The aquarium, if it could be called that, was like a lonely city. Biologists were its only residents, coming and going sporadically between classes and conferences, muttering to themselves and complaining about the lack of respect they received from the Chairs; the grand spirals of architecture and great glass walls went unnoticed and unappreciated for the better part of the day. Once a year, non-majors traipsed through the hallways, pretending to appreciate the great wonder of aquatic life in all its captive glory.

Professor Moore pressed his palm against the cool glass. It was not littered with the fingerprints of youngsters, as it should be, but clear, as though it had been wiped clean several months ago and not since out of necessity. Beneath his fingers, the lithe, chubby figure of an otter ungulated past on its way to the other side of the tank.

When he had been young, the aquarium had been Big News, something to take note of; he, and many others in his form, had spend many happy hours observing the sea life now miraculously available to him. Others' interests had waned after a time, but he had remained, taking solace in the dead solitude of the observing platform beside the otter tank. Behind the thick glass, they moved and frolicked like children; he was stiller than a grave.

They didn't bring enough field trips here, he thought to himself. Think how much an otter has to teach a person! It was a lot, in his opinion. He smiled as one darted past. They were such pleasantly uncomplicated creatures, graceful, eloquent in their movements, affectionate, positive...

He knew he was projecting and anthropomorphizing, of course; and it was unscientific to do so, yes. But it was also unscientific to have a drink every now and then, and he would be damned if he was going to stop that.

He wasn't in his office; this might have been a good thing, but the door was locked--locked!--and she hadn't the key.

And he wasn't in the MAT lab. Where could he-- did she actually want to find him, or--

There.

A slim form silhouetted in blue twilight--no, not twilight, but fugitive ocean. In that lanky shadow, still though it was before the tank, dwelled a mind so potent it defied reason. Could her eyes truly be seeing that historic figure? Could he, in point of fact, actually, physically, exist?

Of course he could. He was right there, taking up a measurable volume of space, displacing molecules of oxygen, and applying pressure and metabolic heat to a sheet of glass. The mona in that glass, if they were awake, could surely feel the pulse in his genius fingertips; and off the blood would flow, from capillary to vein, away into the hidden chambers of his beating heart.

Oh, her own heart existed, too. It made very sure she knew this. Engines of fear propelled a pounding within her ribs, and other, stranger emotions severed her rope to Vita. Like a tiny aeroship, she floated, drifting in a tympanic thunderstorm.

Throughout this, her eyes were locked on him. Her bag weighed more than she, it seemed, for in her bones she wanted to be rid of it forever. That file.. that breakthrough.. it was his. Whatever he had done, whatever he was capable of.. for the proper course of history, he had to be reunited with the ley map of Ethan Dell.

Just then, she realized he could probably see her reflection on the glass, and she froze.

The creatures were playing happily, darting to and fro like children, and Harper watched them contentedly for a moment. But his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the past few weeks, and also the days to come. Aimlessly, they played around in his brain, swimming in the fluids of his mind like the otters. His research, Wendy, ghosts...Abeline.

For a moment he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, for in a patch of darkness he thought he saw her, as a distant, faint phantasm. He blinked and jumped, and then...

reflectivity of glass...
R = ((n2-n1)/(n2+n1))^2...
T = 4*n2*n1/(n2+n1)^2...

...figured it out.

He swung around quickly, rather embarrassed to have been caught in the otter tank again.

"Oh, Abeline," he said, smiling, relieved to see her. "Did you know that river otters spend half their lives asleep? I was, er...documenting it."

He's innocent.

His dear, embarrassed smile, his unaffected posture.. if only these could count as evidence of a man's virtuous intent. Yet, no matter how true an intuition felt, no matter how deeply a sight was convincing, reason could not follow such a subjective path. There was a bias within her, a rather strong one, but above it shone a stronger, and (in all likelihood) more permanent light. Though unattainably remote, the pull it held over her could never be denied.

"S-sorry to have startled you, sir," the healer said, clutching the strap of her bag. Then, she quickly amended, "Er, Harper, I mean."

"Otters?" She tilted her head, momentarily confused. A cursory glance told her she was in an aquarium--yes, that had been her destination--how did she not notice the walls of gaping, peering fish? Those tons of water were a mere stone's throw from breaking free and drowning her...

