She rises from behind the etched steel desk, extending a hand to me. Her expertly tailored suit hugs her narrow waist and her hips, the swell of her chest and broad shoulders. The white flash of her smile strikes me like lightning. 

"Elizabeth Jonathen Butler, at your service."

Her voice is somehow even more appealing than her looks. Deep and smooth. Every syllable a link of velvet chain, snaring me, pulling me in. I blink rapidly as I realize with horror that I've been staring.

"Ashwyn Fleetwood, at yours," I reply, my voice a few octaves higher than usual as I offer my own hand. Her grip is firm. I try to hide my startled gasp at the cool tingling sensation that spreads from the point of contact and up into my wrist and arm. This is the E.J. Butler, after all. Everyone knows she's an Umbran, even if she wears brown contacts to hide her type. I'd been expecting her to radiate Umbral power. But actually experiencing it is another thing entirely.

She's tall, unusually so—at least nine and a half handspans in her heels at the very least. She absolutely towers over my almost-seven.

"Please have a seat," she says, pulling my chair out for me and returning to her own. With a practiced swipe, she tosses her silvery hair out of her eyes. It's short, but just long enough in the front to fall across her face in a devastatingly charming sort of way.

"So, Ms. Fleetwood. Tell me. Why exactly are you here today?"

The question jolts me out of my befuddled haze.

"I'm here to interview for the opportunity to become your personal assistant."

"Yes, but why? You don't want this job, and yet you applied. You must have your reasons. I'd like to know what they are."

My throat burns and my hands clench in on themselves of their own accord, nails biting into my palms. Just remember what you practiced. "I do want to work here, Ms. Butler, very much. Not only would it be an honor to join the company leading the charge in Umbral technology, but I know I'd be a good fit here, too. I have a degree in industrial design from LCU, where I graduated with honors. I'm a hard worker, and—"

Butler puts up a hand, cutting me off. There's an all-too-knowing smile on her lips.

"You want to get this job, yes. But you don't actually want to do it."

My chest burns with panic. I take a deep breath, and then another. No thoughts but darkness. No feelings but calm. My hands relax, opening across my lap. From the look of her eyes—from her presence itself—I can tell there's no point in giving her anything other than the plain truth. It doesn't mean I can't still leave a little bit out. She doesn't need to know that my mother pushed me into it. 

"I need a good job, and positions like this are almost never open to anyone without a lot of industry experience and connections. I won't get another chance like this."

"I don't want to hear about what you think you need. Tell me what you truly want for yourself." Butler leans forward—elbows propped on her desk, tone firm but eyes alight with interest. 

"I want to be an artist." 

The words just fall from my lips in a rush, shocking even me. I'd had no intention of telling her that. 

"A fine artist," I continue, all-in now. "But I can't make it in that world. I don't have what it takes." I shake my head, lips twisting. "I need a steady job, preferably at a prestigious company. A company like Umbratech where I can make use of my degree. I..." my words slow to a trickle, dry up as I notice that angry flash in her eyes again.

"Who told you you can't make it as a fine artist?"

My lips work silently for a moment. I'd meant to say something—but the words won't come. I grimace, looking down at my hands where they twist fitfully in my lap.

"Ms. Fleetwood," her tone is gentle now, but assured. I lift my chin, but can't quite bring myself to meet her eyes. "You deserve a job—and a life—that you love. The life that you want. Just as I deserve an assistant who actually wants to be my assistant.

My cheeks burn at that. "I-"

"It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Fleetwood." With that, E.J. Butler stands. Loping to the door in just a few steps, she opens it with a wave of her hand. Taking mine briefly in her own once more as I step past her, she inclines her head so that her hair falls into her face again. "I wish you the absolute best. Get out there and prove everyone wrong."

~*~

"You didn't get the job."

"Yes, Hex. I picked up on that. Thank you."

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it damn it. Now that I'm out of her presence, free of her overwhelming aura of power and the tethers of my own anxiety, I'm fucking pissed.

"Who the hell is she, to assume she knows what I want?"

"A genius inventor, C.E.O, national treasure, and an Umbran of incredible power and heightened senses?"

"Shut up, Hex." I remember my earlier promise to myself and yank the voice link out of my ear.

The streets are crowded with office workers and shoppers all taking lunch and window-browsing. No one's bothered by the rain. Here in the richest part of town, it's just another excuse to show off.

Some people carry umbrellas whose undersides are aglow with artful runes, casting them in ethereal, shifting pools of color. Others are followed by servitors capable of projecting auric shields, creating shimmering bubbles of dry air about their user's faces in the shape of animals' heads or other things.

I feel distinctly out of place. Not only are most people here of outrageously wealthy, but many are obvious Umbrans as well. Just ahead of me, a woman with a crown of slender, luminescent mushrooms growing from her scalp chats happily with a seven-foot-tall gentleman with skin like granite. At one point, I even see someone who's stormstruck—strolling casually down the street and radiating effortless power as the crowd parts around them. The residual Umbra lends a sort of pleasant electricity to the air here.

