Fall of Night. Where reality goes to die. Deep in the impossible city, Pascal Hunter makes his living as a detective. The city never fails to offer up sufficient crimes to keep him busy. Always keeping his own secrets well hidden, of course.

Shortly after noon, Pascal walked the streets of his home neighborhood. Unlike Pinewood, this one was was well named, the Freezer. With a thick coat and a hood over his head, he was identical to all the other coats and hoods hustling along the street. A few horses trotted through the ice and mud, but it was mostly people hurrying by to get indoors and out of the icy wind.

Pascal prowled the frozen streets, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. Tightly bundled people in a hurry pushed by him without a word. A spotted dog followed him for a block, barking and whining until a boy ran out after him. A horse drawn cart with an under-dressed driver hurried through, the driver’s curses tailing the horse. Pascal wasn’t looking for any of them, he was hunting smaller prey.

It found him.

A spray of snow flew out of Patterak Alley when he passed. Reflexively shutting his eyes, he was easily tagged by a tiny wisp of a boy, his ragged red hair flopping uncovered in the frigid air.

“Got ya again, boss,” the boy cried triumphantly.

Alone on the street, the urchin child was not dressed for winter. Bare arms poked out from a cotton shirt and he wore sandals on his feet. His short dull red hair left his large ears exposed to the cold. The child had an oddly pudgy face, contrasting with his skinny and knobby arms and legs.

“OK, you got me. Good for you,” Paz growled. “Now can we get inside? Some of us get cold, you know.”

“What?” the boy exclaimed. “You mean it’s cold out here? Someone should have told me.” He idly scooped up some snow and began packing it into a snowball.

“C’mon, Brynn. Gimme a break already. We got a case.”

That got his attention. “Something good? Interesting? What? Where?”

“Not out here. Back at the Goose, I need to get inside.”

The Green Goose was an inn. Specifically, it was Pascal’s inn. He owned it, and he named it. When he bought it, the man claimed it would be the goose that laid golden eggs. Pascal had answered, “My goose is made of copper, and it’s already rusted over.” And so it became the Green Goose.

Inns were a vital institution in the Freezer. As cold as it was, and it was always cold, nothing burned. Oil was the only exception, but you had to keep a steady supply. So the inns were restaurants, bars, and gathering places. Customers would stay for hours since it was warmer there than in their homes.

The windows were framed in ice, spiderwebs of frost inching upwards as the icicles stretched down to reach them. But inside was warmth. Pascal stomped the ice off his boots, adding a bit more to the puddle in the entrance room. Brynn copied the gesture, making certain to splash Pascal by accident in the process.

After warming up for a minute he could stand up straight again. They entered the common room together. The large room was warm and bright, lit by oil burning openly in trenches along the sides of the room. New visitors were always put off by that, thinking the open flames too dangerous. It wasn’t. It was perfectly safe. In the Freezer, nothing but oil would ever burn. If you put your hand in the flames, it would hurt, but that was all. Not even the hair on your arm would burn.

“Welcome back Paz,” shouted a woman from behind the bar. Holly was a short haired sexy blond who’d worked the bar for two years now. She wore a black and white outfit and showed a bit more skin than was absolutely necessary. “How’s tricks? Get you something? How ‘bout you, Brynn?”

The men at the bar turned when Holly called him. It was that time in the afternoon when the serious drinkers were finishing up and families were going to start arriving for dinner and their evenings. The change over could be fascinating or uncomfortable as each group tried studiously to ignore the other. The barflies were trying to determine if Pascal and Brynn were part of the family crowd, but they quickly passed muster as most of them went back to their drinks.

“Bourbon, Holly,” Paz ordered.

“Whiskey,” Brynn requested in his high child’s voice. Holly didn’t bat an eyelash as she took his order. She knew what Brynn was.

When Pascal had told Jim that moving between shards would not cause problems even if your body had been changed, he was telling the truth. For the most part. There were exceptions. The Freezer was one of them. If a magical creature entered a shard with no magic, it would usually just not be able to use its magic. In the Freezer, they were forced into appropriate, usually human, bodies. A ghost got a body and a life.

Brynn’s case was different. Arcadia, a fey shard, phased in to the city some years back. The fey kept their magic in almost every shard and rapidly changed from annoyance to threat. The Freezer, in those days, was a stronghold, one of the few places the enemy couldn’t operate. Brynn was a faerie who got caught in the Freezer and discovered he liked people. He liked being one of them. Pascal understood. Brynn eventually found a particularly strong wizard who could remove his fey nature, and he stayed in Fall of Night when Arcadia finally drifted off. Like Pascal, Brynn didn’t age, but unlike him was stuck as a perpetual child.

