Third Heaven's Throne

God had gone missing, and only two people had noticed. It happened suddenly and had the quality of a moment before a loud sound, like pots and pans clattering to the ground a room away. The feeling of never expecting it and yet being unsurprised after being initially startled. It was the middle of the afternoon when it happened that the smog levels were low enough that the blue sky and the beauty of clouds were defined on an otherwise perfect day.

Goh Si-Woo was an acolyte of the Church of Iron, who served as Iaralie's unbending and uncompromising preachers. When he approached his superior, the highest man in the order, he shouted, Deacon! Deacon! He's gone. Left. He's taken all his fire and warmth with him! And then Goh fell apart, inconsolable for the next several hours.

The other, Caitlyn Alderberry, priestess of the Chapel of Steam, Iaralie's adaptable disciples, endlessly inventive and innovative, found the mother of those within the Chapel and clung to her robes, ugly crying. All that she could manage to say is, She's gone. She's left us. She's gone.

At almost the same time, both had felt the presence of God vanish from them. As soon as they were composed and believed, they reached out to the proper authorities, necromancers.

It took arcane and brutal means to contact those who specialized in such grand ordeals as the disappearance of a God. People unaffiliated with the Church or Chapel cut an infant animal's throat. They dabbed the blood on the forehead and cheeks of Goh and Caitlyn, respectively. It was up to them to draw the proper sigils that would leave a message for all the dark arts firms willing to take such a case as theirs.

They struck gold when they got an answer. The firm of Abelworth, Cain, and Lyceum answered. The most prestigious and one of the oldest firms around. A mingled and mangled sense of relief and anxiety came with getting a response from a firm.

Goh and Caitlyn were happy to know that a group with such an excellent record would be on the case. But it was necromancers involved. The various rumors of their flesh and bone fetishes notwithstanding, they've never been known as a holy or godly bunch.

So, both the acolyte and priestess turned to their comforts to assuage the anxiety they felt. For Caitlyn Alderberry, expensive wines and the poetry of saints calmed her nerves. For Goh Si-Woo, it was smoking until he felt sick and reading over his favorite passage over and over again.

LYCEUM STARED AT THE stubborn smudge that was Perido. It refused to come into focus, despite how near the ship they were on drew. The waters had begun to turn from the lovely navy blue to the rust-colored waters surrounding the island city.

The salty breeze that wafted over her blew her white lace dress about her, and, despite how cool it was, she did not feel it—one of the many benefits of being a lich.

It didn't hurt to be known as the Queen of Winters Everlasting, the lady of the Final Frost, and a thousand other names that bespoke of her coolness and her predisposition for the color white. Indeed, her alabaster skin and platinum hair compounded this, making her the very visage of winter and also the absence of color itself.

Rumors around the office made it sound like Lyceum was boring and had an outdated fashion sense. In her view, the youngsters she worked with didn't understand the importance of having an image. But then, realizing that thinking of people younger than herself as youngsters (which comprised most people, to be honest) proved their point.

Next to Lyceum was her foil and apprentice, Emma. While the Queen of Winters Everlasting was slender and white as a bleached skull; Emma was plump and the color of leaves at the end of their life. Her clothes were also earthy colors, warm, a shirt and peacoat that were the color of mud and walnuts respectively, and trousers that were boring beige. Emma's only pop of color was her scarf, which she wore regardless of the season, a dark blue.

Both stood looking at the city at the front of the ship, Lyceum impassive, looking as if lost in the kinds of thoughts only the deathless had. Emma, cold as hell, thinking about how over her social life was back at home because of this. When word came that the firm had accepted a job to find a missing God, some of Emma's more senior coworkers were sure that this would be their chance to get away from bookkeeping and dusty records.

And then Lyceum came into the office, saw Emma, and said, Hello there, Emma Elric. Might I call you Em's? I am fond of pet names for those I like.

Emma had nodded, and her face turned tomato red because that was all she could do. But, despite losing her ability to speak, the first thought that popped into the young necromancer's head was, oh hell's bells, my social life here is over. If I'm lucky, I'll find a dark, horrible alleyway and get stabbed in the city.