I want a drink.

My stomach growls at me, and I reconsider. Alright. Food first.

I stop at the nearest cafe, an adorable place with wrap-around balconies that drip with hanging ferns and lavender glowflowers. My crab croissant, coffee, and guava mimosa are overpriced, but delicious—and by the time I leave I'm feeling almost a tiny a bit better.

I don't need that job. I didn't even really want it. I'll be better off this way, I tell myself. This is, of course, a lie. I have enough money saved up to pay for my apartment for one more month, maybe two if I'm really lean. I have no other prospects of employment. If I don't find something soon, I'll either have to beg my mother to let me move back to the temple, or join a warren.

But I keep lying to myself, because it's what I need right now. That, and a distraction. So I dawdle to my heart's content, drooling over window displays and ogling the architecture. Trying not to dwell on what I should have said or done differently at the interview. It doesn't matter now.

After a while, my feet begin to ache as my shoes chafe the backs of my ankles. Sitting on a stone bench outside a shopping tower, I consider my options. I'm not ready to go home yet. Looking around, though, all I see are shops. Not the kinds of places where I can comfortably linger. Not the kinds of places where I can drink away my frustration.

Digging around in my smallest coat pocket, I find my voice-link and stick it back into my ear.

"Hex, navigate me to the nearest bar, please."

If companions could sigh, I'm pretty sure it would have. Instead, it just takes its sweet time before answering me. 

"Very well. Turn around. Take a left two streets down, at Hawthorn Avenue."

To my surprise, Hex leads me to a set of stairs that go downward, to the basement level of an imposingly large building. The style is like nothing I've ever seen—a fascinating mixture of crenelated fortress and brutalist mid-rise.

Down in the shadowy entrance a name is carved directly into the wall, just above the studded iron-and-oak door. The Lock and Key. To the door's left is a stone spirit shell in the shape of a goat's head.

"You're new," it says, regarding me for a moment. "Welcome to the Lock and Key."

"Erm, thank you," I say, reaching out to grasp the heavy, padlock-shaped latch. But before I can open it, it swings inward of its own accord. The scents of leather and polished wood, mead and ale and herbs wash over me, along with warmth and the intermingled voices of those within.

The door thuds shut behind me as I take stock of my surroundings. The air is hazy with vapor, and even though it's only around 3:30, the place is well-occupied. Low music is playing—etherea, my favorite genre. The kind with a bit of a bite to it.

My focus goes from the sounds to the setting—tastefully decedent, but worn—a place of black leather and polished wood and wrought iron fixtures. Then I notice the patrons.

Who are all staring at me.

"Welcome!" A magnificent, musical voice rings across the room, and my eyes snap to their source—the bartender. Decked head-to-toe in a fine three-piece suit of dark teal brocade, they smile at me as I approach. "First time at the Lock and Key?" Their eyes sweep my colorless ensemble—but if there's any disapproval there, I can't see it. I nod, half intrigued, half wanting to bolt.

"What'll it be then, love?"

It takes a few moments for their words to register. I'd just caught a glimpse of what I could have sworn was someone stepping through a door at the back of the room, but when I look again, there's not a door there but a large mirror in an ornate silver frame.

"Love?"

"I, um. What's the house specialty?"

They chuckle. "I'm not sure you're quite prepared for that, Miss." Their eyes sweep me again. "But might I suggest our pear mead? It's my personal favorite, and I have excellent taste," they flash pearly and rather sharp teeth in another gracious smile.

"Sure," I nod, pulling out my Companion to pay.

As soon as I have my drink, I scurry off to sit alone at a table in the corner, avoiding eye-contact with the patrons as best I can. My leg bounces compulsively. I can feel their eyes on me. If I were any less intrigued, I'd down my drink quickly and get out of here.

Maybe if I'm quiet and boring enough, the others will lose interest and go back to whatever they normally do?

Sure enough, the conversation gradually picks back up. I steal the occasional glance over at the bar, the other tables. No one's overtly staring anymore, but here and there I catch someone throwing me a furtive glance. I sip my pear mead—which is delicious—and ease into people-watching.

The mismatched snippets of banter I overhear are fascinating, to say the least—but all so obscure that it almost feels like they're speaking in code. There's a lot of talk about "letting go" and finding themselves, of roles and service and mastery, freedoms and restrictions.

I go to take another sip of my mead, only to realize I've already finished. I've been completely lost in my eavesdropping. I'm just getting up to request another when the door opens and a tall, black-clad figure strides through, servitor hovering just above her shoulder. She takes off her hat, brushing her silver hair out of her eyes with an elegant sweep of a gloved hand.

It's her.