Expatleven (invite only)

[Pantocratoria]

Lichtenburg,
Knootoss
Marie-Théophanie Miziones sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet in her family’s two bedroom flat in Lichtenburg, Teistergouw, Knootoss. She was wrapped in her pink dressing gown, and her long dark hair was wrapped in a white towel on her head while it dried. She kept her feet up off the cold bathroom tiled floor as much as possible as she waited. The pink plastic home pregnancy test sat on the edge of the sink across from her. She alternated between staring at it and checking her smart watch. Ordinarily she might pray but she wasn’t sure she should pray for the result she wanted. Her watch’s alarm went off, and she quickly silenced it, before reaching for the pregnancy test with a trembling hand. She planted her feet on the floor, took a deep breath in, and looked at the test.

Two coloured stripes. She stared at it for several long seconds.

“Fuck.” she declared in a sob.

She hadn’t wanted to be pregnant. Four was enough! She was still breastfeeding Étienne, wasn’t that supposed to stop her getting pregnant? Of course, before she had bought the home pregnancy test, she had already web searched the answer to that question on her phone, and already knew the answer. Her mother had always lectured her that supplementing breast milk with formula was lazy, but there was another downside, one which she had discovered for herself too late. How was she going to manage five children? How were they going to afford it?

Beyond the safety of the toilet door, there was a baby crying. Marie-Théophanie ignored the crying for now and tried to calm herself down. Étienne was safe in his crib, he was about due for a feed, as her smart watch reminded her. She practised her deep breathing while dabbing at her eyes with her dressing gown’s sleeve. There was an insistent knock on the door.

“Maman,” a little girl’s voice called from the other side of the door, as the knocking continued. “Baby Étienne is crying! Maman!”

“I know, Lisette.” Marie-Théophanie called to her toddler, Elisabeth, in as sweet a voice as she could manage.

She stuffed the pregnancy test in her dressing gown’s pocket, and ran the water in the sink and splashed the water on her face to try wash away the evidence she had been crying, all the while little Elisabeth banged on the door and repeated her notifications that Étienne was still crying. As, indeed, Marie-Théophanie could clearly hear he was. She opened the toilet door and emerged into the hallway. Elisabeth stood with her hands on her hips looking up at her.

“Étienne is crying, maman.” the toddler declared, matter of factly.

“I know, petite.” Marie-Théophanie answered and started to step by her to head to the crib.

“Maman, have you been crying?” Elisabeth asked, following after her.

“No, no… well, yes.” Marie-Théophanie answered, flustered but reminding herself that she didn’t want to lie to her children.

With Elisabeth trailing behind her asking why, Marie-Théophanie entered the bedroom she shared with her husband, Jean, who was off at work, where Étienne was crying in his crib, quite intensely now. Marie-Théophanie undid her dressing gown, leaned down, and scooped the baby out of his crib, and then sat down on the side of her bed. She maneuvered baby Étienne onto the nipple of her left breast as Elisabeth afforded her the customary level of privacy and awaited an explanation.

“There, hush now…” Marie-Théophanie cooed at Étienne, and then looked down at her daughter standing next to the bed. “I was worried about something, Lisette. It’s OK.”

Elisabeth seemed unconvinced, and watched her mother feed her little brother. Elisabeth was three years old, and the third child of Jean and Marie-Théophanie Miziones. Her older siblings, Anne-Marie (seven) and Marc (five), were at school, the only French-speaking school in a part of Lichtenburg the family could afford to live in on Jean’s salary. The family originally hailed from rural Tzimeparche in northern Pantocratoria. Jean and Marie-Théophanie had grown up just a few villages apart from each other, both on farms which their ancestors had worked probably since the earliest settlements of Pantocratoria - certainly since before the earliest surviving records. They were primarily from Roman stock, although since their region had long been French speaking, they tended to be called Franks, despite their olive skin and Mediterranean features. Little Elisabeth had dark curly hair, like her father had when he was a child (although he had always worn it closely shaved for as long as Marie-Théophanie had known him). Baby Étienne was their youngest, so far, at eight months old. He had barely been two months old when they moved to Knootoss at the end of the last academic year, for Jean’s promotion.

The couple had been warned by Jean’s other expatriate colleagues that the first year was always hell. There was the hassle of moving and getting settled in and you were always sorting out this thing or that thing and it took a while to get used to all the differences between Knootoss and home. They also all assured them that it was worth it in the end, they just had to tough it out. Marie-Théophanie remembered joking to one of the wives that it sounded more like “a year of purgatory” then. Hell or purgatory, she was in the middle of it now. She missed home, missed having friends and family dropping by to help her with the kids, and even missed the old station wagon she used to drive about on her errands or to call on her parents. Not that she had anywhere to drive to or anybody to visit in Lichtenburg.

“Maman,” Elisabeth began. “When are we going to school?”

“Soon, cherie.” Marie-Théophanie answered her. “Once I feed Étienne, I have to cut up the vegetables and do a few things in the kitchen to get ready for dinner, then we can get dressed and go. You’ll have to dress warm, it’s cold outside. Étienne will have a blanket.”

“When will I go to school, maman?” Elisabeth asked.

“Well…” Marie-Théophanie began. “If we’re still here, then next year, in September. In Pantocratoria, you’d wait another year.”

“You are going to be lonely when I go to school.” Elisabeth declared, and then left the room.

“Right.” Marie-Théophanie answered, as if she wasn’t lonely now.

She missed her friends back home dreadfully. Most days one or more of them would come over to her house during the day, bringing their own children, or she would bundle the kids into her old station wagon and head over to one of their places, and they’d talk and have coffee and hang out while their children played. Marie-Théophanie and her friends had all been married in their early twenties, and so they all had kids around the same age. It was natural, organic. Now her connection to the friends she had grown up with was through the cold glass of her smartphone screen, scrolling through their photos on social media, and occasionally exchanging messages.

It wasn’t easy to make friends in Knootoss. Marie-Théophanie’s Dutch was still dreadful, although she was trying to learn via an app on her Peacock Phone, and at 28 she was still several years younger than most first time Knootian mothers, so joining local mother’s groups had been less successful than she would have liked. She still persisted going to meetings most weeks, though, if only to give Elisabeth a chance to play with other children, and to practice the fragments of Dutch she had picked up over the week before. There were a few other Pantocratorian expats from Jean’s work, who Marie-Théophanie met at company functions and after Mass on Sundays, and they were very helpful, but she hadn’t yet formed any lasting connections with the other wives.

After feeding Étienne, chopping up some vegetables and marinating the chicken so they’d be ready for her to cook as soon as she was back from picking up the kids from school, Marie-Théophanie got dressed in warm clothing, tried to reason Elisabeth out of wearing her fairy costume for the school pick-up, then eventually compromised and allowed her to keep the fairy wand so long as she wore her coat and boots, then wrapped Étienne up in a blanket in his stroller, and headed out the door. The school was about a half-hour brisk walk away, and Marie-Théophanie liked to walk at least part of the way very briskly indeed. Jean’s colleagues had assured her the neighbourhood was not dangerous, but she was unaccustomed to metahumans on the streets and always made sure Elisabeth stood on the back of the stroller so she could push her quickly rather than have the toddler’s little legs slowing her down as she moved through that particular part of Lichtenburg.

Despite the brisk pace, the argument with Elisabeth about appropriate attire had been time consuming, and Marie-Théophanie arrived at the school gate and her waiting eldest two children to be politely but firmly instructed in the importance of picking her children up on time as the school staff had their own families to go to. At least the school marm’s chiding was in French. Marie-Théophanie answered meekly with a “Yes, madame, sorry, madame” like she was back in school herself, before turning Étienne’s stroller around and starting back for home, now with Anne-Marie and Marc in tow.

“How was school today, Annie?” she asked her eldest daughter.

“Good.” Anne-Marie declared. “I like Madame Bauwens.”

“That’s good.” Marie-Théophanie smiled, and then turned to Marc. “How was your day, Marc?”

“Fine.” Marc answered noncommittally. “Gert kicked the ball over the fence at break time though, and we couldn’t play football anymore.”

“Maman,” Anne-Marie interrupted. “At the end of school today, a lady came to the class and kissed Madame Bauwens, on the mouth, like you and papa kiss.”

“That’s crazy.” Marc declared.

“Maybe you’re mistaken, Annie, and it was a kiss on the cheek?” Marie-Théophanie asked hopefully, wincing.

“No, I saw everything.” Anne-Marie declared with supreme confidence.

“So, you lost your football?” Marie-Théophanie asked Marc, perhaps a little urgently.

“No, not me, Gert.” Marc answered, frustrated that his mother mustn’t have been paying attention.

After a brisk walk home from school, Marie-Théophanie let Anne-Marie, Marc, and Elisabeth play in the living room, set Étienne down on the floor next to her in the kitchen, and started cooking the dinner she had prepared earlier. It was nearly ready when the apartment door opened and she could hear her children shout “Papa” with great enthusiasm in the living room. She heard her husband greet the children and exchange pleasantries for a few moments, and he appeared in the kitchen door frame.

“Hello, ma souris.” Jean said with a smile.

Jean Miziones was wearing his business clothes - he had already left his jacket at the door of course. He was tall, with a strong chin and close cropped dark hair, just starting to show hints of grey. At 39, he was still powerfully built, although he was starting to thicken around the middle, more so since they had moved to Knootoss, Marie-Théophanie had noticed (but not mentioned). He stood expectantly, and so she stepped away from the stove briefly to embrace him and give him a quick kiss.

“Jean...” she began.

“Tiffanie.” he replied with a cheeky expression, and started to withdraw from the kitchen.

“I need to talk to you, later, after the children are in bed, OK?” she said, although he had turned his back half way through and was already heading to the bedroom to get out of his work clothes.

“Don’t burn the chicken!” he called back.

His tone indicated it was a joke. Marie-Théophanie turned back to the stove and reflected that she used to find his dismissive jokes more amusing.

She didn’t burn the chicken, of course. Marie-Théophanie was a good cook, taught by her mother, and her mother would not have tolerated burnt chicken. By the time Jean had changed into his casual clothes and emerged back into the living/dining room, Marie-Théophanie had set the table and was ready to serve dinner. Jean led the family in saying grace. Jean complimented her on her cooking, and Marc declared that he didn’t like vegetables, but was eventually prevailed upon to eat the majority of them anyway.

The day marched towards its end. Marie-Théophanie had Anne-Marie help her clear the plates at the conclusion of the meal and stack them up in the kitchen. Jean retired to the couch to watch a football match, with Étienne lying on his playmat on the living room floor, as Marie-Théophanie got the other children bathed and ready for bed. The children came out to say goodnight to their father before all retiring to their shared bedroom - where the older two children had a bunk bed and Elisabeth had a toddler bed, where Marie-Théophanie led them in a night time “Hail Mary” and then tucked them into bed. Taking note of the contents of the laundry baskets on her way back to the kitchen, Marie-Théophanie resolved to do the laundry tomorrow morning. In the kitchen she washed the dishes from the evening meal, at which point it was halftime in the game, and she helped Jean carry Étienne’s crib out from their bedroom to the living room, where a baby monitor was clipped to its side.

It was time for Étienne’s evening feed, which should take him through to 2 or 3 in the morning, and so Marie-Théophanie sat down on the couch next to Jean for the second half of the match, and fed Étienne. She had thought to use the opportunity to tell him about her news, the thought of which still made her feel sick to her stomach, but Jean seemed very engrossed in the match, and didn’t substantively respond to her attempts to start a conversation. At the end of his feed, Étienne had fallen asleep, so Marie-Théophanie laid him down in his crib, and then disappeared down the hallway to change into her nightgown, and brush her teeth and otherwise perform her own evening bathroom ablutions. She crossed paths in the bathroom with Jean, who complained that “we lost”, which still didn’t indicate to Marie-Théophanie who had been playing.

