Eventide mages may access the memories of a person or object via direct physical touch, reading them as The Vigilant Lady Traveller reads this very guide! Their power is present at all times, as with other varieties of Entwined, but is the most potent just before sunrise and just after sunset, in twilit moments, as their name suggests.
The authors of this guide recommend exercises in modesty as the best defense against such mages. Bare skin, as the Vigilant Lady well knows, invites all varieties of trouble.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
Power seeped down my arm, through my wrist and into the pads of my fingers. My body stilled and my senses narrowed, forgetting the rattle of carriages in the street outside, the voices of passersby and the distant roar of automobiles. I sensed only my connection to the cup and my threads.
Though the reader may already be familiar with the nuances of Entwined power, I feel a short explanation would not go amiss, particularly at this juncture in my story.
There are three levels of Entwined power, dictated by proximity to the quality of light which triggers one’s inherent magic. The first is the general, passive power accessible to an Entwined at any time of day or night. As an Eventide—bound to twilight—that allows me to see the most immediate history of an object or living person or creature, within, say, a day or two.
The second level comes to me in simulated twilight, like the room as it was now or at the warehouse with Stoke and Harden. With that I may see anywhere from a week to a few months in an object’s past, depending on its environment during that time—the more memories the object has gathered, the shorter my reach.
And finally, there is the power of true twilight. In those sparse moments just before dawn and just after sunset, I can reach years, if not decades, into the past of nearly anything I touch.
The same may be said of all Entwined classes, diurnal or nocturnal, from Silvers to Glims and Moonlights. Three levels of power, and three alone.
To return to the matter at hand: Recent memories seeped from the cold porcelain cup and into my mind. They were fragmented, non-linear, and evasive, as is common with inanimate objects.
Still, I felt the cup shake as someone jostled the desk. Luke-warm coffee spilled over my fingers, though in actuality the cup remained still and my hand was dry.
I moved my touch to the wood of the desk. Now I heard Mr. Stoke shout, his voice coming to me through a thin wall of memory. I glimpsed his assailant, pressing him down into the desk with a pistol under his jaw—each point of contact thinning the chain of memory.
His attacker was Mr. Wake, his hat fallen away and auburn curls hanging into his eyes from a middle-part.
“Then where is it?”Wake demanded the detective. His voice was low and deathly calm, chilling in a way that he had not used with me. “Who took it?”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Stoke’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but he was admirably composed. “I’ll find it for you. I’ll find it and—”
There were more voices, unidentifiable and obscure, then silence. Events had separated from the wood of the desk, and therefore I could not see them.
The world slipped back to speed. Moving more quickly now, I crouched to plant a hand on the floor, but brief footsteps and thick-soled boots had, as usual, left little for me to glean.
I moved on to the bookshelf and set my open palm upon it. I found nothing but stillness. The shelves had not moved recently, and before that they recalled only Mr. Stoke placing the box inside. If anyone else had moved the case, they had worn thick gloves or used other methods to ensure they left no impression.
One more weight on Pretoria’s side of the scales, then. She knew the nuances and limits of my sorcery better than anyone else.
I crouched down, setting aside skewed stacks of files until I uncovered a knot of wood at the back of the shelf. I pried it out, revealing the latch.
I glanced at the window, then again to the office door. There was always a chance Mr. Wake would come back. I had to be fast. I lifted the latch, grabbed the shelf and pulled.
The bookcase swung out. There in the wall, right where an old fireplace used to be, sat the safe.
Three deft turns later, I heard a soft click. I pulled the door open and peered inside. Files. A small strongbox where Mr. Stoke kept cash, which was now painfully empty. There was nothing else. The canvas-wrapped artifact was truly gone.
I closed the safe and bookcase once more and sat against the wall, staring across the dim room and trying to sort my thoughts. If Mr. Stoke had fled and left me behind, therehadto be a valid reason.
I glanced at the clock out of habit, but it was still gutted and mute. I lifted the curtains to peer outside, and found the angle of the sunlight across the roofs and chimney pots indicated that it was nearly noon.
The day was passing. I needed a safe place to think, gather my thoughts, and pass the time until I confronted Pretoria.
I gathered my things from my destroyed office, cast one last glance around the quiet building, and left.
***
I spent the noon hour at a café by the river, occupying a secluded spot in the warmth of the sun and the cool of the breeze. I could see in nearly every direction, tucked between one outer wall of the café and a potted shrub, but only the most observant passersby might see me.