Her gaze came to rest on the playfully swerving mammals, and she smiled feebly. "Mustelidae. They're closely related to weasels.. my personal favorite."

He was temporarily baffled as to how anyone could prefer weasels. Ferrets, perhaps, now and then; the odd stoat wasn't so bad once in a blue moon. But weasels? They were creatures of deceit and sneakiness and bad smells.

"I come here to think," he said, turning back to the tank and spreading his arms at his swimming friends. "Big, lonely old building, barely ever sees visitors. Thick stone walls - an effective sound barrier, don't you think? But the silence is so loud, I didn't even hear you walk up."

It was the kind of sentence that made sense, to him.

Politeness caught up to him, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I tend to go on. Did you need me for something?"

There was a pause. Only one sound broke Harper's beloved silence: a tap from her shoe as she took a small step toward him. Soon, that brief, dull echo expired in the forgotten chamber, and silence prevailed anew.

Behind the thick glass of the healer's spectacles, brown eyes tracked the otters' play. Blithe, vivacious, sincere.. not at all like weasels. Completely different species, technically speaking. They would never.. could never..

"No." The word slipped out unbidden. A look of shock transgressed her features, but in a flash it was gone, replaced by a contemplative biting of her lip, a nervous tracing of her fingers over tightly-bound hair. Reasons.. there were reasons for everything; the slight pain in her scalp was intentional, a reminder to herself. Every action had a reaction, and, like her hair, she was bound. Bound tight by logic and duty. She stiffened, her free hand behind her back, her eyes on an invisible horizon, and she prepared herself to be honest for once in her life.

...and yet, for all her efforts, there were walls even the most dutiful of weasels couldn't slip through.

"Not need.. exactly." Her head tilted, and her hand slowly, and with exacting control, released its hold of her bag. The parcel was still slung over her shoulder. No danger of falling.. spilling.. disaster. Control, Abe.

"Are you planning on going to Plugit," she inhaled, still staring at nothing, "for the Cartographer's Convention?"

He blinked.

"I had considered it," he replied, "but I have the distinct impression that if I were to depart from the school for any period of time, I would return to find all doors locked behind me." He wasn't joking. His face bore the stamp of rare and serious moments of contemplation, temporarily inscribed with every one of his thirty-six years.

"I'm on the verge of something," he confessed. "It's so difficult and finnicky that I've barely had space in my head for anything else, and if I figure it out, it could mean...but the Chairs are getting impatient," he said, and shook his head, frowning. "They laughed at the proposal. Laughed! Like it was funny. It's not funny. It's not funny at all.

"Are you going?" he added, briefly wistful - the convention had never been appealing to him as an opportunity to socialize, but he did enjoy the company of other academics, the air of excitement and discovery that melted his concerns for the future like butter.

Plan A: Wait till he's out of town and sneak the files back into his office.

Plan B: ???

"Oh.. uh.. Well, I'm sure not all doors would be closed to you." Her tone was low and sardonic, and that smirk of hers was as ambiguous as ever. "Just the important ones."

"I won't be going anywhere," she eventually answered, fidgeting with the tip of her spectacles. "I have a guest staying over. Miss Khymarah, in fact. We've been exchanging letters, and we're fast becoming.. er.. friends. Of a sort. I think." She patted her hair again, mouth open in a slack, forgetful frown.

"Oh! I haven't told her anything, of course," she assured. "I know how careful we have to be. Fortunately, I need only mention the word 'math' to her, and she'll ignore everything I say afterward."

The little woman then grinned the grin that only devoted scientists could--smug and disappointed and lonely, all in one. Suspicions aside, she had to admit that true curious souls were depressingly rare, and Harper was perhaps the most brilliant she could ever hope to meet. What interesting discussions they could have.. if only she were not her foolish, lying self.

"But I know what you mean," she said, her grin fading. "About feeling at the edge of something. I've been letting myself get distracted by.. erm.. entirely pointless things." She sighed and lightly touched the cool glass. Briefly, she wondered if the otters would notice her at all, but, in the end, it wouldn't really matter.