“One bourbon and one whiskey. You know, you guys could change your order some day. They don’t actually arrest you for trying something– new.” Pascal managed a tight smile. Holly was a shameless flirt, though flirting was as far as she went. Brynn smiledmore broadly, always desperate for female attention. “Stew’s almost ready, I think it’s got fish in it tonight. And for you, on the house.”

The common room had long tables and benches, and they’d soon be filling up. At the far end of the room a large pot hung over the pit, an oil fire burning beneath it. They made a stew each night for those who ate here. Anyone who wanted something better could go into the back room, where there was a full blown restaurant. Most people stuck to the common room.

Pascal and Brynn went back to the restaurant, less for dinner than for privacy. “So, what’s the case?” the little boy asked again.

“Murder,” he said.

He knew the game. Brynn would play at disinterest and make Pascal convince him to come along. If Paz was parsimonious in doling out information, Brynn would have to ask for more, betraying his interest.

It didn’t take long, and soon he’d related Sofiya’s story to Brynn.

“So what’s this girl’s secret?” the child asked at last. “Is she boning the valet or what?”

“I’ll leave that line of investigation to you,” Paz answered with a stone face.

“Then she’s either ugly as sin or I’ve found another part of you that’s dead,” Brynn laughed at him. “Of course I’m in, you’d be helpless without me.”

- ♇ -

“The Carrabach will see you now.”

“About bleeding time,” Paz muttered under his breath. He’d been waiting almost an hour for this meeting. He was in his Sunday best, a black sports jacket and red tie. While he hoped to impress, he would at least not give offense by being badly dressed. Trying not to offend was also why he muttered his complaint rather than state it aloud.

The luxurious waiting room had not improved his mood. If anything it had made him more nervous, but that was probably the intent. The fine red sofa, thick carpeting, and the small, tasteful, and above all expensive artwork on the wall reminded him that the Carrabach could buy and sell him a dozen times over before lunch.

“Come in, Mr. Hunter,” came the unctuous tone from the other side of the door.

“Carrabach,” he replied smoothly, “We’ve been friends long enough for you to call me Paz, please.”

The Carrabach didn’t so much stand up as unfold, towering above Paz and intimidating with his great bulk - all of it muscle. “We have been acquaintances sufficiently long for you to realize I shall not address you by such a ridiculous appellation. Take a seat.”

Pascal was alone for this meeting. Brynn might lose his temper around the broker, and that could be dangerous for them. Pascal dealt with tough customers on a daily basis, but this man always made him nervous.

The Carrabach was a major player in Fall of Night. He had a network of people working for him, moving goods from one shard to another. He always seemed to know what people would need, and got it to them for a small cut off the top. He could have taken over the Freezer with ease if he had any interest in doing so. Instead he drew others in around his orbit. The Carrabach was a major employer in the neighborhood.

He claimed to be a dragon, and Pascal was in no position to say otherwise. Paz was a ghost, after all. The Carrabach claimed he wandered into the Freezer by accident, unaware that he would change form. While he was tempted to return to his old form, he discovered that he could accumulate more wealth through trade than he’d ever managed by conquest and theft. So he stayed.

“What form of transaction are you inquiring after today?” the giant of a man asked.

“Information. A shard called Brodjach, and a family named Pankov.”

“Will you provide information on your rationale?”

“By all means, long as the answer counts against my payment.” The Carrabach did not give anything away for free, including answers. Instead, he ran a thriving secondary trade in information. While Pascal worked hard to not offend the powerful dragon, he’d learned long ago that the Carrabach never took offense at offers of trade. He might not accept them, but he was never offended.

Indeed, he got a wry grin from the man’s midnight black face. His bright teeth sparkled against the darkness of his skin. “That is inadvisable at the moment. I shall reserve the option to revisit if conditions warrant.”

He called a secretary to fetch his files while they discussed the price.

“If your request for this information indicates that you will be disembarking for Brodjach, I have a price in mind.”

That was unusual, but Pascal was happy to adapt. “I’ll confirm that much,” he hedged.

“Brodjach is a most interesting shard,” the Carrabach mused. Pascal followed closely. The dragon hated to waste time so this must be important.