Excellent. Well, you'll be happy to know that I have chosen you to accompany me on a trip to Perido to find their missing God. Oh, and you'll be apprenticing under me, assuming you don't shit the bed, annoy me, or die, during this job, said Lyceum.

And with that, Emma's fate was set in stone. Everyone in the office hated her and was out for blood and vengeance, in forms both petty and extreme. On good days leading up to her leaving, Emma would be stuck with an abundance of work in dimly lit, poorly ventilated rooms reorganizing files that she knew had been in order the day prior.

On bad days, someone would poison her drink, not enough to kill her—usually, or wither her dominant arm and a leg to make her hobble around awkwardly and painfully.

Pulling herself from thoughts about how much worse everything would be on her return if she were unlucky enough to survive this venture, Emma opened her mouth. She said, Ms...er, I mean, Lyceum, that is to say, boss, what exactly is it that you hope to do when we reach Perido? I know you're powerful. A first-class lich, really, a Queen of the Moonless night. Empress of Icy planes. Uhm, She of the Frostbitten Heart, and so on. But, finding a God seems pretty, uh, pretty damn hard.

Getting through that sentence, Emma decided she was proud that she said it all, even if she did stutter and stumble over every word and syllable along the way.

Why yes, Elric, it will be difficult. I daresay your powers of observing the obvious are ranked up amongst the very best. (Emma wanted to puke) A God going missing usually happens for all kinds of reasons. Mostly they get bored and decide to become mortals for a time. Have a romp or two, father a few bastards, and then poof! Back into the ethereal. But mostly, they don't take their magic with them when they go. Not good for business to do that.

Emma nodded, I suppose it complicates things that both the Church of Iron and Chapel of Steam are so insistent that, uh, Iaralie? Is not that sort of God.

It does, and it doesn't. No one wants to admit to their God being a whore. Least of all, people as far down the pyramid as Mr. Si-Woo and Ms. Alderberry. But, we did make sure to follow up with other, less zealous individuals. Also, the huge stacks of records we requisitioned, which I'm certain you've committed to memory? replied Lyceum, looking at Emma with one eye. In contrast, the other looked onward, taking in the hazy sights of the Iron City as it grew closer.

Emma hated when her boss and teacher did that eye thing. It creeped her the hell out. I skimmed the records. Iaralie seems to be a pretty boring God.

Well, you know how it is these days. Holy wars aren't in favor, in most places. Truth is, there being two different readings of the holy book of Iaralie and two distinct and powerful practices used to never happen. One side always killed the other.

If I remember from my readings; these two sides aren't exactly on friendly terms. Though they confine their battles to the papers, smacking at each other and never printing retractions.

Aptly surmised, Em's. Though, neither side's assertions about the other seem to do much. The theoretical approach is only academics, and the sensational only gets whichever factions' names on more lips. Pure spectacle and marketing, if you ask me, Lyceum opined.

Sounds kind of dirty, boss, said Emma.

Mm, was the only response Emma got; one she knew meant that the conversation was over.

So, Emma took a moment to take in the sight of Perido from afar before docking. She hoped to see some of the marvels from a distance to get the details lost to a nearby person. In this regard, she was sorely disappointed. However, despite the stench of the fog that hung over Perido, the way it mixed with the light created a wonderful shade of orange and purple. The stinging throat and watering eyes and strong urge to cough told Emma that this pollution was already shaving time off her life expectancy. Regardless, it was beautiful to see the natural and unnatural mix into something so breathtaking, literally and figuratively.

The ship captain, Salvador Salazar, approached them then, startling Emma and drawing her from her thoughts. Which she swore caused the barest sketch of a smile to appear at the corners of Lyceum's lips. Salvador, a tall, strong man, bronze skin and dark eyes, pools of shadow, drops of jet (as Emma could not help but think, blushing) wore a black leather coat and a simple chain shirt. At his back was a great sword, the guard made from the bones of dead men.

When Emma, precocious, had asked about the nature of the sword, he had responded, saying, When my ship was once invaded at a mutineers' behest, I and my first mate slew every one of the men. When we finished, I had him pluck the bones from each of them and fashion this sword around it.