After brushing his own teeth, Jean joined Marie-Théophanie in their bedroom, where she was finishing brushing her hair, and closed the door behind him.

“Jean,” she began. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you...”

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you too, ma souris.” Jean said, his voice full of meaning clearly indicating that he didn’t mean talk in the same way she did, and pulled off his shirt as he turned off the light.

Just under ten minutes later, he rolled off her onto his own side of the bed, and the couple lay in silence next to each other for a few minutes. Marie-Théophanie lay in the wet patch looking up at the apartment’s low ceiling, composing and re-composing what she wanted to say in her head. The thought had occurred to her a few times through the course of the day that they were living in Knootoss, and that certain options were therefore open to them which may not have been open back home, although she hated herself for considering them. Finally, she took a deep breath and then spoke.

“Jean, I’m pregnant.” she said in a much quieter voice than she had intended.

There was no answer for a few long seconds. Then there was a snore. Marie-Théophanie rolled onto her side towards Jean. He was asleep, and snoring. Quite loudly, really. He worked so hard, he must be very tired. It wasn’t easy to provide for all of them, she reflected, and lay back down. She’d talk to him tomorrow, then, after work. He needed his rest. For that matter, so did she. If she didn’t think about the pregnancy test, maybe she could get some sleep. That’s it. Don’t think about it. Get some rest.

The baby monitor on her bedside table crackled to life as Étienne stirred in the living room. Marie-Théophanie grimaced, pulled the covers off and rolled out of bed, fixing her night gown on her way to settle the baby...

[Pantocratoria]

The next morning, while Jean showered, Marie-Théophanie cooked breakfast for the family. She could hear the children bickering in their bedroom down the hallway, as they got dressed for school, over the sound of the eggs she was scrambling in the frypan, when she was suddenly overwhelmed with nausea. Quickly she turned the heat off and moved the pan to a dormant burner, and then rushed out of the kitchen to the toilet, where she promptly threw up. She tried to wretch as quietly as she could, worried Jean would hear her over the noise of the shower, but it was hard to control, and the morning sickness went on for quite some time - long enough for the noise of the shower to stop in the background, in fact. Marie-Théophanie took some squares of toilet paper, wiped her eyes and dabbed her mouth, trying to clean herself up, when the toilet door opened. In her rush, she had neglected to lock it behind her. She turned to see her son, Marc, standing there, looking worried. She tossed the paper in the toilet and flushed as she hurriedly got to her feet.

“Maman, are you OK?” Marc asked.

“Yes, I’m fine, darling.” Marie-Théophanie answered, forcing herself to smile.

“Good.” Marc said, taking her answer at face value. “Is breakfast ready?”

“Uhhh, it will be soon.” Marie-Théophanie replied.

“Good.” Marc declared again and wandered off.

Marie-Théophanie re-tied her dressing gown and then headed back to the kitchen to wash her hands and face (since Jean was still in the bathroom), and resumed cooking the eggs. In a few minutes the family was gathered around the breakfast table, Jean said grace, and everyone except Marie-Théophanie ate their eggs. Just the thought of eggs made her feel nauseous, so she just drank her coffee.

“You’re not eating, Tiffanie?” Jean asked her.

“I... I’m trying to lose some weight.” Marie-Théophanie lied. Doing so in front of her children, she instantly felt guilty. At least Jean hadn’t noticed the sound of her throwing up.

“Oh, good.” Jean answered. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

What was that supposed to mean? Marie-Théophanie fought the urge to scowl and brought the coffee cup up to her mouth again as much to conceal her dismay as to have another sip, breaking eye contact as she did so.

“You’re always very considerate.” Jean concluded, placing a hand on her arm and smiling warmly.

She smiled weakly back at him. Was that supposed to make her feel better? He could be so insensitive. Her watch beeped to snap her out of it. She looked at it - she was running late, they had to leave for school shortly, and she was still in her dressing gown. She took a last gulp of her coffee and set it down.

“Annie, can you make sure the plates go back into the kitchen when everyone is finished?” Marie-Théophanie asked her eldest. She turned to Jean. “I have to get ready to take them to school. Have a great day.”

She got up, but he caught her by the wrist, and got to his feet as well. He both pulled her towards him and leaned in, and kissed her on the lips. The coffee masked any lingering evidence of her morning sickness.

“Love you, ma souris.” Jean told her, then let go of her and sat back down to her eggs.

She didn’t doubt it. He hadn’t meant to offend her, not that he noticed that he had. Marie-Théophanie moved off down the hallway to the bathroom to quickly brush her teeth, get changed, and brush her hair. By the time she re-emerged into the living room, Jean had left to catch the train to work. To her dismay she noted the dirty dishes still on the dining table. No time now. At least Jean had thought to move the crib back to their bedroom for her.

“Time to go to school, children!” she declared, hoisting Étienne up off the floor and into the stroller.

The older children emerged from their bedroom and bounced down the hallway, bickering. Marie-Théophanie looked at them and sighed.

“Elisabeth, get your hat, it’s cold outside. Marc, your bag!” she reminded them.

“Hah, I didn’t forget anything.” Anne-Marie declared as she arrived in the living room.

“Really?” Marie-Théophanie asked, glancing at the table of dirty dishes.

Marc ran down the hallway, followed by Elisabeth. He had his bag, and she had... well, a hat, not the one Marie-Théophanie had meant, but no time now. Pushing Étienne’s stroller she led the children out of the flat, and off to school at as brisk a pace they could manage. When they walked through the scary part of town she had Marc and Anne-Marie hold onto the handles on either side of the stroller, and Elisabeth ride on the back, and kept her head down and moved as fast as little legs could manage.

They got to school on time, just. Anne-Marie and Marc rushed off to their respective classes. A mother of one of the children from Marc’s class, clutching a take-away coffee in her hand, remarked to Marie-Théophanie as they made small talk on the way out of the school yard: “Four is quite a lot to handle!”

“We were thinking of going for five.” Marie-Théophanie had told the woman.

The other mother had resiled from her and looked at her like she had spontaneously grown a second head for a moment. Marie-Théophanie looked away, quickly muttered a goodbye, and headed back home.

Étienne fussed in his stroller and became progressively more and more distressed along the way. By the time they got home, the baby was practically screaming, and Marie-Théophanie quickly helped Elisabeth out of her hat and coat, before hurriedly unbuckling Étienne from his stroller. She pulled him up and out and put him over one shoulder and sat down on the couch.

“What do we do now, maman?” Elisabeth asked as her mother unbuttoned her blouse and fussed with her feeding bra’s clip.

“Go colour, ma petite.” Marie-Théophanie replied. “Oh, actually, can you please check the bedrooms for any dirty clothes for maman? And put them in the laundry basket?”

“Sure!” Elisabeth answered, and then trundled off down the hallway to the bedrooms.

Étienne was worked up and hard to settle down and get attached. Marie-Théophanie was still cooing at him and fumbling with her breast when Elisabeth re-emerged with a pile of clothes.

“Where do I put them maman?” Elisabeth asked.

“In the basket, in the... oww!” Marie-Théophanie began, her patient answer turning into an exclamation part-way through. “The bathroom!”

Étienne had bitten her! He only had a few teeth but it really hurt. Was that blood she saw? She decided to get him to switch sides, and started moving him about.

“I found something, can I keep it?” Elisabeth asked.

All of Marie-Théophanie’s attention was on Étienne and her own chest as she focussed on getting him to latch onto her other nipple without biting her.

“Yes yes, Lisette, the basket in the bathroom please.” she told her daughter, who disappeared back down the hallway happily, semi-submerged in a pile of clothes.

After feeding Étienne and setting him down in the crib in her bedroom, Marie-Théophanie took the laundry basket from the bathroom to the washing machine, and loaded the machine up, leaving the whites behind in the basket for a separate wash. Leaving the machine running, she changed into her pink and black active wear, grabbed her Peacock Phone, and got onto the treadmill in the living room. Remembering this morning’s breakfast table conversation (and noting that the dishes were still dirty and still on the table but deciding to clean them up after her work-out), Marie-Théophanie remembered how Jean had bought her an exercise bike when Elisabeth was about Étienne’s age, perhaps a little longer. She had put on baby weight during that pregnancy and hadn’t shed it, but had taken the gift of an exercise bike very badly. She supposed that was why Jean had told her that he would use the treadmill too when he had bought it not long after they moved to Knootoss. She could only remember seeing him use it once, so far. She shook her head as she started the treadmill, starting at a walking pace, and moved to fire up her Dutch language learning app on her Peacock Phone, which she set into a purpose-built cradle on top of the treadmill’s console.

Before launching it, however, something else entered her mind. She hit the web browser icon. She typed “how to get abortion Knootoss” into the search bar. Just because. She wouldn’t really do it. She hit go. Marie-Théophanie skimmed the information which appeared on the first page of search results as she turned the speed and incline up on the treadmill.

“What should I do if I am considering an abortion?” the heading on the page said. The answer, evidently, was go to see your GP or go to an abortion clinic. Marie-Théophanie thought about going to see a doctor and telling him, face to face, out loud, that she wanted an abortion. She shuddered as she started to run. How could she do that? She looked away from the phone and ran for a few minutes, lost in her thoughts.

“Hey Peacock,” she began, addressing her smartphone’s voice assistant. “Need husband’s permission abortion Knootoss?”

“Here’s what I found on the web for need husband’s permission abortion Knootoss.” the phone answered her, and changed the display on its screen.

The search results indicated that she did not need the father’s permission if she wanted an abortion, although if she sought an abortion late in the pregnancy (after 22 weeks), there would need to be an ethics board review, which might invite his opinion. She didn’t actually process the fine distinction between “husband’s permission” and “father’s permission” but the answer would obviously have been the same either way in Marie-Théophanie’s case. An ethics board review! Was there ever an ethical abortion? She kept running. Her gaze drifted from the phone to the icon of the Madonna and Child which hung over the spot where they put Étienne’s crib at night. The Christ Child gazed back at her, all knowing, penetrating eyes, judging her. She shuddered again. She whacked the button to increase the speed and tried to focus on her breathing. After a few minutes the thought occurred to her that she couldn’t afford an abortion. Further, even if such a procedure would be covered on their health insurance (which she couldn’t fathom), since it was Jean’s policy, surely they’d tell him. Well, that settled it then.

“Hey Peacock, how much does abortion cost in Knootoss?” Marie-Théophanie asked her phone.

“Here’s what I found on the web for how much does abortion cost in Knootoss.” the phone answered.

Free. Marie-Théophanie stared at the answer on the phone’s screen for a few seconds.

“Maman, what’s abor-shun?” asked Elisabeth, suddenly standing at the entrance to the living room from the hallway.

Marie-Théophanie yelped in surprise, tripped, and nearly lost her footing. She shot off the back of the treadmill, avoiding falling over but not avoiding coming off. The treadmill’s emergency stop mechanism kicked in. After steadying herself, she looked across the room at Elisabeth.

“Oh, Lisette, you scared maman!” she told her.

“Sorry.” Elisabeth answered. “So what is abor...”

“I’ll tell you later, ma petite, when you are older.” Marie-Théophanie told Elisabeth, and got back on the treadmill. She reactivated the device and let it start slowly again. “Sorry, maman shouldn’t have been searching for that.”

“Was it naughty?” Elisabeth asked.

“Yes, petite, it was naughty.” Marie-Théophanie said, feeling suitably guilty. She jacked up the treadmill incline and speed as if to punish herself. She couldn’t even contemplate an abortion, surely?

[Excalbia]

Lichtenberg, Knootoss

Lisbete Morgan woke early, as was her custom, and walked to the kitchen. The coffee pot had turned on automatically, so she helped herself to a cup and walked over to the living room. She sat is a overstuffed, comfy chair next to the window overlooking the still darkened city and pulled her Bible and her Excalbian Book of Common Prayer.