“That shard attaches to Fall of Night on an unusually regular schedule. It consistently remains for three years, after which it disappears for two. On reinstatement, it possesses a most marvelous crop of tobacco which it is unable to grow while attached to the city. Mr. Hunter, I would take it as payment for this information if you find out what environmental conditions they experience that allow them to grow that crop.”

If the Carrabach knew how to grow the crop, he could find other shards with similar conditions. It was a fair deal, but deals with dragons were rarely simple. “If I’m unable to find out, what would the price be?”

His laughter was a great, booming thing. “Oh Mr. Hunter, you extinquish my flames. You see my traps far in advance. Still, we have had sufficient dealings that I understand you well. I will accept your best efforts to uncover the information I seek. Should you fail, I will consider the debt paid.”

“I’m sorry, but that seems– uncharacteristically generous.”

“Far from it. It is a judgment of your character, Mr. Hunter. Experience and information tell me that if you promise best efforts, you will give it. You might fail, but I consider that possibility an acceptable level of risk.”

With a nod, “Then we have a deal.”

He opened a file and leafed through it before continuing, “Yes, then. Brodjach is a large agricultural shard with a few plantations handling most of their trade. In the local language, Brodjach means ‘Wanderer.’ When it is attached to Fall of Night, they grow grains and vegetables. As I already indicated, they grow tobacco and fruits when they are detached from the city.”

While this was unlikely to be germane to a murder investigation, you never knew what would turn out to be important, so Pascal listened carefully and made mental notes.

“Electricity does not function within the limits of the shard. Gunpowder does, though they are limited to black powder. They rely on sympathetic magic to supplement technology. What was connected stays connected. This magical connection decays rapidly for animal tissue, less so for wood and cloth, and very slowly for stone and metal. An item once connected can be used to manipulate the other part of it.

Manipulating connections appears to be simple. They use it for farming and communication, indicating wide-spread or even universal ability. My information does not include maximum control limits, as this talent does not extend to other shards.”

That made sense. He understood now why they would suspect the valet of foul play on finding a piece of Lord Pankov’s quilt in his room. If the blanket had a magical connection to the torn piece, the valet could presumably use the blanket to smother the old man.

With a clucking noise and a shake of his head, he continued, “For you, I fear I have regrettable news. The current route to Brodjach leads through Battlefield. Unless my information is incorrect, you discorporate in that shard.”

Pascal nodded. He kept his poker face up, but suspected the Carrabach saw through it. He would lose his body on the way there and become a mere shade. The odds of Brodjach providing him with a new body were close to zero. Getting out of the case with Sofiya wouldn’t be too hard, but breaking a deal with the Carrabach was less– healthy.

“Have to change my approach, then,” he muttered. With a nod, he asked the giant to continue.

The Carrabach appeared to be satisfied. “The Pankovs run one of the major plantations in the shard, Nuvye Park. They are shrewd traders,” he added. Pascal understood that was a sign of high respect.

“Stanislav Pankov handles their affairs and typically manages the tobacco trade himself. He delegates the remaining agricultural trade to his son, Boris. Stanislav and Boris are both married, the first to Ekaterina, the second to Dunyasha. He has two other children as yet unmarried. A daughter, Sofiya, and the youngest, a son, Andrei. Both of the younger children are of marriageable age. Given past experience, I expect them to to enter matrimony when the shard is detached from the city. They are a private people.”

“That will be most useful, and thank you. Do you know anything about the servants at the house?”

“Only one. The butler is Feodor Menschikov. I have little information about him, save that he has been the butler for at least 15 years.”

Just once, Pascal thought to himself, just once he wanted to say ‘The butler did it.’ Probably wouldn’t happen. Again. But he could hope.

“I believe that will do nicely.”

“I will see you again, Mr. Hunter.” With skilled delivery, it was both a farewell and a threat.

- ♇ -

“Good morning, Mr.– Pascal. Don’t usually see you here this early.”

“Morning to you too, Vic. If you’ve got coffee going, give yourself a raise.”

“Got a pot warming up on the stove,” he answered. “Bring you a cup right out.”

“Brynn should be here soon. And we’ve got a customer coming. Don’t mean to get in your way, sorry,” Pascal mumbled. Mornings were never his favorite time. He’d be better at them if they came a bit later in the day.

The Green Goose did a rousing morning trade with the people who spent the night in the warmth of the common room. The back room did not do a breakfast service and was normally empty in the mornings. That never stopped Vic from getting an early start cleaning the place. He’d always believed that the Goose was a fine dining establishment, and mere experience would not convince him otherwise.