Intrigued by the tale, Emma had asked to hold the sword. When she brushed her hand against the bone, she felt the anguish of a hundred men. The young necromancer heard their screams and, on her hands, felt the warm wetness of their blood. She had smiled and told him it was a good sword, one that would always serve him well and fill those who rose against him with dread to the point of madness. Salvador had smiled back at her and thanked her for her words.

WE'LL BE COMING INTO port within the next hour or so. I'm making preparations now; I suggest you do much the same. We'll be shoving off soon after you depart, Salvador said.

That won't do, replied Lyceum, I'm sorry, but I will require you in Perido. You cannot leave.

Salvador chuckled, I'm sorry to say, Ms, but that won't be possible. I've my own obligations. My pockets need filling, after all. If it is only money that you need, Captain Salvador; then I believe something can be arranged that will benefit us both. Salvador cocked an eyebrow and bid Lyceum to go on.

You know Perido well, yes? In a way that men of the Church and men of means do not? There is no need to be shy about it. We both know that you don't come by your money or your product honestly.

What of it? asked Salvador, a shift in his tone and body; a show Emma noted so that we know his kindness and courtesy only extend so far.

Someone with your connections will be of use to me and my associate. I would like to hire you so that we may use your wealth of knowledge and your connections. What do you say? said Lyceum, ignoring, willfully so, the change in the captain's demeanor.

Salvador smiled, his teeth bone white, uncomfortably so, and said, I believe we can work something out. We'll have to see how deep the coffers of your firm go.

Lyceum smiled tightly, and Captain Salvador left them, shouting that soon they would make dock and that there had been a change in plans. They'd be staying in Perido for a time, under the behest of the firm. There was silence at the announcement. They are all so loyal to him, Emma thought, waiting for his reaction, for his indication about how they should feel before they give anything away. It wasn't until Captain Salvador announced that they would be getting paid a substantial amount of money for the inconvenience and that they were free to, carefully, do as they pleased, that an uproar of cheers commenced.

After the excitement died down some, and the ship slowed, coming up beside others of its kind, Lyceum turned to Emma. She said, Remember, there are two kinds of currencies that give you supreme power. The first is money. The second is reputation. You will need to know when to use them and which if you want to get anywhere in this job.

Perido stretched out before them. The Iron City, it was called throughout the world, for its strong structures, reaching up into the sky, thrusting arrogantly upward into the realm of winged beasts and Gods. The smell of the coal smoke was pungent, overpowering now that they were situated within it. Emma did her best not to start hacking up phlegm, but it was all for naught.

There was the noise of the city to contend with as well. Even far away from its heart, she could hear the rushing sounds of the steam in the docks. The latticework of pipes and vents that ran throughout the city hissed and spit, the heat powering everything and making Perido not only a stinking, polluted city but a sweaty one too. Emma recalled reading that the winters in the Iron City were blessed with the chill but pleasant winds of the fall and cursed with blistering summers. Unless you were rich enough to afford weather and clear skies, that is.

She could hear the clank and rattle of the rails as the city's claim to fame, the tramways, zoomed around, coiling about or bulleting straight ahead, toward a multitude of directions, work, home, school, Church, and so on. It was too much, too fast for Emma. The city's sounds, the grumble of steam, and the popping as pipes cooled and heated. The rattle of the trams and the noxious mixture of smoke and old fish and seawater. A feeling compounded by the life she felt around her, acutely aware as she was to the thrum of energy that comprised a living creature. She had always thought about it in terms of music. The beat of a person's heart and cadence of a voice, the tap of a foot were all components in making the melody of life and blooming.

It all blended about her, and she swayed under its cacophony...

A hand came to rest on her shoulder then, as she hovered on the precipice, and she felt herself steady some. She glanced up and saw it was Lyceum, who looked down at her, looking more concerned than she had ever seen in the past.

I'm fine, boss, Emma said, meekly, Really, I am. It's just so much. Lyceum looked at her a little longer, appraising her, Emma thought, and then removed her hand.