Some 30 minutes later, her husband Bob woke up and started to get his shower. When Lisbete heard the water running, she got up and opened her son Tim’s door and said, “Time to get up, Tim!”

She returned to the kitchen and began making breakfast. Bob emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later dressed for work, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He gave his wife a kiss and helped her finish up breakfast.

Tim stumbled out of his room a few minutes later and joined his parents for breakfast.

“You can take Tim to school this morning?” Lisbete asked her husband.

“I thought you had him today, Sweetie,” he said between bites of toast.

“No, my meeting with the NGO working group was moved up. I need to get the early train. And I’ll be late this evening; I’m going to Haas for a midweek service in the afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry! Yes, I’ll take him to school and pick him up. We’ll order something for dinner,” Bob said.

Lisbete stood and gave her husband a kiss. “Thanks, dear.” Then, she headed off to get ready.

[Breucia]

Lichtenberg, Knootoss

Their eyes met across the bunsen burners. Maerlaevar Enwarin would later analyse again and again this momentary glance across the physics classroom as she exchanged a look with the teenage object of her first desires.
“Mathilde,” hissed her partner, “The solution!”
It was not just her longing that overflowed but also the brine solution she was supposed to be boiling for some reason or another. “Shit!” muttered Enwarin as she turned down the flame seconds too late.
Her partner huffed. “Honestly, Mathilde, if you’re not going to do it properly then I’ll watch the flame, you make the notes.” And with that Enwarin was punted aside with all the dignity that teenage girls could muster.

She thought about the look as she walked home from school; lost in thought as she contemplated all the possible meanings a few seconds of eye contact could impart. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move in a car but she was too distracted to really notice it. An electric car window slid down. “Bye Mathilde,” shouted a classmate, “See you tomorrow.” Maerlaevar Enwarin gave a distracted wave and the embarrassed half-smile of someone addressed from a moving car. She was not called Mathilde but in the charming racism of youth her name had been deemed unpronounceable to Knootian tongues and substituted for a suitable alternative.

She didn’t mind. At least, she told herself that. Better to be known by a name that people could say than have it butchered a thousand times a day. She had, at one time, become rather taken with it and imagined changing her name when she was old enough. She had practised with deliberate precision Mathilde Enwarin on a scrap of paper in the bedroom she shared with her old sister until her mother found it.

“What does this mean,” she demanded, waving the paper in front of her. Maerlaevar decided that lies were better than to betray her culture and so told her mother, who had no knowledge of Knootian names, that Mathilde was a boy in her class upon whom she had developed a crush. In hindsight cultural betrayal might have been better considering the grounding she received.

The other girls in her class were taken by car to after school ballet classes or piano lessons; Maerlaevar Enwarin trudged in the winter rain to the temhyl where an old and mostly drunk sage attempted to instruct the children of the Breucian expat community in the ways of the Ennead and what They expected of Their creations. Mostly though the lessons consisted of an uncomfortable rant on the licentiousness of the Knootians, the shortness of their skirts and how difficult it was to get decent partridge in Lichtenburg. Maerlaevar rarely listened and less so today when all she could think of was The Look. Did he smile when he caught her eye? Or was that the heat haze from the burner? The lesson normally ended at six o’ clock, or when the sage fell into a drunken stupor, whichever came first.

She would then walk home. The family had a car but this was reserved for her father. Occasionally if he finished early (which rarely happened) he would condescend to pick her up from school but it was rare that he even home before dinner let alone when the school finished. Her parents would be described as ‘firm but fair’ though to Maerlaevar it was a matter of debate whether they were more firm than fair though to her Knootian friends they sounded like nothing less than convicted War Criminals.

The family’s apartment was a corner of Knootoss that was forever Breucia, right the way to the portrait of the old king that hung with pride in the cluttered hallway. Dutch was not banned outright but was the preserve of bills and people who rang the landline. Maerlaevar admonished herself that she ought to have more pride in her culture, in her background, in her faith, and she did (in a way) but she was also at that stage of adolescence where she also found them all to be ever-so-slightly cringe.

She did not speak much over dinner, a simple stew of partridge and gourd that she found delicious but which her parents complained never tasted like it did back home. She noticed her father looking at her with the same sad, puzzled expression he was wont to do every so often. ‘Two girls and then a boy’ was a common bit of folk wisdom in the villages back home; a way of consoling fathers that the Gods would reward their forbearance with an heir one day. Hudorr Enwarin never got the chance to find out if that was true. The birth of his second daughter Maerlaevar had...complications. Mother and baby were lucky to be alive but their survival would come at a cost; there would be no third attempt.

He shook his head. Such thoughts were like pools, if they were allowed to sit for too long then they would become stagnant and poison the ground around them. They were also sources of bad luck; everyone knew that. Better always to stir the waters

“So how was your day?” His youngest, lost in her own world of love’s first fruit, didn’t answer. Hudorr, always alert for potential signs of disrespect, smacked the table causing Maerlaevar to knock a fork onto the floor. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

“Er fine,” replied Maerlaevar flustered, “It was fine.”

This was a satisfactory reply. “You work hard?”

“Yes papa.”

“How was Umewenys [the sage]?”

Maerlaevar considered her reply for a moment. “He was tired today,” she replied diplomatically, “But his instruction was sound and I learnt much.”

This too was a satisfactory reply. Hudorr was no idiot and knew full well what his daughter meant, but he knew better to criticise a sage, especially in front of the children, and so he nodded and shovelled some more stew into his mouth.

Eventually Maerlaevar and her older sister Ophinesia went off to bed whilst their parents stayed up to watch the cable TV from home. Though his wife, Johamaya Liamenor [it was not a requirement that wives take their husbands’ names so few did], had wanted to watch the dramas from home Hudorr had insisted on watching the news. His wishes, as in most things, prevailed. But even now he was distracted and his mind distempered.

“These girls,” he said suddenly, “They are too Knootian. I wonder if it was a mistake coming here.”

Johamaya would have none of this. “If you’d stayed then you’d have made a fraction of what you make now. How would we support our families back home?”

Hudorr nodded but was still unsure. “They are growing up.”

“Everyone grows up.”

“Yes, but…” Hudorr silently cursed, not for the first time, that the patriarchy had denied him an adequate vocabulary to express his feelings.

“You worry too much,” replied his wife, surreptitiously moving the TV remote away from him, “They have no eyes for these Knootian boys. When the time comes I am sure they will marry someone decent from back home.”

Maerlaevar meanwhile dreamed of fluttering cupids firing, not arrows, but bunsen burners.

[Pantocratoria]

With contributions from The Resurgent Dream, Excalbia, and Breucia
Every day, Jean Miziones caught the train to and from work. The train station was about fifteen minutes walk from their apartment, and the trains were regular and always on time. As a logistics manager, he appreciated trains running on time. When he first moved to Lichtenburg to take up a promotion at Akropolites & in 't Veldt (AintV), a Pantocratorian/Knootian conglomerate in the agricultural sector for which he had worked for 8 years back in Pantocratoria, he thought he’d hate catching the train to and from work. He had always driven to work back home in Tzimeparche, after all. After half a year in Knootoss, however, Jean found he enjoyed catching the train immensely - the entertainment he derived from people watching far outweighed the added convenience of having your own car with you at the office. Knootians were interesting people, even the commuters on the train to and from work.

A woman had come in just after him at the station. She was in her mid-thirties with her strawberry blonde hair worn short and wearing a well-tailored black pantsuit, grey blouse, and heels. Jean regarded her short hair and pantsuit. Lesbian? But she was wearing heels. Maybe not then. Guessing was a fun way to pass the time anyway. She practically collapsed into a seat, immediately pulling out both her phone and a small energy bar. She hurriedly responded to a few texts and then swiftly ate it. One got the impression it was having to pass for breakfast. Glancing up, she seemed to notice Jean’s eyes on her and gave a small, conspiratorial smile at this small breach of the rules before returning her attention to her phone, which seemed to get a new text every second or two. Definitely not a lesbian, then, Jean concluded. Still got it. He returned her conspiratorial smile.

Lisbete Morgan - the Reverend Lisbete Morgan to be precise - had already noticed in her short stay in Knootoss that little seemed to surprise the Knootians or draw their attention. The diversity of the people and styles seemed to have bred a “seen it all” attitude. However, a woman in a blue suit with a Roman collar wearing a cross on a chain somehow seemed sufficient to attract stares. She guessed it wasn’t some common in secular Knootoss to see clergy, especially female clergy, out and about. She settled into her seat and caught sight of a man and woman exchanging a furtive glance. One or the other had been caught people-watching, she guessed. She smiled and pulled out her phone and began checking her emails.

Jean spotted Lisbete Morgan next, and his slight smile from his flirtatious interaction with the woman he had initially mistaken to be a lesbian broke into a broad grin of delight. He had heard of cosplayers before, young people who dressed up like superheroes and things, but here was a woman cosplaying a priest! Wild. Truly Knootoss was a crazy place.

Phayebwynn Umewenys scowled as he forced himself onto the commuter train. The job, sorry the vocation, of sage never paid as well as people thought it did but he once had enough for a car of his own until he discovered the hard way that Knootian police take drink driving more seriously than they did at home.

His mood was not improved by the fact that the local Assembly of Sages had summoned him for a performance review. ‘Performance review, pah’ he thought bitterly. Another foreign corruption. Umewenys had come from a long line of sages and no one had thought to mark them against tick boxes and spreadsheets.

The sage’s appearance took no account of Knootian custom. Fearsomely bearded, he wore a long emerald coat coupled with hose and gaiters of a similar colour which was fine until St Patrick’s Day when people tended to think he had dressed as a leprechaun. His hat bore a ribbon, the colour and size of which denoted his place within the hierarchy of the faithful. He gripped a staff as though to steady himself against the secularism around him, though in reality it was more to keep his booze-addled legs from collapsing under him. He propped himself up and tried to read ‘The Hymns of Tergretor’ which was one of the more easily accessible of the Breucian scriptures. He scrutinised the purple writing on the green pages for as long as his hangover would allow it before abandoning the task and looking out the window.

To Jean Miziones, Umewenys looked for all the world like a wizard, and his book of scriptures looked like a spellbook. Although no part of the ensemble was Knootian, Jean reflected that only in Knootoss would he see such a person in such an outfit on his commute from work.

The walk from the train station to the apartment block didn’t take very long, although sometimes he needed to wear a mask against the air pollution even for the ten minutes or so it took him to get home. Not tonight, though - the air was mostly breathable. Jean got back to the apartment building, and took the lift up to the sixth level, where he drew his keys and let himself into the family’s apartment. As he opened the door, two things hit him: the smell of a casserole cooking in the kitchen, and Elisabeth and Marc, who grabbed him from either side shouting “Papa!”. Grinning widely he ruffled Marc’s hair with one hand and embraced Elisabeth in his other arm while still holding his bag in that hand.

“Children!” he responded. “How are you?”

He managed to properly enter the apartment even with the children attached, close the door, and set his bag down.

“Great!” Elisabeth answered.

“Very good!” said Marc.

Jean smiled back at them and then looked over to Anne-Marie, who was lying on the floor with a tablet computer clutched in her hands. She was playing Sweetie Smash, a brightly coloured puzzle game about matching confectionaries of the same colour. Jean wondered why Marie-Théophanie let Anne-Marie spend so much time on that thing. It made her anti-social. He strode over to his eldest, who barely looked up from her tablet.

“Hello, Annie.” Jean said, assertively.

She looked up from her tablet screen at him.

“Hi, papa, I beat level 65.” she told him.

“Well that sounds like enough Sweetie Smash for the day then.” he told her. “Put it away.”

“I will, I just need to finish this…” she answered.

“Now.” Jean said. His tone was forceful but not aggressive.