Vic was another one of the Freezer’s refugees. A vampire, he fled to the Freezer to escape his curse. Like ghosts and dragons, vampires became normal people in the Freezer. His real name wasn’t Vic, but he didn’t know Pascal knew that.

Vic turned into a vampire on purpose to win a girl. He thought it would be all sparkles and romance. Instead, he discovered he really was only interested in what was inside the girl. Literally. The girl was probably dead, but Pascal carefully didn’t investigate that far.

In the Freezer, Vic was a bit on the pale side, but otherwise normal. He wouldn’t even eat rare meat.

Brynn soon chirped his way in. “What a great morning. Brisk outside, warm inside, I just can’t wait to get started.”

Paz grunted.

His partner was a natural morning person and he was also a natural pest. Brynn exaggerated his morning perkiness to annoy Paz. They both knew it, too.

By the time he finished his second cup of coffee he was ready to talk. He told Brynn what the Carrabach had told him.

“So forget it,” Brynn suggested. “It’s not worth losing you over this case.”

“No can do. I made a deal with him first. If I cancel out, I’ll owe the dragon some unspecified favor.”

Brynn groaned. “Dummy.”

Ghosting was risky. He was always a ghost, to be sure, but thanks to the Freezer he was a ghost with a body. In most shards he had ghost-like abilities even when he was solid. It was a handy if unreliable skill set because ghostly abilities varied so widely. One thing was constant; a body is more than a convenience. Without a brain to hold memories they faded, and his sense of self with them. He did not remember anything before he first came to the Freezer and was missing large portions of his life after it.

“Well, you’ll just have to rely on me to solve everything for you,” Brynn announced. “I’ll be– I’ll be the under appreciated partner whose hidden talents save the day. No, wait. The ignored child whose simple wisdom sees through all the red herrings to solve the case. Or–”

“What is this child doing here, Mister Hunter?” The door swung open as his client charged in.

“And a pleasure to see you too, Lady Sofiya,” Paz responded to her haughty opening. “This is Brynn. It’s short for something, but he changes it each time you ask, so I wouldn’t bother asking if I were you,” he added. Sofiya had annoyed him when they ate breakfast the previous day. This meeting had not gotten off to a better start. Maybe she’d be more pleasant later in the day, but he rather doubted it.

“I asked why he is here, not who he is. We have private business to discuss. I do not expect to deal with your spawn.”

Brynn giggled in his high pitched and annoying tone. “Oh lady, are you off base. If we go by age, I’m the senior partner.” He paused just long enough to let her think she should respond before he added, “Except that I really don’t know how old he is. I’m not entirely sure how old I am, for that matter.”

She accepted that with a slight upturn of her lip. “Fine. So why did you call me back here? Have you found something already?”

“You have a high opinion of my skills. No, I have not found anything. I’ve gotten some background but I’ll need to go to Nuvye Park and talk to the people involved to make any progress. We’ll need your help to arrange that.”

With undisguised impatience, she answered, “What do you need?”

Brynn jumped in. “I’ll be going, and I need an excuse to be there. What do you think? Maybe I’m a long-lost bastard you recovered from the orphanage where you left me?” The child grinned maniacally.

Sofiya grimaced, but refused to take the bait. “I can put you to work on one of the farms.”

Brynn snapped his head back in surprise. That was almost a joke. Pascal could see Brynn formulating a comeback, so he interrupted. “No, we’ll need him in the house. He’ll be working with me and we need to be able to contact each other.”

“So you will need a position too?” his client asked archly.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to have to– improvise. I’ll contact you when I can, and we’ll arrange things from there.”

“Do either of you speak the language?”

“Brynn has the gift of tongues,” Pascal answered before the boy could say a word. “He’ll learn it on the way there. As for me, I can usually find a way to communicate.”

She was puzzled, her face screwed up briefly. Finally she let it go. “As you say. For the child, I can put him in the kitchens as a pot boy. You can scrub, can’t you?”

Paz took inappropriate delight in the expressions of disgust that crawled across his partner’s face.

“Come on! Kitchen work? Me?” He settled down quickly, “Ah, it’s only until we solve it. Shouldn’t be more’n a few days. Fine. Dishes.”

