The kitchen of the Old Customs Exchange was not designed to accommodate six versions of the same stubborn, traumatized soul.
The room had suffered the same spatial fracture as the rest of the building. The northern wall was built of soot-blackened heavy-duty brick with an iron chimney pipe that vented into a rusted chimney. Meanwhile, the southern wall was ancient Sun-Crown green hard speckled rock, fitted with an arched marble hearth and an open terrace that overlooked the dual-moonlit river.
At the center of the room sat a massive, ten-foot table fashioned from rough swamp oak.
Around this table, the Council of Selves had assembled for what Mira Vale had already christened “The Dinner of the Broken Mirrors.”
At the far left corner sat Vane Vale—the Merchant of Guilt. His midnight-blue velvet frock coat was spotless, despite the ash falling outside. His silk cravat was tied in a fine, detailed double-knot. In his right hand, his gold-trimmed brass pocket counting frame was rattling like a nest of angry hornets: click-clack, click-clack.
“Three hundred and eighty percent,” Vane sneered, not looking up from his counts. “That’s the projected annual inflation rate for basic oats if your precious town council continues allowing merchants to settle invoices in solar drachmas. The bakers on Bridge Street are hoarding flour in their cellars. By Tuesday, a pound of butter will cost an entire silver sovereign. Or a six-inch bar of refined copper wire. We’re three meals away from a cannibal riot. Our resident diplomat is…