“Yes, papa.” Anne-Marie answered regretfully, pressing the screen lock button on the tablet, and getting up to her feet.

“Good girl. Go put it on charge.” Jean told her, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Off you go.”

He moved over to the kitchen and checked inside, but Marie-Théophanie wasn’t there. Jean could see a casserole dish in the oven. If he knew what the different knobs on the oven did, he would realise that the oven timer had been set as well. Jean wandered down the hallway to their bedroom, the door to which had been left slightly ajar. He gently pushed it and stepped inside. Marie-Théophanie was sitting on the bed, propped up with cushions against the bed head, with her blouse opened, and baby Étienne suckling on her right breast. Her left breast as also exposed, and her nipple and the surrounding flesh looked unusually red and sore. She had obviously been crying, and looked surprised by his appearance in the room, as if she hadn’t heard him enter the apartment. After looking up at him she looked away, as if ashamed.

“Hello, ma souris.” Jean said gently. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie answered. “Étienne has been biting me today.”

“I can see that.” Jean said. He started to undo his tie. “Maybe it’s time to wean him onto formula. I know what your mother would say, but we’re in another country now, and she doesn’t need to know. You’ve been supplementing him with formula anyway, after all.”

“He’s our son, I want the best for him.” Marie-Théophanie answered, emphatically.

“Well, you just seem very bothered by the biting..." Jean shrugged.

“I’m fine.” Marie-Théophanie declared, in a tone which every husband knew indicated that his wife was not fine at all, but didn’t want to talk about it.

Why did women always protest when you solved their problems for them? Let her cry then. Jean continued to change out of his work clothes. He tossed his dirty clothes into the laundry basket and then went to the drawers to retrieve some casual clothes. He found a polo shirt folded up in there, which caused him to frown.

“You didn’t think to iron this?” he turned and asked her, showing her the polo shirt. “It has a collar.”

“I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie answered, eyes welling with fresh tears. She tensed up slightly, and Étienne bit her again. She winced. Jean pulled the polo shirt on and stepped to the side of the bed to put his hand on her cheek.

“It’s OK, Tiffanie.” he told her, wiping away tears with a thumb.

“I’ll iron it next time I wash it.” she answered, nodding.

“Do you need some lanolin?” he asked.

“Oh, yes please.” Marie-Théophanie answered, as if cheered by the thought.

He smiled and gave her a kiss on the forehead, then went off to the bathroom. He reflected how silly she was to obviously be in so much discomfort and not have done anything about it when they had a whole tube of lanolin in the medicine cabinet. Still, Jean reflected, she meant well. He retrieved the lanolin from the bathroom and returned to her with it.

“Do you want me to help put it on?” he asked her.

“No, thank you my darling, I’ll put it on myself when I’m done feeding him.” Marie-Théophanie answered. “You’re very thoughtful.”

“OK, see you soon.” Jean told her, smiling soothingly.

In truth he was a bit disappointed she declined his further assistance, but he could plainly see she was very sore. He withdrew from the bedroom and headed back to the living room, instructing Anne-Marie to set the table for dinner, a process he had to supervise because she kept putting the cutlery around the wrong way. Too much Sweetie Smash, Jean thought, and not enough helping her mother. Then Jean sat down on the touch, turned the TV on, and flicked through the news networks until he found one which mostly agreed with his preconceived ideas.

After fifteen or twenty minutes there was an annoying, metallic ringing sound. Was it coming from the kitchen? Jean turned the TV up a little louder. Between the ringing and the children it was hard to hear the sport scores. Marie-Théophanie emerged from the bedroom, passed through the living room clutching her unbuttoned blouse closed with one hand, fingers on the other hand covered in lanolin, and disappeared into the kitchen. The ringing stopped, to Jean’s relief.

“Jean,” Marie-Théophanie called from the kitchen. “Could you come help me with this, my hands have ointment on them...”

“Coming, Tiffanie.” Jean called back. There was a sink in there, he reflected, she could just wash her hands. Nevertheless, he got up and went into the kitchen. “Yes, ma souris?”

“Sorry, Jean, could you please take the casserole dish out of the oven? You can just leave it on the stove top. I’m nearly done applying the lanolin.” Marie-Théophanie entreated.

“Sure.” Jean answered. He bent over, opened the oven door, then reached for the dish.

“Jean, no!” Marie-Théophanie exclaimed. With her non-ointment covered hand she passed him the oven mit, letting her unbuttoned blouse open. She lowered her voice. “Sorry. I don’t want you to burn yourself.”

“Well…” Jean growled, snatching the offered mit. Marie-Théophanie shrank back a bit.

As Jean put the mit on, the ridiculousness of what he had been about to do struck him and he smiled broadly and started to laugh. Marie-Théophanie looked visibly relieved and started laughing too. Jean retrieved the casserole dish from the oven and put it on the stove.

“Can you imagine coming back from the war without a scratch, but nearly injuring myself on a casserole?” Jean asked.

“You’re too brave for your own good.” Marie-Théophanie flattered him, and then left the kitchen to finish with her lanolin.

Jean chuckled to himself as he took the oven mit off, put it on the bench, and then headed back to the living room. He glanced at a photograph of he and his unit taken over a decade ago in uniform, taken the week before they shipped out to Iesus Christi. He smiled as he remembered his old comrades in arms, and looked to his eldest son, Marc, who was named after a brother in arms who died in that blighted country. He patted Marc on the head on his way back to the couch.

Soon thereafter Marie-Théophanie returned, her blouse buttoned back up properly, and finished some final preparations in the kitchen. Soon they were gathered around the dining table. Like every night, Jean said grace, and then the family ate. Marc complained that the casserole had broccoli in it. Anne-Marie talked about the other foreign children in her class at school. There were two Caldan children, a little boy who never had any meat (Jean snorted at this) and a little girl who looked Tehuan but whose Cordelian accent sounded almost Lanerian to the foreign listener. There was also a boy from Excalbia whose French was not very good and who insisted his mother was a priest. Jean burst out laughing at this, and regaled the family with the story of seeing a woman dressed as a priest on the train on the way home today. When everyone was finished, Marie-Théophanie and Anne-Marie cleared the table.

Jean told the children they could play for a little bit before bed, and went into the kitchen where Marie-Théophanie was pulling on rubber gloves as the sink filled with soapy, warm water. He retrieved the garbage bag from the kitchen bin. Marie-Théophanie looked surprised.

“Oh, thank you, I should have done that earlier.” she said.

“It’s nothing.” Jean replied. “Dinner was delicious, thank you.”

Jean gave Marie-Théophanie a peck on the cheek and took the garbage out. She’d had a rough day, Jean reasoned, some small gestures would help her feel better. He took the bag out into the hall, caught the lift downstairs, took it out into the dumpster waiting in the alley alongside the apartment building, and then headed back inside, up in the lift, and back into the apartment. He even went back into the kitchen to put a new bag in the bin. Marie-Théophanie thanked him again, and he went off down the hall. He used the toilet and washed his hands, and when he emerged he popped his head in the children’s bedroom where Elisabeth was playing with her dolls. She held a blonde-haired fashion doll with unachievable body proportions wearing a sparkly pink dress in one hand, and some bit of pink plastic in the other. Maybe something had fallen off the doll’s plastic car or plastic fun house set.

“Hi, Lisette!” Jean said.

“Hi, papa!” Elisabeth replied.

“What are you playing?” Jean asked as he stepped into the room. There wasn’t a huge amount of space between the bunk bed and the toddler bed, but Elisabeth was small.

“Gabbie, but Gabbie has been naughty.” Elisabeth told her father, holding the doll for his closer inspection.

“Bad Gabbie.” Jean faux-chided. His eye passed from the doll to the plastic thing in Elisabeth’s other hand. What was that? “Can I see that?”

Elisabeth handed him the pink plastic thing. Jean looked at it, perplexed. He turned it over in his hand and looked at it. It was a home pregnancy test.

“Papa,” Elisabeth began. “What’s an aborshun?”

“A what?” Jean asked, doing a double take.

“Abortion.” Elisabeth repeated, saying the word slower and clearer.

What was going on? She had a home pregnancy test kit and was asking about abortions - why? She was three! Surely even in Knootoss... He straightened up and turned back towards the hallway.

“Tiffanie!” he bellowed. “I need to talk to you!”

The older children, in the living room, fell silent and looked at each other. The sound of Étienne stirring came from Jean and Marie-Théophanie’s bedroom nearby. After a few seconds, Marie-Théophanie emerged from the kitchen, having pulled off her kitchen gloves. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale. Jean opened their bedroom door and gestured to it, expectantly, with the hand not holding the pregnancy test. Marie-Théophanie looked at the floor and came down the hall towards him. Jean judged that she looked very guilty indeed.

“Maman’s in trouble!” Marc told Anne-Marie rather loudly back in the living room.

Marie-Théophanie entered the bedroom and Jean followed her. He closed the door behind him forcefully - not slamming it, but with some authority nevertheless. Étienne fussed in the crib beside the bed, but Marie-Théophanie didn’t go straight over to him, instead she turned to face him. Jean held up the home pregnancy test.

“I can only guess why our daughter was playing with this and why she just asked me about abortion.” Jean said. There was an accusatory edge to his low voice. “What’s going on, Tiffanie?”

“I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie began. She was already starting to cry again. “I should have told you straight away, but I wanted to find the right time.”

“No time like the present.” Jean declared. He softened his voice a little because he could see she was scared, but he was very angry.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie nodded. “I’m pregnant. I started getting morning sickness and so I bought the home pregnancy test and it’s so soon after Étienne but because I was supplementing with formula...”

She was rambling, talking about formula, Jean wasn’t having it.

“Don’t change the subject.” he told her.

“Sorry.” Marie-Théophanie said and closed her mouth tightly. She was still looking around, anywhere but into his eyes.

“Look at me.” Jean told her.

Marie-Théophanie obeyed. Tears welled in her eyes. She still looked scared. Jean sighed. He put a hand on her shoulder, and wiped tears from her cheek with the other hand.

“Tiffanie, this is good news.” Jean told her, as if trying to convince her.

“But how can we manage with five?” Marie-Théophanie more exclaimed than asked. “How will we fit five into this tiny apartment? How will we afford it?”

“We can manage.” Jean said, bristling slightly, the edge returning to her voice. He was the family’s provider, and she was questioning his ability to provide. His pride was touched. “I am doing well here and soon I’ll be promoted. Much faster than I would be back home, I might add. Don’t worry about money, we can manage. You shouldn’t concern yourself with... wait... is this why you want an abortion?”

“No!” Marie-Théophanie said, almost urgently. “I mean, I don’t!”

Étienne’s fussing in his crib gave way to crying now.

“Then why does our three year old daughter want to know about them?” Jean asked.

“I, well, she, you see..." Marie-Théophanie stammered. “I was on the treadmill, and so, I was using the voice assistant, on my phone I mean, and I... I don’t know why I searched about abortion..."

“So it was an accident?” Jean asked.

“Well, no, not exactly, not exactly an accident.” Marie-Théophanie answered. “These things don’t exist in Pantocratoria and…”

“For good reason!” Jean told her forcefully.

“Yes, I suppose, for good reason.” Marie-Théophanie nodded, although she sounded more defeated than convinced. Étienne squawked and she looked at the crib. “I should... see to him. May I, please?”

Jean nodded, and she went over to the crib and picked the baby up. She put Étienne over her shoulder and started to rub his back.

“Well, these tests are not totally reliable.” Jean said, tossing the home pregnancy test on the bed. His tone was softer again now. “So we better see a doctor to confirm it. Do a web search for one tomorrow, OK? We’ll get a babysitter and go together.”

“You... you’re not angry?” Marie-Théophanie asked him, bouncing Étienne as she did so.