The first time in a place like this is always overwhelming. You must learn to tune out the chatter. Focus on yourself, on being here now.

Emma nodded and closed her eyes. She imagined being surrounded by many golden strings, each vibrating, a tune all its own, belonging to an individual. A slight brush of one would vibrate out, touching those nearest and radiating onwards until it seemed to fade into nothingness. With this image planted in mind, Emma found herself and Lyceum, her own bright thrum and master's tenebrous drone.

When she opened her eyes again, the world steadied and on her master's lips was the ghost of a smile.

Come now, ladies, said Salvador, Waiting around on the docks is dangerous, he glanced pointedly at Emma, There are always eyes open for young ones.

Lyceum nodded, Indeed. Then why don't you hail us a cab, Captain?

Salvador flashed his white smile, Of course, my lady, and so walked on, the pair following close behind him. A cab came quickly enough, an older, more rustic model. The carriage was drawn by living horses rather than powered by a motor. This was fine for Lyceum, who did not care one way or the other what sort of carriage she rode in. Emma, on the other hand, was disappointed, though she supposed it was for the best. She had only now been able to blot out the discordance of a thousand songs playing all at once, no need for further stimulus.

The carriage itself was made of wood, reinforced though it was by the threading of steel through its beams. The driver smiled a practiced smile. He was an older man with a protruding gut, his hazelnut eyes turning milky with the slow creep of cataract. Emma could not help herself and so focused on the man for a moment, catching the barest chorus of his song. It was full and well-rehearsed, filled with all the anguish and joy of a life lived. There was more there, a distortion below the cleanliness of it, one that interrupted the harmony. Emma wanted to dive deeper into it but thought better of it. She was here to do a job, and that job did not involve trying to root out the particulars of her cab driver's life.

He did not say much to them as they stepped in, merely took their money, and nodded when he told them of their destination.

I'll be near the dock if you need me, said Salvador, as the carriage began to move, At a club, The Dripping Bucket.

With that, they were off, ferried toward the first of their two destinations, the Chapel of Steam and Smoke. Lyceum, for some arcane reason, had decided to visit the pair of clients in reverse order of the requests the firm had received. Emma went along with it, assuming that there was some more profound wisdom in her boss's decision.

Goh was in the process of giving up smoking and process it was. Between nerves and a sense of obligation, he had alternated between buying fresh packs of cigarettes, opening them, smoking one or two, and then tossing them in the trash. The acolyte felt sick, any amount of nicotine making his stomach turn so much so that Goh had to stifle down his bile. He was reasonably sure that his chain-smoking at the realization that Iaralie had vanished was to blame. Currently, there was a cigarette between his lips, half gone though Goh had inhaled none of it. The pack he had already crushed and tossed to the side. Already he was regretting the decision and wondering whether or not he should stroll down to the local shop and procure yet another pack, his fourth today.

As it was, Goh was sitting on the steps to his Church, beside the Grand Deacon, awaiting the representatives from the firm that they had hired. The Grand Deacon, Elon, a tall, light-skinned man with long blonde hair, muscular, the iron-gray, supremely drab robes of the Church tight on him, was in a foul mood. Word had been delivered early in the morning via the owl typical of the firm that they would be representing not only their Church but also the other Cathedral.

Traitorous, blaspheming louts! Elon had screeched upon reading the letter.

Standing there now, the Grand Deacon brooded, making his displeasure notable. Goh sighed and looked out across the street, taking in the grand architecture of the Cathedral of Steam. It loomed over everything around it, the windows and doorways wide and open. The top of the building uncovered, and from the top of it, always, steam billowed out into the sky. It was a wholly different affair than that of the stout, robust, and imposing fortress that was the Church of Iron. Where the Chapel seemed open and inviting and able to bend, the Church stood firm, holding itself against the onslaught of time itself. An immovable force was what the Church was and the Chapel. All Goh could think of was a willow tree. It would bend, the onslaught of time as the wind, bending but rarely snapping any part of it.

