, the world became noise.

Music hammered through the speakers.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Bass rolled through the floor and climbed into Raymond's chest.

People shouted over it.

Laughed over it.

Screamed directly into each other's ears and still somehow managed not to hear a word.

Glasses clinked.

Bottles knocked against tables.

Someone cheered from somewhere near the dance floor.

Someone else yelled something that disappeared beneath the next explosion of bass.

The room smelled of perfume, alcohol, sweat and whatever expensive cologne several men had apparently poured onto themselves in the hope that more was somehow better.

Bodies moved everywhere.

People bumped shoulders without apologizing.

Hands brushed against strangers.

Someone stumbled into another person, laughed, and kept walking.

Phones disappeared.

Watches disappeared.

Occasionally, the owners disappeared too, although that was usually because they had simply drunk enough to forget where they were.

The place was so loud that a moan could have happened directly beside you and nobody would have known whether it was pleasure, pain or someone discovering the price of their next drink.

Raymond made his way toward the bar.

A few people were gathered there, leaning against the counter and shouting their orders toward the bartender.

One man had completely surrendered to alcohol.

His head rested against the bar, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

He looked peaceful.

Dead, perhaps.

But peaceful.

Beside him sat a woman in white.

She wore a beautiful choker around her neck, and there was something about the way she carried herself that made people look twice.

The sort of woman some men would spend an entire evening trying to impress.

Raymond didn't seem particularly interested.

At least, not yet.

He took the empty seat beside her.

The bartender appeared.

"What can I get you, sir?"

"Nothing."

The bartender paused.

Raymond placed the bottle he had been carrying onto the bar.

"I brought my own."

The bottle landed with a solid clink against the wood.

The woman beside him turned.

Her eyes landed on the bottle.

And then they widened.

Not slightly.

Not politely.

They blossomed like someone had just detonated a nuclear weapon inside them.

She leaned closer.

"Hello there."

Raymond looked at her.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"What do you think it is?"

She looked at the label again.

Then back at Raymond.

"The 1799 Wittaker Masterclass."

Raymond said nothing.

The woman smiled.

"I've only ever heard of twelve bottles being available in Kingsmere."

Now Raymond looked interested.

"One belongs to Jeffiston," she continued, counting quietly on her fingers. "Two to Sir Rostwell. Five to Sir Sinclair."

She frowned.

"The other four…"

Her eyes moved back to the bottle.

"I don't know where they are."

Raymond took the bottle in his hand.

"This is one of them."

Her eyebrows rose.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

She studied him for a moment.

Then the bottle.

Then him again.

"Where did you get it?"

Raymond smiled slightly.

"I have the other four too."

She blinked.

"You're joking."

"No."

She laughed softly.

"Well."

She leaned back in her chair.

"What a coincidence."

Raymond looked at her.

"You like wine?"

"I love wine."

She glanced at the bottle again.

"Like my father."

Raymond raised an eyebrow.

"Your father?"

She smiled.

"Yeah."

It all seemed like a coincidence.

But the sly bastard Raymond Kazerdale hadn't been reading a book earlier.

The book had a tablet hidden inside it.

And while everyone thought he had been peacefully studying philosophy, Raymond had actually been surfing the internet, looking for more information about our darling Arabella Cavendish.

Our lady in white was Arabella.

"Let me pour some for you, Mrs...?"

"Call me Bella."

She smiled.

"Bella Cavendish."

Raymond poured the wine into her glass.

"I'm Mike Rollington."

And that was how the night began.

It turned out that Arabella was remarkably easy to talk to.

Perhaps it was the wine.

Perhaps it was the music.

Perhaps it was simply the fact that neither of them seemed particularly interested in making the conversation impressive.

They talked.

Then talked some more.

They moved from wine to cars, from cars to travelling, from travelling to family, from family to stories that probably should have remained within the family.

Arabella laughed.

Raymond laughed.

She told him something.

He told her something.

She disagreed.

He disagreed with her disagreement.

She laughed harder.

At some point, she was leaning closer just to hear him over the music.

At another point, Raymond realized he had barely touched his wine.

Arabella, on the other hand, had been treating the bottle as though she had personally paid for it.

By the time the bottle was empty, Raymond had probably had one glass.

Arabella had handled the rest.

The night grew old.

The music became less energetic.

People began leaving in groups, some laughing, some stumbling, some walking with the determined seriousness of people trying very hard to look sober.

Arabella stood up.

Then immediately sat back down.

"Whoa."

Raymond looked at her.

She laughed.

"Okay."

She placed both hands on the table.

"I just stood up too fast."

"You were sitting down."

"I know."

She thought about that.

"That's what made it worse."

She tried again.

This time she managed to stand.

For approximately three seconds.

Then she leaned into Raymond.

"Okay, maybe the floor is moving."

"The floor isn't moving."

"It is."

"No."

She looked down.

Then back at him.

"You're very confident for a man standing on the same floor."

Raymond smiled.

Outside, the night air hit her face.

Arabella blinked several times.

"Oh."

She breathed in deeply.

"That's cold."

She took a few steps.

Then stopped.

"Wait."

Raymond stopped too.

"What?"

"I forgot something."

"What?"

She looked around.

"I don't know."

She started laughing.

Raymond shook his head.

"You've had too much wine."

"I've had exactly enough wine."

She pointed at him.

"You're the one who didn't drink."

"I had one glass."

"One?"

"Yes."

She stared at him with genuine disbelief.

"That is honestly a little insulting."

"To whom?"

"The wine."

She laughed again.

They reached the car.

Arabella stared at it.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh my God."

She touched the hood.

"Mike."

"Yes?"

"This car."

"I know."

"No, you don't understand."

She turned toward him.

"I love this car."

She walked around it slowly, admiring it like someone had just shown her a rare piece of art.

"I've always wanted one."

"You said that already."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Well, I mean it again."

She reached for the door handle.

"I'll drive."

Raymond looked at her.

"You can barely walk."

"I can drive."

"Bella—"

"I can drive."

She opened the door.

Then stood there staring into the driver's seat.

"Okay."

She paused.

"Where do I put my feet?"

Raymond laughed.

Arabella laughed too.

Then she tried to climb inside.

She nearly missed the seat.

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I'm extremely fine."

She sat down.

Then looked at Raymond.

"See?"

Raymond opened the passenger door.

"Where do you live?"

"Home."

"Where is home?"

She gave him a suspicious look.

"You're asking a lot of questions."

"Because you haven't answered one."

She smiled.

Then her head slowly dropped against the headrest.

"Just drive."

"I thought you were driving."

"I changed my mind."

A few seconds passed.

Raymond looked over.

Arabella's eyes were closed.

"Bella?"

Nothing.

He waited.

She mumbled something.

"What?"

"I'm driving."

Raymond looked at her sleeping face.

"Of course you are."

He started the engine.

And so Arabella never got to drive her dream car that night.

Not in reality, anyway.

In her dreams, however, she was already faster than a comet, racing through the universe with the stars scattering behind her.

And Raymond?

Raymond simply drove.