“Tiffanie, I’m furious.” Jean told her, although his tone sounded more reassuring than furious. “But as angry as I am that you’d even consider an abortion, I am a thousand times happier that you are pregnant! This is good news, you’ll see, and when you do, you’ll regret that this was your initial reaction.”

“I hope so.” Marie-Théophanie answered.

“I know so.” Jean said. “Now you say it.”

“Say it?” Marie-Théophanie responded.

“Say I know so.” Jean insisted.

“I know so.” Marie-Théophanie obeyed.

She didn’t know anything of the kind, but it did make her feel better to say that she did and pretend.

[The Resurgent Dream]

Nicole Sugarman was trying to ignore the endless chiming of her phone as she stood at the kitchen counter in her small Lichtenburg apartment, spreading peanut butter on crackers. ‘Is there cheese in this?’ Her seven year-old son, Joe, stood looking at the jar. ‘Why is it pindakaas instead of pindaboter? Cheese hurts the little calves!’

Nicole smiled reassuringly. ‘There’s not, honey. There isn’t butter in the Caldan kind either.’ She placed the peanut butter and crackers in one compartment of the partitioned safety glass food container before turning to slicing apples with equal hurry. ‘Finish your breakfast, Joe. You don’t want to be late.’

‘It’s too hot!’ Joe complained.

Nicole glanced at the table. She supposed the oatmeal with apples and cinnamon had been simmering for a while when she’d ladled it into the bowl a few minutes before. ‘Ok, sweetie. You can let it cool for a little bit.’ As she spoke, she put the apple slices in the lunch-it.

‘Is Daddy coming for winter break?’ Joe asked.

‘He wants you to fly to Narich,’ Nicole answered him gently.

‘He wants us to fly to Narich?’ Joe asked, a little puzzled by the wording.

‘Sweetie, your father and I aren’t going to be living together anymore,’ Nicole said softly. ‘I’ll walk you right to the gate and your father will be there to meet you. They’ll take care of you on the flight. You don’t have to be worried about flying alone.’

‘That’s not what I’m worried about! I wanna eat mushroom shumai with you and watch The Littlest Dinosaur like we do every year!’ Joe complained.

‘Joe…’ Nicole sighed, ‘You and I can do that before you go. Right now, you need to finish your breakfast so we can get you to school on time. Please?’

Joe sighed and plopped down in front of the oatmeal again. He took a few more bites while Nicole added a slice of banana bread she’d baked the previous day to his lunch and closed the container. She put it in his backpack. ‘Maybe Daddy could see more of Knootoss.’ Joe overemphasized the k. Like many Caldans, he tended to pronounce Knoot like newt. After his new classmates made fun of him for this, he’d taken to overcorrecting.

‘Sweetie…’ Nicole sighed again. She found herself doing a lot of that recently. ‘We’ll talk about it after school. We don’t want you to be late. Are you ready?’

‘Almost,’ Joe said. Nicole sighed and started towards the door, just making a show of waiting impatiently. She glanced at her phone. They were going to be late!

[Pantocratoria]

Marie-Théophanie Miziones had a restless night, unable to sleep despite her fatigue because of her racing mind, alternating between staring at the ceiling in her bedroom and responding to baby Étienne sleeping in the living room, who was out of his usual feeding pattern after yesterday’s drama. Marie-Théophanie was feeding Étienne on the couch in the living room when the rest of the family was awoken by their alarms to get ready for work and school, so she started cooking breakfast later than usual, and the whole morning ran late and later still from that point onwards, not aided by several bouts of morning sickness. As Jean left to catch his morning train, Marie-Théophanie was still in her nightgown, pulling a not particularly cooperative Marc into his school clothes with one hand and cleaning honey off Elisabeth’s face with the other.

Her next bout of morning sickness was interrupted by Anne-Marie banging on the toilet door shouting “We’re going to be late to school maman!”, after which she changed as quickly as she could into the first dress she could find with a long skirt and buttons to make breastfeeding practical, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail tied with a scrunchie which didn’t really match the dress. Outside the bedroom door, Anne-Marie wailed that Madame Bauwens would be angry with her if they didn’t hurry up, and at the end of the hallway in the living room Étienne started crying (because of course he would), stirred from his milk-reverie by Marc and Elisabeth fighting. Marie-Théophanie grabbed a cardigan and re-emerged from her bedroom, where Anne-Marie stood with her hands on her hips.

“Sorry, Annie.” Marie-Théophanie said and quickly padded down the hallway to the living room.

“Maman,” Elisabeth complained. “Marc hit me!”

“No, you liar!” Marc declared.

“Don’t fight, children.” Marie-Théophanie entreated them in an exasperated tone. “Get your school bags.”

The children set aside their complaints and gathered their backpacks. Marie-Théophanie grabbed her shoes from beside the apartment front door and pulled them on as Étienne squawked, then she unfolded the stroller, pulled Étienne out of his crib, pulled his blanket up over him, put on his hat, and buckled him inside. In another minute they were out the apartment door in the lift going down.

“We’re going to be late.” Anne-Marie scowled.

And sure enough, they were. Despite moving as quickly as little Elisabeth could manage, even with Marie-Théophanie getting her to stand on the back of the stroller for half the way to push her along faster like they normally did through the metahuman district, they were already twelve minutes after the close of the drop-off time as they neared the school. Marc didn’t seem to mind but Anne-Marie was practically beside herself - for one, unlike her little brother, she was old enough to tell the time on her wristwatch, and for two, she had been warned for tardiness several times by Madame Brauwens this month. Her complaints dropped off and gave way to expressions of concern, however, when her mother was obliged to stop pushing the stroller to vomit into a garbage bin along the way.

“Is everything alright?” Nicole Sugarman asked in imperfect, Caldan-accented Dutch as she came up behind the vomiting Marie-Théophanie, holding Charlie by the hand. She looked much as she had when she’d spotted Jean on the train the other day, dressed in a well-tailored grey silk pantsuit with a white blouse under it and heels that were really not made for walking little boys to school.

“Yes, I just… it nothing.” Marie-Théophanie answered in her own highly imperfect Dutch, not wanting yet to announce her pregnancy to her children. She defaulted to a phrase from her teach-yourself-Dutch app. “I am well, thank you.”

“Just asking,” Nicole said, not wanting to pry.

“Annie!” Charlie exclaimed, looking to his classmate and raising a hand. “This is my mama,” he added in French. Like many Caldans, even outside Arcadia, he spoke it with a slight Arcadian accent.

“Hi Charlie,” said Anne-Marie, answering in French. She indicated her family. “This is my maman, and my brother, in Grade 2, and my little sister, Lisette, and my baby brother, Étienne. Maman, this is Charlie, he has never had meat.”

Marie-Théophanie half-smiled. It was, of course, a strange way to introduce a person, and she hoped Charlie’s mother (who looked very professional in Marie-Théophanie’s judgement) was not offended by it. She looked apologetically to Nicole and spoke in French, with a Pantocratorian accent.

“Hello, I see our children are in the same class.” Marie-Théophanie began. “I’m sorry about the… garbage bin. My name’s Tiffanie.”

“Nicole,” the other woman said, offering her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Marie-Théophanie took her hand and smiled. Meeting other adults in Knootoss had not been easy. Now was not a great time for a conversation, however, and Marie-Théophanie inclined her head towards the school.

“We’d best head in… we’re late, I’m afraid.” she said.

“Again,” Nicole said with a pointed look at Charlie, starting towards the school once more with the other family.

‘Madame Bauwens’ was not mad at the children when they arrived. When the Knootian teacher heard the knock on the closed classroom door, she showed them a smile that seemed more piteous than angry, holding little Annie’s shoulder to guide her in. She signalled for the parents to wait, making sure that both were seated and that everyone in the class were busy with their assignments before she turned back to the parents waiting at the door.

The Knootian teacher’s expression now had that ‘not mad, just disappointed’ quality as she admonished Marie-Théophanie: “Mrs. Miziones. Because this is the third time, I have to ask you to go see the Location Manager in room 1.12. She will be expecting you.”

“Yes, madame.” Marie-Théophanie replied, with a resigned air.

‘Madame Bauwens’ then turned to the Caldan woman, warning her: “If Charlie is late again, I’m going to be required to ask that you do the same.” Somehow it seemed more like a formality when she addressed the second woman, accompanied as it was by a little sigh. Wilma Bauwens had voiced her concerns about Anne-Marie and her siblings to the Location Manager before, whereas she wasn’t truly concerned about Nicole. But for the sake of appearing impartial, she felt she had to enforce the rules evenly.

Nicole sighed slightly. “I understand.” She offered Marie-Théophanie a sympathetic smile. This felt like when she had actually been a school child herself and had gotten in trouble.

That was exactly how it felt to Marie-Théophanie.

“It was nice to meet you, Nicole.” Marie-Théophanie said, gathering her other children about her. “Maybe the children would like to have a playdate some time.”

“That’d be great,” Nicole said. “Let’s get in touch soon!”

Marie-Théophanie thought about pulling out her Peacock Phone to exchange numbers with Nicole, but then stole a glance at the teacher, Wilma Bauwens, and then started guiding Marc by the hand down the hall to his classroom where she was similarly admonished, and then, taking Elisabeth by one hand and pushing Étienne in his stroller with the other, Marie-Théophanie headed towards the Location Manager’s office.

The location managers’ office was situated at the end of a closed hallway, where the noise of children playing would at least be somewhat muted. The little office was minimalist in its presentation, with a wide desk that separated the private office of Kim van Rumbeke (“Just Kim, please”) from the area where parents might be seated. When the Knootian school official heard a knock on the door, she put her phone face-down on the desk. The 2nd grade teacher and Wilma Bauwens had both already posted in the Chat Group for teachers that Anne-Marie and Marc were late again, along with a private message from Wilma that she’d be sending the parent over, as they had discussed.

Kim raised an eyebrow when the Pantocratorian parent came in with a baby and a toddler, then composed herself. “Please, come in. Have a seat.” She struggled a moment to think of what to do with the other children. Having the toddler around might complicate having a frank conversation. Then again, the Knootian woman felt that she was being put on the spot here. She came straight to the point: “You’ve received our electronic reminders about our truancy policy?” she asked.

Marie-Théophanie guided Elisabeth towards a chair and handed her Peacock Phone over to her so that she could play Sweetie Smash while the adults talked. Étienne was mercifully placid, having just fallen asleep again in his stroller, which would mess up his sleeping pattern for the rest of the day but what else was new. Marie-Théophanie nodded in response to Kim van Rumbeke’s question.

“Yes, madame, I have.” she answered in a suitably chastised tone.

“It’s very important that children are in school on time”, Kim lectured. “For the sake of the rest of the class as well. It’s very disruptive when other children come in late. It can throw off some of the special needs children, and it puts your own children at risk of bullying.” The Knootian woman frowned, pushing her boxy glasses back to the tip of her nose as she turned her gaze back to the monitor of her computer, scrolling through the files that she had pulled up in anticipation of this talk, which held a list of all the ‘incident reports’.

“Yes, madame, I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie answered, her gaze drifting down towards her hands folded in her lap.

“So I wonder, what is the cause?” Kim asked. Her expression said that she knew exactly what the cause was, but she was taking the parent by the hand’ to lead her towards a desired conclusion.

“I didn’t leave early enough, madame.” Marie-Théophanie answered, glancing up briefly. She might have added “And I don’t have a car” or “I have four kids” or “Morning sickness” or any of the other things which came to her mind but she knew it was wrong to make excuses for her own failings. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

The light tapping of a keyboard accompanied Marie-Théophanie's confession. "What did the children have for breakfast today?" she then asked, lifting her nose up some so that she could stare at Marie-Théophanie through her variable-focus glasses.

“Uhh…” Marie-Théophanie started, looking up from her lap, surprised at the question. “Omelette, madame.”