Goh dug at himself, searching for a pack of cigs; it took him several minutes before conscious thought took over and stopped the habit. He flicked the butt of his cigarette off into the road as a cab stopped in front of the Church. Two women, both beautiful, stepped out from inside the cab. One tall and dressed all in white, the other stouter, dressed in earthy colors. At the sight of them, Goh felt the need to right himself, to become more presentable.

You must be the representatives from Abelworth, Lyceum, and Cain? I say it is about time that both of you appeared. Furthermore, I would very much like to lodge a complaint with you about your decision to jointly represent both our esteemed Church and that of the louts across the way...

That will be enough, said Lyceum, cutting him off with a raised hand. "I note your distaste to this arrangement, but as you both pray to the same God, it only makes sense that we work with both organizations. No changes will be made to the arrangements made previous to our arrival. And as for our tardiness, I must apologize. Our meeting with Caitlyn Alderberry, the Chapel's representative, ran longer than was expected.

Also, Emma interjected, "You've gotten the order wrong. It is Abelworth, Cain, and Lyceum. You must get that corrected, especially for any payments or documentation. We are sticklers about that, and the people in record keeping can be nightmares. I, of course, mean that in the figurative and literal sense.

Lyceum pointed at her and nodded.

Deacon Elon glowered at them both and opened his mouth. Still, Lyceum cut him off with a beautifully sly smirk you needn't worry about extending us an apology you don't mean. Instead, tell me where I might find Goh Si-Woo.

The Deacon moved his mouth as if he were chewing on his disdain, trying to make it smaller so he could swallow it down. He is right next to me. Introduce yourself, Goh.

Goh came forward and stuttered out his introduction. Hello, I am the one your secretary spoke to.

It is nice to meet you, young man, said Lyceum, extending a slender hand, which Goh took with surprising grace. Emma eyed the young acolyte, Goh, who could not be much older by her estimation than she. He seemed rather milquetoast. Pudgy with disheveled hair and a face pocked with acme possessed a certain amount of charm in its languid quality. His robes were pressed, free of wrinkles, and when the slight breeze of the sea came wafting through the sea, carrying with it the smell of salt and smog, Emma's nostrils were assaulted by the scent of stall smoke.

How did you notice that your God had gone missing? Emma asked Goh.

All eyes were upon her, except for Goh's, whose eyes darted about, I just, he stuttered, I felt...different. You know?

I'm sorry. I don't. Can you explain this feeling? How did you know it had to do with your God and wasn't just, I dunno, indigestion?

Young lady! barked the Grand Deacon, to which Lyceum raised a single hand, silencing him outright.

I'm not trying to be offensive. Look, what I want to know is simple: how in the hell did you know so quickly? In most cases that I've seen where a god goes missing, the people worshiping said God never notice until the trail has gone cold. And when that happens...well, I'm sure you know all about what the Market tends to offer then.

Yes, yes. I know. I—it is hard to explain. It's like...well, have you ever lost someone? Then you know how if you concentrate on them, if you think about when they were there, you get this sense of emptiness. As if all the light that they brought into this world wasn't simply put out, but replaced with a gaping void. It's like that. Like there is a void where God should be and a void within me and all who live here now that He has gone.

And did anyone else notice this emptiness? asked Emma.

Oh-ho, that brought everyone up short. Emma felt the pull of smugness at her lips but shooed it away. A smile now would give away the game. So, she pushed away from the fantasy of Lyceum's prideful eyes and let Goh and the Grand Deacon hang onto their silence.

When Elon did speak, he affected his voice with a tone that told Emma he had been offended by her question. It is much to young Goh's credit that he acted before any of us. He has always worked late into the night, later even than I, and thanks to him, we were able to know of this forthwith.

What a long walk to, well, actually, I didn't notice, and I am rather incensed you would call me out in this way. Bitch.

It would appear that your counterparts across the way have a similarly dedicated acolyte then, remarked Lyceum. Their message to us did not come long after yours.