“I’ll leave this afternoon,” Paz announced while Brynn muttered his way into convincing himself. “I’d like a day to set up my cover if needed. Lady Sofiya, what is your schedule? Can you stay in Fall of Night one more day?”

“That would be acceptable.”

“Remember you’ll need to bring Brynn back with you.”

Brynn made a nasty face at the reminder. To Pascal’s surprise, Sofiya did too - a bit more restrained than the fey child, but a definite face. She might just be human after all somewhere beneath that black dress.

“Well then, the next time I see you, we’ll be in Brodjach.”

- ♇ -

Pascal Hunter was a ghost.

It was the fundamental fact of his existence. It was true whether he had a body or not, but it was far more obvious when he did not.

His body started vanishing as soon as he crossed into Battlefield. Fallen leaves rustled in the breeze, matching his mood as he faded away into transparency. He was still visible, but you could see through him. His heart stopped beating and left him for good a moment later. He stopped drawing breath when he lost the lungs to draw it into. He struggled to hold on to his form so he could still see and hear, but the world looked washed out and faded. Perhaps the shard itself was washed out, he hoped fervently.

It had been a long time since he’d visited Battlefield. He hoped the people he’d killed were not still around. For a ghost, that’s not an unreasonable fear.

There were no maps of Fall of Night, as shards moved around or phased in and out of the city. There were still patterns. Shards in the city tended to be small, and got smaller near the city center. Battlefield was on the outskirts. It was large, several miles across. The first time it appeared, many people wanted to move to its lush hills and spacious grounds. The natives didn’t agree and they fought back.

The war was brutal but short. The natives knew their land and their rules, but the city had too many people, and they could adapt to new rules. They won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Whether it was due to the harsh fighting or would have happened anyway, Battlefield started phasing in and out. It rarely stayed in place for more than a month. When on its own, it was a harsh land, and very few people survived it. Now it was mostly empty.

It took Pascal over an hour to cross. He followed the trade route to a large temple that opened to Brodjach. At the other end of a marble colonnade he could see bright summer sunlight. He floated through the deserted temple past statues to fallen heroes. Birdsong filled the air and he spared a prayer that the statues appreciated it. His goal awaited.

He crossed the border without pausing. He didn’t want to give himself time to reconsider. As soon as he passed into the new shard, he was gone.

I am Pascal Hunter. I am Pascal Hunter.

He repeated that frantically, a desperate struggle not to lose all he was.

It took less than a second, but it felt like an eternity. He had no body. He had no mind. Only his ego remained.

I am Pascal Hunter.

The world was a strange place without eyes to see it. Pascal sensed colors without connection. Greens, blues, and reds flowed together like strokes from a mad impressionist painter. Sound buffeted him like hammer blows that left neither bruise nor meaning.

Feelings. Feelings existed.

People, animals, even plants had feelings. They were a pervasive murmuring background that rose to symphonic spikes in places. It was a babbling brook interspersed with towering waterfalls.

He tried to concentrate. He had to remember something. It is hard to remember anything when you do not have a brain. A name. There was a name. Pankov.

He concentrated on that and tried to sort out the symphony. There was no sense of location. Near and far were meaningless. He was a ghost, a lost spirit, and it felt frighteningly comfortable. Refusing to give in, he held on to the name. Just the name. Just the feelings.

There was resonance, a flash. It was something that might be Pankov and he was there. With a fierce effort, he forced himself to remember that he was not Pankov.

I am Pascal Hunter.

It was an empty, hollow thought, but it lead to more. He was a detective come to investigate a Pankov. He knew he was confused. Time was passing, but he did not know how much or how fast. Perhaps time was as meaningless as distance. It was a dangerous state for him if he wished to stay Pascal.

The music smelled of Pankov.

That wasn’t right, but his senses were muddled and indistinct. He needed a vessel to hold him. He had to get back inside. There were shining spikes of silver and gold, beautifully tuned to hold the music that spilled from them, surrounded by dull strokes in faded colors. Animals. Those were animals. He was human. He was almost sure of it.

They wouldn’t all fit. He’d forgotten that. He didn’t fit into all vessels, they had to have the right shape to hold him. A small reddish one that sounded like rocks crumbling would do. It was small, but he would fit. He worried it was an animal. That would not be good, but if it was a choice between that and nothing he’d take it.

There was another one, translucent rose crystal smelling of wet grass and emitting a cacophonous sound like two musicians playing different symphonies at the same time. That didn’t make sense. He didn’t know what he was sensing, what he was seeing. He wanted to lash out and cause havoc, to push or break the vessels surrounding him. Lacking a body was driving him crazy already. Whatever the vessel was, it would fit. With all the resolution he could muster he forced himself to think.