“Do the children always have a full breakfast?” Kim asked as a follow-up. The answer had thrown her off, but she was as-of-yet determined not to let it pull her away from the desired conclusion. No way was this mother capable of taking care of all four children properly in the morning. She stared hard, as though to dissuade her from lying.

“They… don’t always eat everything, but… usually they do? I try to sneak in the vegetables sometimes or Marc will fuss.” Marie-Théophanie answered, not really grasping Kim’s line of questioning.

The children do not always eat a full breakfast, Kim entered into the system. She then looked back to the mother: “If I may ask, what role does your husband play in the raising of the children? I heard from the teachers that they haven’t seen him drop the children off. And he wasn’t there for the big recital last month.”

“He works, very hard, madame.” Marie-Théophanie answered, confused.

“I’m sure he does”, Kim replied sympathetically. “But it is important for fathers to play a role in the raising of children. Especially when there are so many…” she trailed just slightly, letting that remark hang in the air. “He doesn’t work part-time? To share the burden with you?”

“I’m sorry I was late, madame.” Marie-Théophanie told her, bristling a little against her own nature. “It was my fault. Mine alone. Not my husband’s.”

“I understand that you feel that way”, the location manager intoned piously. Feeling that she’d made the right call. “What methods of behaviour correction do you and your husband use? For the children.”

“We talk to them, try to explain why what they have done was wrong, you know, sometimes we confiscate a toy or send them to their room, for a short time. We try to model good behaviour for them. Sometimes I fail at doing that, like this morning, when I was late.” Marie-Théophanie answered. She realised that these questions were leading somewhere and she didn’t like the implied direction.

“Do you or your husband ever raise your voice or use physical correction on your children? Or does he do that to you?” Kim asked in a tone of professional sympathy. This time she hadn’t written down anything of the mothers’ answer.

Elisabeth giggled as she played her game on her mother’s Peacock Phone. Marie-Théophanie’s face was stony. Marie-Théophanie’s father had certainly used what Kim called physical correction on her and her siblings. Some of her friends back home, who had generally married around the same age as she had, to local men from nearby villages like she had, had found their husbands willing to use the same sorts of means of corporal correction on them as their own fathers had used on them growing up. But that was not, thank God, her story, and she wondered what stereotype of Pantocratorian country women informed Kim’s question.

“No, madame.” Marie-Théophanie answered firmly, her tone curt.

“Maman got in trouble last night!” Elisabeth declared.

“Lisette!” Marie-Théophanie sighed in exasperation.

“Did she?” Kim asked. Then realising it wasn’t appropriate to press a toddler for answers. She turned her gaze on the mother instead. “How did you get… in trouble?” she pressed, using the child’s words.

“I’m not a battered woman, madame.” Marie-Théophanie told her. “When I said no, it was about that. Sometimes we do raise our voices, of course. And Elisabeth overheard some raised voices, but that’s all.”

This time, Kim spent some time typing on her keyboard to process these replies. When she finished, she spoke solemnly: “I am going to refer your family for a home visitation, to see if everything is alright in the household. There are a number of troubling indicators that compound the record of truancy…” she trailed. “Please understand that the purpose of this visitation is to act in the best interest of the children. The most likely outcome is that you will be referred to a specialist, to set up an improvement plan, or receive any mental health or other resources that anyone in your household may need.”

“What?” Marie-Théophanie asked, incredulously. “This is ridiculous! What do you want me to do, rub my face with ashes and come wailing an apology for being late? I’m sorry, I said I was sorry! You ask all these personal questions you have no business asking, bringing your own… are you a mother, madame?”

“Marie…” Kim began. “... can I call you Marie?”

“It’s Tiffanie. Or Madame Miziones.” she answered. “Do you have children, madame?”

“My cats are my children”, Kim replied. “But really, I’ve plenty of children to help take care of here at the school.” She rubbed her temples. “Tiffanie… this is not a punishment. But you are displaying behaviours that are…” She looked at the toddler, then lowered her voice and leaned forward over the desk: “You are showing behaviours that are indicators of domestic abuse. We do have resources. And the children… four children in… an apartment block in the neighbourhood across the boulevard, isn’t it?” She wasn’t going to specify. It might sound racist if she specified. Instead, she just let it sing around before adding, with the same professional sympathy: “It must be very difficult. Nobody would blame you if you had trouble raising four children in such an environment. When your husband does not help you out.”

“I am not… I could show you… tell you…” Marie-Théophanie stammered, almost hyperventilating. She had rarely been this angry, and she didn’t think she had ever been so insulted, and she felt that another bout of morning sickness could hit at any moment. She tried to calm herself… Ave Maria, Gracia Plena… “You are very quick to judge, but you don’t know anything about it. I don’t need or want a visitation, not by a specialist, not by a social worker, not even by three Magi. I just need to manage my time better.”

“I’m afraid a visit by a social worker is part of the process that we’re now starting together”, Kim sympathised. “Unless you express the view that a visitation would put you or your children at physical risk, on account of how your husband or your family might view it?” She didn’t add - and likely didn’t need to add - that this would rather escalate the seriousness of the inquiry. “I don’t want to put you or the children in danger.”

“I know. You just want to embarrass us.” Marie-Théophanie answered, sullenly, tears in her eyes.

“Our entire team has the best interests of your children in mind”, Kim answered. “You’ll be apprised of the time of the visitation via the usual channels with notice. You and your husband will be expected to attend. It really is nothing to be embarrassed about.” She reached for a paper towel and offered it to her. “Would you like some tea? Is there anything else I can do to help?” Even so, the Knootian woman looked uncomfortable.

“Please, I’m sorry I talked back,” Marie-Théophanie answered, wiping tears from one of her eyes with the back of one hand before accepting the offered tissue and wiping the other eye. “Please, give me another chance, I will change the morning routine to make sure I get here earlier…”

Kim reached out to place her hand over Marie-Théophanie’s. “I understand”, she soothed. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. This process is going to help things get better.”

“I just…” Marie-Théophanie started and abruptly stopped. She closed her mouth firmly and dry wretched behind it as morning sickness struck her again.

[Pantocratoria]

Marie-Théophanie Miziones had done some light grocery shopping on her way home from the school, despondently pushing her stroller up and down the aisles looking for the bare essentials. As she did so, she alternated between responding politely to Elisabeth’s chatter, reflecting to herself how much she hated this country, and revisiting her discussion with Kim van Rumbeke and cursing herself for answering stupidly.

“Stupid.” Marie-Théophanie said out loud as she placed a box of discounted mushrooms in her shopping basket.

“I’m not stupid!” Elisabeth protested, instantly turning to tears.

“Oh, no Lisette, not you, I didn’t mean you baby…” Marie-Théophanie cooed at the child.

“I’m not a baby!” Elisabeth protested, the tears giving way to angry shouting.

Marie-Théophanie looked around the grocery store self-consciously. Her daughter was very loud. Étienne sat in his stroller, mouth agog, following his sister with his gaze.

“I’m sorry Lisette.” Marie-Théophanie told her softly. “I didn’t mean it like that, I know you’re a big girl.”

Elisabeth seemed placated for now and Marie-Théophanie finished filling her basket. She went to pay, waving her SIN-chip implanted wrist over the touchless payment scanner at the end. It was a vile thing, which she deeply resented having injected into her arm, but it wasn’t practical to pay any other way much of the time in Knootoss, so she had let Jean convince her and accepted it.

All the way home from the store, Marie-Théophanie thought about how she would break the news of this morning’s conversation with the school Location Manager to her husband. He was going to be angry, of course. Rightfully. He didn’t deserve that. He was such a good provider, a good man, a war veteran, a loving father. By what right did some childless, nosy bitch-bureaucrat presume to judge him? And how had she been so stupid as to allow her to form that opinion, to put words into her mouth to support her pre-conclusions?

Étienne needed to be fed once they got home from the shops, and once again bit Marie-Théophanie as he did so. If anyone hurt her, it was him, the youngest male in the house, not Jean. Why would that vile van Rumbeke woman jump straight to the idea that Jean beat any of them? She had to tell Jean. When Étienne had finished feeding and Marie-Théophanie had set him down in his rocker chair, and after Marie-Théophanie had poured a cup of juice for Elisabeth, she called Jean. He didn’t answer. He was probably busy at work. Marie-Théophanie sent him a text message.

“Can you call me when you are free? Need to talk. Love you.” the message read, and Marie-Théophanie spent some time considering whether to put an emoji at the end and if so, how many, before pressing send. Emoji-less.

She had time to change into her active wear, do the laundry, clean the bathroom, and then do nearly forty minutes on the treadmill before he called her back. She slowed the treadmill until it stopped and took the phone out of its cradle to answer it.

“Hi, my heart,” she answered as sweetly as she could while catching her breath. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Of course, Tiffanie. How was the morning?” Jean’s voice asked from the other end.

“Busy.” Marie-Théophanie replied. She paused, second guessing how to break the news.

“What’s up, ma souris?” Jean prompted.

“I was late to school again this morning. I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie began.

“It happens.” Jean answered, his tone suggesting it was no big deal.

“I messed up so badly, Jean!” Marie-Théophanie declared, starting to tear up once again.

“So they missed first roll call, who cares?” Jean replied, attempting to reassure her.

“No, it’s not that.” Marie-Théophanie explained. She had to get it out. “I had to talk to the Location Manager, Kim van Rumbeke. She asked me all sorts of leading questions and I stupidly didn’t understand what she was trying to do. She… she thinks the reason I am late is that there are problems in the home.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Jean answered, dismissive of the idea.

“She asked a lot of questions about you, my heart, and…” Marie-Théophanie continued. “I’m sorry, Jean. I think she thinks you are… well, that you are violent. I told her she was wrong but she didn’t listen to me, just kept acting like she knew better and that everything she was doing was in my best interests.”

“Violent?” Jean asked, frowning, although Marie-Théophanie could not see that. “What, like I beat you up?”

“And the children. Or that you discipline us, you know, physically.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I’m sorry.”

“How dare she?” Jean replied. “I’ll go down there on Friday morning and complain about her to the headmaster. She has no business upsetting you like this, and he ought to know how his underlings act towards parents at the school. Disgraceful!”

“Jean, she reported us, to the government, I think.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I don’t think complaining about her will work. She is sending people to our house, some sort of inspection…”

“What?” Jean replied. Now he was angry. Marie-Théophanie winced. “Reported us? For what? Violence? I could show her violence. Who in God’s name does she think she is?”

“They are going to judge us as parents, I suppose, and then… well I don’t know what happens then.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I’m so sorry Jean, I messed up so badly, I was late, then I talked back to her…”

“Bullies like her need talking back to!” Jean responded. “Ridiculous. When are these people visiting us? And from where?”

“She said they’ll inform us.” Marie-Théophanie said. “And I don’t know from where, sorry, some sort of government agency. Jean, surely they don’t have the right? We’re not Knootians!”

“They may have the legal right, but they’ve no moral right.” Jean answered. “Tiffanie, what did you tell them, exactly?”

“I swear, I didn’t say a bad word about you!” Marie-Théophanie said. “I would never, not ever! I have been trying to work out what I said, and I can’t think of any reason or cause I gave her to think such a thing.”

“She must have had some reason.” Jean replied.

“It was like she decided what the problem was before I sat down.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I think she’s biased against mothers, or foreigners.”

“Did she say anything, about you being Pantocratorian?” Jean asked.

“No.” Marie-Théophanie admitted. “But when I asked if she had children she said she had pets or something like that.”

“A crazy cat lady mad with bureaucratic power. Great. We need to find out more about this visit.” Jean told her. “Look, I have to get back to work. We can talk later. I might try to look up some information online about what our rights are. Make sure you’re not late picking them up today, OK?”

“I promise.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Jean said, and hung up.