Grand Deacon Elon scowled at the remark but said only, When do we start with this then? What can we do to assist you? Lyceum smiled, and Emma could not help but follow suit. Her mentor had included her in the strategy meeting, to her surprise, during their weeklong sea trip. Though included was not precisely the right way to refer to what Lyceum had done. Truth be told, the elder lich had asked her young necromancer to come up with the best way to observe both factions, an altogether surprising proposition.

Why should we be observing them, boss? Don't trust them? Emma had asked stupidly.

Lyceum rapped her long, crystal clear nails on the hardwood of the ship, I don't know whether to trust them or not, Elric. And I think that's the point. To find out if either side is trustworthy.

That had seemed a rather long winded way to say, no, I do not trust them, and I would like them to prove me right by doing some shady shit in front of me. Long Winded or not. However, it gave Emma an idea that made a sinister smile, the kind of horrible, toothy smile that breaks out across a predator's face when they have their prey within reach. The kind that comes unconsciously right before the jaws snap shut and blood drips down the chin.

On the morning that the Iron City came into view, Emma had said, Why not put them all in one location and watch what happens. We've got two believers that either have a guilty conscience or are very in touch with the divine. Either way, it should point us in the direction we should be looking.

Oh, Emma Elric, Lyceum said, who had suddenly stood up and wrapped her fingers around her cheeks so delicately it felt like stray hairs had fallen across her face, you are a beautiful and sinister little creature. I knew I was right to choose you. Emma's face tried and failed to get hot and turn red as the blood that had suddenly started pounding in her ears. Those delicate, cold fingers that caressed her face caused a shiver to run down her spine all the way to her now quivering legs.

Uhm, she had said, smooth as chunky peanut butter as Lyceum took her hand back and brushed past her smooth and fluid and chilling as a winter breeze.

Excuse me, said Deacon Elon, tight lipped, blood drained from his face, but could you repeat that. I'm afraid my mind might have wandered off, and I misheard you.

Of course, Lyceum said, a comfortable chill to her voice, "And I must say that I am very grateful that you and your flock are so willing to help us in our investigation. To do the most good, we will need to investigate and interact, at length, with your Church and the Chapel. To expedite this process and perform at maximum efficiency, we will be moving the entirety of both congregations to a neutral location.

There, my partner, Ms. Elric, and I will be able to work with both of you."

How unfortunate, hissed Deacon Elon through grit teeth, I did hear you correctly. I hope you know that I must refuse this ludicrous and foolish proposal.

Lyceum raised an eyebrow, Oh? And what would the reason for this refusal be?

Deacon Elon, Emma noticed, stopped clenching his jaw then. She noted the color had come back to his face with such ferocity it must have bruised it as it turned a deep, ugly purple. You ask me to work with heretics. I know someone like you cannot understand what it means to have faith, but I do, and I will not compromise mine for the sake of your convenience! In fact, I will be reporting your uncouth behavior to your superiors. We'll see how long your smug smile stays then!

Another thing Emma noticed was Goh, who still sat on the steps, wide-eyed, fumbling with his lighter. He seemed anxious to Emma, and he seemed small, out of place. Like a child that had walked in on a fight between parents, suddenly all too aware that he didn't understand a damn thing about what went on outside of himself.

Are you finished? asked Lyceum, her voice sharp and dangerous as broken glass. It was a change of tone so profound it gave Emma whiplash to hear it, because I am getting very bored with your protestations. You are more than welcome to speak to Johann and Wilhelm. I can promise that they'll ignore you completely. We are necromancers, sir, and we work to make sure the gears stay oiled and turn and assure that the machines don't explode. Politics and theological disputes mean nothing to us. If our request or our methods are so distasteful to you, then I assure you that we have other clients who will be more flexible.

For a third time, Deacon Elon's posture changed though there was no defiance in it. He had gone limp like a body hanging from rafters.

Okay, he said, If they agree to it, then I'll agree to it.

Lyceum smiled and turned to look at Emma, Would you look at that. He did say the same thing as the Chapel's Matriarch!

Moving the entire live-in staff of both the Church of Iron and Steel and the Chapel of Steam and Smoke took a great deal of coordination though not as much time as Emma had thought. Lyceum had connections in Perido, old friends with even older debts to her that she had come to collect. Emma tried to pry some information from her boss about the people and the obligations, but, alas, Lyceum was as impossible to pin down as smoke.