"I can't help but think the ghosts are.. hmm, how to explain this.." The healer stalled, waiting for a sudden chill to pass from her lungs. "Just a hypothesis, here. Feel free to call me crazy, but.. they spread like a cancer. I've been toying with that idea for a month or so, but lately I'm starting to wonder if they might be a symptom of some greater disease. Something bigger. Possibly something that affects the whole body of Vita."

From head to toe, Harper flushed crimson, not fully understanding the statement, not fully sure if he wanted to. Many possible replies died on his lips.

Edge of something? Distracted? What what she talking about?



An ambiguous emotion gripped his stomach.

"I suppose we're alone," he said, glancing around. It was necessary to treat such a theory cautiously, not so much like a breakable glass vase but a pressure bomb. He leaned in closer. "I believe you are not imagining that, Abeline. It's not just ghosts. Passives have been undergoing some sort of transformation of spirit. Diableries have become more frequent, and more severe. I've been filtering reports from all across Anaxas. The hatchers moving: that's another thing. These happenings seem to be connected, and I'm beginning to..."

A thought occurred to him, and he paused to file it away for later.

"The school will be nearly empty for the Convention," he said. "If Miss Theraldon is paying you a visit, I don't expect to be granted much of your time...but I do think we should take advantage of it. If you might manage to keep her occupied, for one evening...we need the Astronomy Tower."

It felt like being a child in many ways to spend time with her; it was an exciting prospect they pursued, and an excited state of being to be persecuted and thwarted, much as it bothered him. But in many ways he felt older every day, cramped and exhausted, dreading and fearing the story his research might tell him in the end. The outcome might see him changed forever, and as he could already feel his priorities rearranging themselves, he was left wondering if the edge of reality he approached would make him cling to the very elements of life that he had so valiantly fought off thus far. Friendship? What was that, compared to the truth?

A nagging voice usually reserved for memories of his sister answered: you are figuring out your direction. The truth is a great, cold, anonymous obelisk in the distance, and you are near a source of light, and its welcoming, embracing warmth. Where will your path take you once the darkness creeps in?

When he was close, she thought she felt something in the air. Hard to describe-- a rolling boil with a clarion call, or an electric tang with notes of.. strawberries? Not scientific in the least, so she concluded it was not actually there. Just her imagination.. and there were more important things to consider than her own delusional nonsense.

"Gods," she breathed. "Harper.. this is..." She rocked back on her heels, forced to take a step back to catch herself. Then, a shake of her head, and she leaned in, whispering, "Hatchers, too?"

Within her general expression of puzzlement, there was a grounded, skeptical angle to her brow, and a trace of concern in her eyes. Was he going mad? Was he already mad, and she, herself a lunatic, too self-involved to notice?

Alright. So. Abeline could accept there may be a connection. Everything was connected, she believed--nothing happened in a vacuum, after all. However, events so disparate in time and space usually had so many steps between them as to render their impact on each other effectively nil. A butterfly's flapping might contribute in a minuscule way to a hurricane, but the traditional method of a storm's manufacture (condensation at high altitudes, etc.) still provided the vast majority of wind and rain.

But she also knew that science didn't know everything. Yet.

"The Observatory? How does that--" A pause and a tiny nod. "You're the genius. I'll come along. Clocks, if this is true, it'll be monumental. We'll need a lot of of data to back it up." She looked at him, her gaze trapped in the vibrant gems that were his eyes. "Feelings are not enough, you know.."

The last thing she said caught him off his guard, and he blinked. Feelings? Him? Wait, did she call him a genius? Preposterous; he assumed this was sarcasm, or the kind-hearted feminine equivalent.

"I don't mean to be cryptic," he said, ruffled. "I think with your mechanical skill and my - er, we could use the, um." He scratched the back of his neck. "Don't tell Astronomer Parsley, but I intend to use her telescopic devices for something rather unintended by the original manufacturers. I've felt the back of her hand before..." His left cheek still stung from the time he had liberated one of her celestial maps from the archives.

"If we can triangulate the ley fluctuations I've been monitoring, we could very well pinpoint the places where they coincide. Perhaps there is a pattern. Or perhaps not. Either way, we learn something valuable."