[Pantocratoria]

Hudorr Enwarin did not know what was worse; the hangover or the shame. Sleeves rolled up, a cup of black coffee going cold on the table, he rubbed his forehead with a slightly sweaty palm.

He could taste disgrace on his tongue. It was either that or last night’s ale. The usually small and rambunctious flat was as quiet as the grave as the rest of his family crept about lest they disturb the patriarch.

The Dhooist religion did not forbid alcohol, much to the chagrin of their former masters in Qubti, but the Commentaries of the Divines contained within it enough blood curdling admonishments against drunkenness that most limited their consumption to high days and holy days and the occasional family celebtraion. So when Hudorr’s colleagues suggested that they go out for some drinks after work the correct response should have been no. There had, of course, been talk of ‘extending the Christmas celebrations’ but Hudorr Enwarin did not celebrate Christmas. The family’s flat had been bereft of so much as a scrap of tinsel. He ought to have said no.

He didn’t. And so he had followed them to a local bar and joined with them in toasting the good health of…anything and everything really. The Grand Pensionary, the local football team, squirrels. Once he had reached a sufficient level of intoxication Hudorr Enwarin went home. And that was it. There were no late-night trips to a strip joint or dabbling in the smorgasbord of illicit substances. Hudorr did not boast an unfortunate new addition to his body or the name of anyone else in his phone. He just had a few drinks and went home.

Outrage, disgrace and a headache filled his mind. He took a sip at the tepid coffee. The course of action was clear. If Hudorr Enwarin lay burdened with shame and dehydration then the solution was as obvious as it was timeless; bully the children.

“Maerlaevar!” he bellowed. He winced as a band of pain shot across his skull. “Maerlaevar,” he said again in a quieter voice. His youngest peeked around the corner of the small kitchen.

“You wanted to..” her sentence went unfinished.

Hudorr Enwarin, his eyes squinting through the pain and queasiness, pointed at her accusingly. “You,” he said, “Are lazy. When I was your age I was already helping herd my uncle Sanfaelor’s goats before school.” What her father did not go on to say was that, in reality, he had been told to bring the herd in precisely once and had made such a hash of it that he was never asked again. “You need a job.”

His wife, who had been waiting offstage, appeared behind their daughter. “But Hudorr,” she protested, “She is too young.”

Disobedience! Hudorr Enwarin could take dissension from the pair of them. He tried to stand but the sudden pain in his head overwhelmed him and he collapsed back onto the kitchen chair. “Rubbish,” he said after a moment, “She can work in a shop or something.”

Johamaya Liamenor shook her head. “There are laws here,” she said, “She has to be a certain age to do anything like that. Remember when we tried to find something for Ophinesia when she was Maerlaevar’s age.”

Hudorr grunted. “A weak country produces weak children,” he muttered. He sipped the cold coffee again. He would not be bested. “What about that Greek family you babysit for? The Calzones?”

“Miziones” corrected his wife.

“Don’t interrupt me,” he snapped, “But yes, them, can you not help them?”

Johamaya looked unsure. “But Hudorr,” she said, “They are a young family. They do not have much money.”

“It’s not about the money,” snapped her husband again, “It is about the work ethic! It is about being productive and not being lazy and fat; glued to that PeacockPhone of hers”

“But Papa,” protested Maerlaevar.

“No!” thundered Hudorr, “You go and ask them. I don’t care if all they can give you us a ducat a month. It is about time you did something useful. Now go.” He waved them both away.

“Oh, and Johamaya?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Where are the painkillers?”

She gave a knowing look. “Stay there,” she said, “I will fetch them for you.”

Hudorr Enwarin painfully nodded. It wasn’t easy being master of the house.

***

A few stories downstairs from the Enwarin family, the Miziones family’s Saturday morning was unfolding much as it always did. Jean Miziones had slept in - between work during the week and Mass on Sunday morning, Saturday was the only day he didn’t have to get up early, after all. Marie-Théophanie not only accepted this reasoning but explained it to her children as she urged them to keep their voices down so that their father could sleep. She had made pancakes for the children hours earlier, and had left some batter aside waiting for Jean to wake up. When she heard him start the shower down the hall, she had started preparing Saturday’s second batch of pancakes. She smiled to herself when she heard the children exclaim “Papa!” in chorus, as Jean emerged in the living room in his tracksuit. The sounds of their excited conversation was shortly drowned out by the Saturday morning sports report on the TV.

Marie-Théophanie was nearly finished with the fry pan fifteen minutes later when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it!” Jean announced after switching the TV to mute. He got up from the couch, leaving the remote control behind, strode to the door and opened it.

“Mathilde!” Anne-Marie exclaimed. The little girl was on her knees on the carpet playing with brightly coloured construction bricks with her younger brother Marc, who seemed less excited to see Maerlaevar/Mathilde.

“Bonjour tout le monde,” said Mathilde in an accent that was partly Dutch and partly Breucian and in no way French, “I was just wondering..” She tailed off. She liked the Miziones family, she would not be there otherwise, but there was something about Jean that made her uneasy. She could not explain why; maybe he reminded her of her own father, maybe it was because he was a veteran. Her uncle Urarat had emigrated to Excalbia and, like any loyal new subject of the Emperor, signed up for the fight against Iesus Christi. He went to war; it was difficult to say how much of him came back. Maybe it was because he looked a bit like the evil spirit in one of the books her grandmother gave her. Either way she shifted under his gaze,

She caught Marie-Théophanie’s eye across the pancakes. “Could I,” she fumbled over her words, “Madame, could I have a word?” She glanced across the flat. “When you’re not too busy!” she added as a hasty afterthought.

“Certainly, Mathilde.” Marie-Théophanie answered, lifting the last pancake from the pan with a spatula onto a plate, and then reflexively tightening the night robe she was still wearing. “Just let me give Jean his breakfast.”

“Thanks, Tiffanie.” Jean smiled at his wife as she set down his plate of pancakes at the head of the table, where cutlery, sugar, some sliced orange pieces, and some syrup were all already waiting. He gave her a kiss and a squeeze, the latter making her a little self-conscious in front of Mathilde, and then sat down at the table to eat his breakfast.

“Let’s talk in the kitchen?” Marie-Théophanie suggested. She looked tired, with rings under her eyes, a look not helped by the fact she was still in her night robe and completely unmade-up, not that she ever wore much make-up anyway. She flicked the kettle on. “I can’t remember if you drink coffee, Mathilde? Or tea?”

Marie-Théophanie produced a jar of instant coffee and scooped a few teaspoons of it into a mug.

“I only have instant, I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie apologised.

“Oh, that’s fine, I will only be quick,” said Maerlaevar mistaking the instant to be in reference to time and not the coffee, “I know that I’ve babysat for you and Meneer Jean in the past and you know that I’m always happy to help.” She distractedly picked a thread off her skirt.

“Only my father, he thinks I should do more. To, you know, help people. Help you. As a…” she struggled to think of the word outside of a purely Breucian context, “A sadqah?” She shook her head. “No, that’s Arabic. Just, you know, to help. For Free. Ish. No honestly, if you need any help with anything then please let me know.”

“What sort of help?” Marie-Théophanie asked. “More babysitting, you mean?”

“Yes,” replied Maerlaevar, “Or if you need help taking them out. I can help here if you like but I will be honest,” she said, pointing across the kitchen, “I have never made pancakes in my life.”

“Mathilde, I don’t know what to say…” Marie-Théophanie said. In truth she was embarrassed. Was it obvious she wasn’t holding it together? Did she look like she needed charity? “Actually, I was going to ask you if you’d be willing to babysit for us on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” said Maerlaevar cheerfully with the obliviousness of youth, “That’d be great. Anyway, think about it, talk with Meneer Jean. My father thinks I’m lazy,” she scowled, “But I’d rather help you than sit in an empty Charity Shop.” She motioned towards the untouched beverage. “Thank you for the coffee but I should be going, unless you need anything now?”

“Uhh… No, thank you Mathilde.” Marie-Théophanie said. She picked up the coffee and sipped it herself. “I’m sure your father doesn’t really think you’re lazy. I’ll message you about Tuesday, OK?”

Maerlaevar gave a look that said she wasn’t entirely sure about her father’s opinions but she said nothing. “Sure, thanks for that.” She held up a hand and motioned for Marie-Théophanie to stay where she was. “I can see myself out. Goodbye Madame Miziones!” She cheerily left the kitchen saying goodbyes to any children that happened to notice her egress. The kids cheerfully bade her goodbye, and Marie-Théophanie came out of the kitchen to stand by the dining table.

“That was weird.” she said to Jean.

“She’s a bit weird.” Jean agreed, between mouthfuls of pancake. “But she’s a nice kid. Did you ask her about babysitting while we see the obstetrician?”

“Yes, I did.” Marie-Théophanie nodded, and sipped her coffee.

“Good.” Jean declared. “Did you make me a coffee too?”

“Oh, sorry, Mathilde distracted me.” Marie-Théophanie apologised and returned to the kitchen. She scooped some coffee into a fresh mug, and poured the still very hot water from the kettle onto it, then fetched the milk from the fridge. As she did so, she spoke a little louder to continue the conversation. “She said she is always happy to help, not just with babysitting. For free even. Maybe, I’m not sure about that part.”

She emerged from the kitchen holding her coffee in one hand and Jean’s in the other. She set Jean’s down beside his plate and then sat down next to him at the table.

“Thanks.” Jean said. “That’s a nice offer, isn’t it?”

“Sure, but… why? Do I, I mean…” Marie-Théophanie stammered. “Am I not holding it together?”

“Oh, ma souris, you’re holding it together better than a lot of women.” Jean told her. “Don’t let that stupid bitch at the school bother you.”

“Jean.” Marie-Théophanie said softly, indicating to the children with her eyes.

“Sorry.” Jean shrugged. He agreed philosophically with not swearing in front of the children, especially about teachers or people at the school, but it was hard. “But I’ve seen some of the other mothers at the school when I’ve been. Rushing about, distracted, looking a mess, grey hair, overweight… I know you have been a little out of sorts lately, but compared to them? Come on.”

“I’m ten years younger than most of them.” Marie-Théophanie answered, evidently not taking Jean’s observation as the flattering comparison he intended them to be.

“Well, you’re no charity case anyway.” Jean answered, sipping his coffee and wondering why women were always so difficult.

There was a long pause while Jean ate his pancakes and both adults drank their coffee.

“So, you don’t mind if I ask her to help out a bit more?” Marie-Théophanie asked him. “It might be helpful sometimes, having an extra pair of hands so I can stay on top of everything.”

“Sure.” Jean answered. “For free, you said?”

“Well, I can’t take her up on that, surely.” Marie-Théophanie said. “I have to pay her something.”

“I guess.” Jean agreed. “Not too much, of course, but something. You’d be doing her a favour too, remember? Helping her develop her housekeeping skills. Maybe you can help her with her hair as well.”

“Keeping her away from that father.” Marie-Théophanie said. She supposed Jean was right… ish.

“He’s a weird one.” Jean agreed.

[Pantocratoria]

It was a nice day outside, with only a few fluffy clouds to break up the watery sun that shone down upon the city. It was a balmy (for Knootoss) fifteen degrees celsius, and the air pollution was low that day, as Marie-Théophanie, Maerlaevar, and the Miziones children approached the south-western bank of the Merwe river. Here, the fresh inflows from the Jardén river lent a blueish glint to a river, contrasting strongly with the brackish brown that flowed in from the Tijraan after the river crossed the bend along which Lichtenburg sprawled.

The Speelboot Adventure Playground stood out amongst the many ships that were moored on this side (yachts, pleasure craft, a few boat houses) by its bright primary colours: a red and blue keel and bright yellow stripes adorned the pre-container cargo ship, which had been repurposed into a place where children could ‘play, learn and discover themselves’ for 20 Atlantic Ducats per child per day, with an additional entry fee for the adults that would accompany them.

