Cook was walking back and forth on top of the roof of his brothel. The cool air whipped his long brown hair around as he paced, boots clunking on the cheap tiling; the day looked like rain, but Cook's expression looked like monsoon season. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lip was raw from chewing.

"Where the devil is she?" he said aloud, checking his gold pocketwatch. Soon it would be dark and then he'd be totally clocked...he glanced again at the door to the roof, wondering when Madame Mulm would dain to grace him with her presence.

A noise sounded from the stairwell leading to the roof. A dull thud - then another - rose from the dark passageway to Cook's ears on the roof. It sounded as though a rock - a very large and ungainly rock, most likely - were being dragged from step to step. This rock-dragging continued for what must have been half the stairway before there was heard a human grumble quickly followed by a resounding curse as one thud pounded into a loud crash that could only be something large and heavy (a rock?) tumbling down the stairs.

A moment later the door to the roof clamored open and out stepped a rather irritated old woman. She was breathing heavily from the climb, and some of her carefully cultivated hair had come free from the leather headband she wore round her forehead. Despite that, she was something of a site to behold: later in her years and showing it, yet still moved by a youthful vigor. Or moved, perhaps, by the flame of ire that flickered in her eyes. She took but a moment to collect herself, found Cook in her field of vision and stumped toward him with a purpose.

"Cook, Cookie ol' man," she began, thrusting her beringed hand forward for a shake. "You wouldn't believe the cost of a wick caravan these days. Outrageous. Why, I could buy two moa eggs with such a treasure! And then the boys had the audacity to send me on into the business with my own luggage, imagine."

There was a pause as Mme. Mulm tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, eying the wind-wild locks of the man before her. It had been some years since she had seen him, and his call had been fortuitous. She could only guess as to the full implications of his summons at the present time, so she decided to maintain a casual atmosphere until the clearly disturbed Cook chose to reveal himself.

"By the way, those were my things clanging the clocks off the walls. You might have heard it, the luggage. Have some of your girls remove it to a suitable location, won't you?"

"Madame Mulm," said Cook, gallantly kissing her hand. His eyes flickered over her body, remembering when it had been several years younger and several pounds lighter. She had aged well, he thought to himself.

"My girls aren't in the practice of lifting anything heavier than a purse," he added, smiling and showing off a row of gold teeth. His voice was a practiced baritone, free from any noticeable accent or inflection. "No doubt my doorman will fetch your luggage for you. So glad you could come, at such late notice. Forgive my impetuousness, but there is a matter of some urgency we must discuss..."

He glanced around her, then strode to the door to shut it. Mme. Mulm heard the click as he put the bolt on, noticing that the roof was lockable from the outside - curious.

Cook turned back to her.

"It seems that I am going to be dead by midnight," he said casually, watching her face for a reaction.

Mme. Mulm straightened, her face carefully blank but a snirk of derision held just behind her tongue. Her posture and expression had been cultivated over the years to denote her power of position, her superiority as a businesswoman made subtly clear to all who looked upon her. And if she ran this business, she'd certainly have some girls that could lift a paltry trunk, or knock a guttered customer on his erse if he needed it.

Mulm's eyes never left Cook, and she watched him nervously flit to the door of the stairwell, raising an eyebrow as he locked the two of them in. His voice betrayed nothing, but the man was obviously a bundle of nerves: sweat beaded his brow, and if she wasn't mistaken, his hands shook a bit as he worked the bolt. She wondered what kind of trouble her old friend had sunk himself into, and thought perhaps whatever it was might be somewhat more vexing than a minor scrape. Cook turned back to face her, his expression grave.


Mme. Mulm, usually difficult to surprise, involuntarily blinked at Cook's declaration. When she had received Cook's summons, she had thought perhaps the old man needed a vacation, or perhaps wanted to renew their friendship in their old age. At worst she had thought he'd lost his touch and needed some help reviving the business. But dead?

"There is a call for my execution among the galdori," he continued, running a hand through his hair - Mulm could see a grey streak forming among the mahogany strands. "I only know of this because of my...unique position. You could say I have been doing a little more than saving up for retirement."

Cook hoped she had not lost her fiery spirit in her winter years. He remembered back in the good old days, when Mulm could spit a man's heart with a single icy glance, and still hold her own in a fist fight...

His eyes misted over with the wistful reminiscence.

"Er," he said, finding his place again. "I need your help, Mulm. There is so much to tell, and so little time to do it in...there is a safe in the basement. The combination is your birthday - don't ask. It's the savings for the brothel, and it's yours. There will be some men by, asking for me. Tell them I've left town for Old Rose. The business must stay open. Do you understand? There's more at foot than I can say. You're a smart woman...you'll figure it out."

He pulled his leather cloak over his head. Beneath the hood, he looked like some kind of mountain hermit.

"There's no time to say goodbye," he said, rather wishing there was. "By midnight I'll be halfway to...well, it's best you didn't know."

Mme. Mulm was rather taken aback. Good old Cook, on the road to execution? Or rather, off the path, attempting to escape execution? He had always been too slippery for such a threat. But his voice had finally betrayed the stress he was under, and Mulm knew immediately that anything that broke Cook's veneer was a serious matter indeed. In their younger years Mulm had seen utter mayhem roll off this man's back like rainwater. To be in their business, on the sultry edge of the underworld, one had to be imperturbable to things that would scandalize, even shock the average citizen. She had never before seen her old friend respond to any trouble with anything more than a shrug or dismissing grin.

Mme. Mulm saw a look of desperation in Cook's eyes and sensed he was telling the truth, that some grievous commotion was afoot. If she was the type to wax poetic on the good old days, she might have taken a moment to recall a younger man jaunting through the streets of Muffey, a tarnished queen on his arm, who had a pocketful of gold and not a care in the world -- a Cook who barely resembled the skittish man standing before her. But she wasn't, and didn't.

Instead, she slid her hand under his cloak and squeezed his arm in reassurance, overcome with a rare instance of tenderness. His hair may have been flecked with grey, and his arm a bit softer than it once had been, but he was still the Cook of her youth and she would damn well do whatever it took to assure his success. So she would let him run now, and she would takeover his place for him -- and no one, no crook nor cleric, no stodgy politician or Seventen, would stop her.

"Farewell the, old man. Pity this reunion was such a short one. Trust in Mulm to look after the business, she can promise you that it'll be waiting for ya if ever there comes a time that Cook can return to his Place."

Mme. Mulm took her hand away, and resumed her customary scowl, lest her Viendan counterpart think her soft and withdraw his request.

Cook looked surprised at her warmth and willingness. Leaning over, he pecked her on the cheek quickly. "You're a goddess, Mulm," he said shortly, releasing her and hurrying to the door that led to the stairs. "I'll send word when I am secure, under my first name." He paused by the threshold, wondering if she remembered it.

"William," he reminded her, grinning. In a flash, he had disappeared from sight, leaving her alone on the windy rooftop; she head his snakeskin boots clomping down the stairs.

On the ground near the door, Cook had left a large brass key ring with several old skeleton keys hanging on it; presumably, they were the keys to the building.

Mme. Mulm listened to Cook's footsteps grow softer until she was sure he had left the building. She didn't look over the side of the roof, preferring that she didn't know even which direction he chose to take, not knowing how insistent the troublemakers who came looking for him would be.

She walked over to the door and retrieved the keys he had left her, stooping to lift the jangling ring. The feeling of cold brass in her hand made her smile -- she was in charge again.