I am Pascal Hunter. Remember that.

He moved in.

Soft and dark. He couldn’t see. His eyes were closed, that’s why it was dark. He opened them. It was still dark but he could see shapes. His eyes worked. He could see shapes, lines and curves. He heard insects in the distance, he smelled flowers and dust. As his panic receded his heart slowed, and he relaxed knowing he had one. With a bit of trepidation, he concentrated on himself.

I am Pascal Hunter.

With relief, he tried to remember why he was here. He felt familiar excitement when he remembered he was investigating a murder. He felt distaste at his client, Lady Sofiya. There was an echo in his mind when thinking of Sofiya. Whoever he was wearing knew her too.

He was lying down. In a bed. It was time to find out who he was.

He sat up.

He was wearing a long nightgown. Long hair swirled in front of his face as he sat. His hands were small, with tapered nails.

OK, he was a woman. Not a favorite, but it could have been far worse. He wasn’t an animal or a child, two of the outcomes he’d feared the most.

I am still Pascal Hunter, I remember that.

He’d need to make that his mantra.

Rather, he thought wryly, she’d have to make that her mantra.

There were many reasons he didn’t possess people. On a strictly moral basis, he was stealing some of his host’s life. He’d lost his life already, it was not a fate he’d wish on anyone else. There were also practical reasons. Possession required giving up his body. He would be using his host’s body and brain, filled with memories and feelings that were not his own. He could lose himself in there.

He knew the dangers from experience. There were times, as now, when he saw no other option. The last time he’d had to possess a woman, he believed it would be easier to hold onto his sense of self by remembering he was a man. It didn’t work. His body insisted he was a woman, and the conflict got so bad he was almost trapped inside her.

This time he, no she, would not make the same mistake.

She looked around. The room was beautifully decorated. Her bed was so thick and soft she positively sank into it. It was too comfortable to leave, so she looked from there. The bed posts rose into the air as silent sentries, carved to resemble spirits blown upwards in the wind. She found that oddly appropriate given her situation.

She could just make out a window with heavy curtains blocking the view. They too were finely made, falling richly to the floor. She suspected there’d be no more than a dim glow at high noon if they were pulled closed.

A vanity table stood against the wall opposite the bed, a fine stone top over beautifully carved wood. A long mirror hung above it, but it was completely covered with a dark cloth. Lamps were mounted to the wall, but they too were covered in thick cloth. A large armoire carved with woodland scenes completed the room.

She slid out of bed. Narrow waist, but wide hips, she saw. Her hair was long, falling almost to the small of her back.

She didn’t like having long hair and suspected it would cause problems. Cutting it off would draw too much attention, so she would have to bear with it. Any shard that had ghosts had ways to drive them off. She had to be careful.

Sitting down in the well padded chair by the vanity and pushing aside the cloth covering in front of the mirror showed her a fine young woman. She had a triangular face with wide cheeks and a narrow chin. A thin mouth gaped below a small upturned nose. Narrow, arched eyebrows framed large eyes, though she couldn’t tell their color in the darkness.

Brown. Light brown. No. Hazel.

Light bloomed behind her, giving rise to the sudden color.

“Dobroye utro,” came a soft female voice from the door.

Language. She had no idea how to speak the local language.

“Good morning,” she answered back an instant later, hoping her confusion and anger weren’t showing on her face. Her body, the brain she was using, knew the language. Keeping her body’s memory at bay was key to maintaining herself, to staying Pascal Hunter. But she needed to be able to speak.

She hated possessing people.

The woman was wearing a simple shift, her hair unbound and her hands dirty. “Did you have trouble sleeping, Miss Gray? May I get you something?”

Gray, her name was Gray. There was an answer within her, a comfort at hearing it. Her ears were used to it, her brain responded to it. Her last name wasn’t Pankov, so she was not a member of the family. It was definitely a luxurious house, though, so she was probably a visitor. Unless it wasn’t the right house.

“No, thank you.” She didn’t know the woman’s name, hopefully she wouldn’t notice. “The, uh, crickets woke me. I’ll go back to sleep shortly. Thank you again.”

“Of course,” the maid said while backing out of the room in confusion. Pascal was sure she heard her mutter something as she left. It probably wasn’t a compliment.