So, Emma gave up and relegated herself to observing the bunches of holy folk as they packed away their lives into suitcases and duffle bags and whatever else, and caught a trolley. Most of them looked annoyed, a few angry, and a handful indifferent, but what none of them did was look at one another. Interestingly, they all seemed to do a sort of seeing without seeing.

At one point, a member of the Chapel had lost footing and taken a rather nasty tumble onto the cement ground. Others within their ranks were quick to huddle around them and help them gather things, dust off, and get to walking, albeit with a pronounced limp and a newfound expression of repressed pain and a stifled wince. The members of the Church had merely parted around the fallen person. None of them looking down or back, none asking after the well-being of the fallen. There wasn't even ruthless jeering or cruel snickering.

It was such a striking thing to witness that Emma couldn't help but investigate the limits of its bounds. And so, she boarded one of the trollies that appeared to have a pretty even divide between the two factions. As they rolled through the city, circumventing the more colorful sights in favor of more quaint shops and bakeries. It made sense to Emma that a religious institution would be separate from the glitz and sin at the city's heart. But making sense did not stop that fact from being tragic and creating a kind of boredom within Emma that only social experiments could cure.

The conversation was sparse on the trolley but not without its high notes. A few younger members of the Church, boys, talked excitedly about recent conquests. At first, it was a trio from the Church. As the conversation turned more vulgar and outlandish, Emma saw a pair from the Chapel snicker and added a few tentative comments. It wasn't long until their conversation became the stream-of-conscious boorish stuff that one might expect.

She said she was allergic to nuts, and I said, well, you'll be getting my nut butter soon, so let's hope for the best, eh? Laughter.

They were worried about how I would react to what was in their pants. I was like, look, I'll straight suck it or lick it off. You'll be babydoll smooth when I'm finished. Laughter.

Emma rolled her eyes but noted that, as the distance between their homes increased, so too did their proclivity for conversation. At least it did with the younger and, Emma guessed, less senior members of the respective religious houses. Toward the bus's back, there were quieter devotees, and more eyes turned away from one another.

Two, in particular, a person from the Chapel, female-presenting, and a male presenting Church-goer sat next to each other, their heads turned away to look out the windows. That was another thing of note, those more senior pious folks ignored each other as well as the antics of their fellows.

The pair in the back, Emma decided, were the perfect duo for what she had in mind. She strode toward the two, the eyes of everyone on the trolly following her as she went. It took a considerable amount of effort to keep the trembling confined to her hands.

Excuse me, uh, Mr and Ms... began Emma, drawing the attention of the duo to her.

There was a pause as the pair looked at each other for a brief moment.

Not Ms. More of a misc, they said, locking Emma into their eyes, the color of leaves in springtime. Their tone was playful, but their gaze suggested the mystery and danger inherent in the depths of the forest.

Emma cringed, and her face felt as though it had been branded by a hot iron. Fuck, fuck, fuck! You dipshit. You horses ass. You walking bee-sting, why would you assume?

The internal chastisement would last anywhere from the next few hours to Emma's next life. For now, though, she placed it in the chest she envisioned inside her heart, one that grew fuller and larger with each passing year. It was a curse to learn and grow and remember that a past version of yourself had lived and caused harm in ignorance. Worse still, to know that some would only know you at a particular, shitty stage and never know you as the marginally less shitty person you are now.

I apologize. I should not have assumed. Not for either of you. I make no excuse. Can we three start over? said Emma, forcing down the urge to explain. It was always there. When she made an error, that desire to make an excuse or say inane, unhelpful, even insulting bullshit like, I have a lot of enby friends! Or, you are so brave for living your truth. Any of that awful faux-sincere claptrap people liked to tack on. The urge was powerful, even when all there was to do was apologize and resolve to do better, even if your apology was rejected.

I'll accept your apology this time. But this one strike is all you get, so watch it, they said, smiling at Emma, the ferocity of their gaze only somewhat lesser.

"So we are clear, I