Marie-Théophanie pushed baby Étienne in his stroller towards the entrance way. Maerlaevar walked holding Lisette’s hand, and the older Miziones children, Anne-Marie and Marc, walked between them. Marie-Théophanie frowned when she saw the entrance fee. She was sure she had seen the price 10 Atlantic Ducats per child mentioned online on the Expat Mother’s Group she was a part of on Friendface, and was already mentally adjusting her next grocery budget to account for the difference. She reflected that the day was going to cost her a lot more than it was going to cost the other mothers, but what else was new?

Nicole Sugarman arrived only a moment later with Charlie. “Tiffanie!” she called out, waving to the other mom. “It’s good to see you!” She looked warily at the ship beyond. “A lot of experts say this is really good for kids,” she said, uncertainly. She was used to much more structured, safety-oriented play areas, especially for a big, special outing.

“Hi, Nicole!” Marie-Théophanie responded, waving back. She turned to Anne-Marie. “It’s Charlie, see?”

Anne-Marie was uncharacteristically coy about greeting Charlie outside of school, although Marie-Théophanie had no doubt she’d warm up once they were playing. She turned the stroller towards the Sugarmans.

“This is Mathilde.” Marie-Théophanie explained, indicating Maerlaevar with a gesture of her head. “She lives upstairs from us, and is helping me with the kids. Mathilde, this is Madame Sugarman.”

Maerlaevar smiled. “Bonjour Madame,” she said, “It is a lovely day isn’t it? I love days like this when you can’t taste the air so much.”

“Very lovely, Mathilde,” Nicole answered. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Becky Harris arrived only a few minutes later with her daughter Alex. She waved at the other moments as Alex ran ahead. “Anne-Marie!” she said excitedly, running up to the other girl. She looked at the ship. “It’ll be like being explorers or pirates!” She seemed in the spirit of things.

“We can be colonists!” Anne-Marie declared, starting to come out of her shell.

“You didn’t bring David?” Nicole asked.

“He’s with his father today,” Becky said. “Nick finally talked him into playing laser tag.” She frowned slightly, as if she wasn’t so sure this was a good idea.

The park entrance had a small line of families with parents and kids between 5 and 12 years waiting to wave their SIN-chips over the scanner (which Marie-Théophanie did, resentfully) and be given a colourful plastic helmet that reflected their age group. The children were all given a brief instruction by somewhat scruffy, pointy-bearded and bright eyed young man, who explained to them the areas they were allowed into with their particular helmet-colour, and that they should ask one of the ‘sailors’ for help if they didn’t know how to use any tool. The parents were instructed (somewhat contradictorily) that they remained responsible for the safety of their children, but that they were encouraged to let them roam freely and explore in what was termed ‘unstructured play’.

“Unstructured play has an awful lot of rules,” Becky whispered to Nicole and Tiffanie.

“Knootoss has a lot of rules.” Marie-Théophanie whispered back.

Maerlaevar, who was pretending not to listen, sniffed. “When I was little,” said the fourteen year old grandly, “We were happy with a climbing frame and some wood chips for cushioning.”

“I used to like the see-saw,” Nicole commented, “and the merry-go round.”

“I grew up on a ranch,” Becky said. “It wasn’t my family’s but my father worked there full time.”

“I’m a country girl too.” Marie-Théophanie briefly smiled. She felt a sudden pang of loss and then forced the smile to stay on her face artificially for a few seconds longer. “Sometimes wonder why I left. Hah.”

“It has its charms,” Becky said. “I try go get back when I can.”

Lisbete Morgan held her son Tim’s hand as she chatted with Kristina Bergs, the oldest daughter of her husband Bob’s colleague, Linda. Kristina, a 17-year old recent high school graduate, walked alongside her siblings Tommy, 13, and Laura, who was Tim’s age.

“I’ll pay for all of us,” Lisbete said as they advanced towards the scanners. Having the day off from her duties, the Excalbian wore jeans and loose top rather than her suit and priestly Roman collar.

“That’s ok,” Kristina said, fishing around in the pocket of her jeans, which she wore with a halter top and open toed sandals. “Dad transferred me money to pay for us.”

“Let me pay,” Lisbete said, smiling. “I have my card out already. You can get lunch. If you think that’d be ok with your dad.”

Kristina shrugged. ‘Ok,” she said as they moved through the line.

“Oh,” Lisbete said, touching Kristina on the arm, “there’s Becky and Alex.” She let go of Tim and waved to the Caldan woman.

“Becky,” she called out. “Hi!” She half turned towards the teenaged girl beside her. “Do you know Kristina? She’s Chris and Linda’s oldest, and Laura’s sister.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Becky said.

“Ms. Harris,” Kristina said.

Lisbete noticed the other two women with Becky and introduced herself. “Hi,” she said, “Lisbete Morgan. Nice to meet you.”

“Nicole Sugarman,” Nicole said to Lisbete. “It’s nice to meet you. Excalbian?” Taking a stab at the other woman’s accent.

“Yes,” Lisbete said with a smile, “born and bred. Are you Caldan? Have you been in Knootoss long?”

“Yes and not all that long,” Nicole answered her.

“I’m Tiffanie Miziones.” Marie-Théophanie said with a smile.

“Nice to meet you,” Lisbete said, “I’m guessing you’re Pantocratorian, right?”

Marie-Théophanie nodded.

“We’re a regular Atlantic Council,” announced Nicole.

Lisbete laughed.

“Alex! Anne-Marie!” Laura said, taking a step towards the two girls. She turned and grabbed Tim’s arm. “Come on, Tim, let’s go.”

“We’re gonna be pirates!” Alex said. She was a bit set on this.

Laura grinned and let go of Tim. “Yay! Pirates! Arrggghhh!”

“Can I be a mermaid?” Anne-Marie asked as she followed along.

“You can be a mermaid!” Alex agreed. “Like in Peter Pan! Mermaids and Pirates!”

Tim followed behind, then smiled when he saw Charlie. “Charlie,” he said, bouncing slightly on his feet.

“Hey, Tim,” Charlie said cheerfully. “What do you think this is gonna be like?”

Tim shrugged. “Looks like fun,” he said. “I’m just glad that I won’t be the only boy here!”

“Me too,” Charlie agreed.

Marc Miziones eyed Tim and Charlie uncertainly, and looked back at Maerlaevar and his mother.

“Maybe you’d like to play with the big boys.” Marie-Théophanie suggested to Marc, gently indicating him in the direction of Tom and Charlie.

“Hi.” Marc said to the other boys.

“Hi,” Charlie said. “I’m Charlie and this is Tim. Wanna be lost boys?” He had heard Alex talking about Peter Pan.

“Hi,” Tim said.

“Sure. What’s that?” Marc asked.

“Like Peter Pan’s friends,” Charlie said.

The gang plank had railings as a concession to safety, but it still creaked as the group stepped over it, lending a sense of danger (and adventure) to the affair. Small groups of people crossed at a time, onto the metal deck and down into the belly of the ship.

“Pirates!” Alex yelled excitedly as she felt the gang plank creak beneath her feet. The other children bounded after her.

The interior was a warren, the different decks having been cut open in many places to allow for winding staircases, ladders, hanging ropes and sliding poles to allow children (and adults) to get from place to place. Though the play areas were all nautical-themed, there was seemingly very little structure to them.

A large sandbox that covered much of the lowest deck, with dozens of children building, destroying or changing ad hoc structures - and getting thoroughly filthy in the process. Pipes that pumped water into the system from the edges at unpredictable (but generally slow) levels and draining holes spaced irregularly around the box made for a landscape that could be built up with hand-made dikes, canals, tunnels and houses, the water flow being managed by the children or deliberately messed up. Until different pipes started to emit water, and the whole dynamic changed.

Another area, called ‘Main Engineering’ had lots of tools and materials for handicrafts, allowing children to ‘build and design’ things. A recent addition was a large 3D printer that kids could use (with some supervision) to make simple toys, or small tools made from bright colourful plastics.

In the middle deck, with space to look in all directions, sat the ‘main bridge’ (in fact, far from where the main bridge actually would be) where parents could relax, enjoy a coffee or a plastic plate of greasy french fries and ‘bitter balls’, and watch out for their kids from a distance. There was a small area next to the ‘main bridge’ where toddlers could play, which included more traditional playground equipment and toys too large to accidentally swallow..

“Mathilde, do you think you could take Lisette to the toddler play area?” Marie-Théophanie asked Maerlaevar hopefully. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink from the café?”

“Oh,” said Maerlaevar, blushing slightly as she realised that she had been distracted by the grown-ups' conversation, “Of course. Oh and I’m fine I think.” She paused for a moment. “Except maybe a Pink Bunny Cola, I’m not allowed that at home.”

“So long as you don’t tell on me.” Marie-Théophanie answered with a smile. She knew she probably shouldn’t buy Pink Bunny Cola for Maerlaevar if her parents didn’t allow her to drink it at home, but so long as she didn’t have to answer to Maerlaevar’s father about it, she’d take the risk.

“I wonder what they have,” Lisbete said, looking around to see if there was a posted menu somewhere and finding one posted that listed all of the overpriced comfort foods, as well as a salad option that was served in a plastic container.

All around them was a mix of parents catching a break and a cup of coffee whilst the screams of their child were drowned by the ambient noise of all the other children being very loud together. The ‘main bridge’ also had a surprising number of divorced dads eating fries and croquettes with dollops of packet mayonnaise along with their little ones, as well as a few young people who looked like they couldn’t possibly be the parents of the children they were minding at all.

Kristina looked at Maerlaevar and gave a half-hearted smile. “Do you want some help keeping an eye on the little ones, Mathilde?” She turned to her brother. “Tommy, can you stick close to the boys?”

Maerlaevar brushed a loose strand of her black hair behind her ear. “Well,” she said over the shouting children, “I wouldn’t say no.” She returned the half-hearted smile and wondered for a moment if it would have been easier to volunteer at the library.

Tommy shrugged. “OK,” he said, sounding unconvinced as he wandered off with Tim, Charlie and Marc.

Lisbete examined the menu, then turned back to the other mothers. “You know, it’s not fair,” she said, “no male priest has to worry about what people think of how he looks in his cassock and vestments…” She paused and smiled. “I can go get us something to eat, if you all would like.”

It finally dawned on Marie-Théophanie that Lisbete was the female priest Anne-Marie had mentioned over dinner a few weeks ago, which had so entertained Jean. Of course, how many Excalbian boys could there be in her class? These thoughts delayed her response to the question at hand somewhat.

“Uhh… that’s very generous of you, but you don’t need to.” Marie-Théophanie said. She tapped her arm where the SIN-chip was installed. “And I have no idea how to pay you back with this thing, truly.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Nicole said as she looked at the menu. “About the male priests, I mean. Men are a lot more vain than they admit.”

“Oh,” Lisbete said, “I… I suppose you’re right.” She smiled. “I guess that was terrible unfeminist of me, wasn’t it? You’re quite right that men are as vain as women and many more so. I guess it’s just that most of the male COE priests I know, like me, are married with children. It’s just you never hear people whispering about them having ‘dad bods’ the way they do if I put on a little weight.”

Nicole laughed slightly. “Aren’t Dad bods in?”

“They are,” Lisbete chuckled, “but somehow it seems ‘mom bods’ never are.”

“What does your…” Becky started to ask Nicole and then suddenly felt awkward. “I wouldn’t call Nick vain but he really likes the Western boots I got him last Christmas.”

“Well, Ben’s a director so…” Nicole said a bit playfully.

“Maybe we could, erm… go Knootian on the coffee and food?” Marie-Théophanie suggested, meaning everyone should pay for their own. She was neither comfortable criticising priests nor comparing husbands, but she wasn’t going to make a big deal about it.

“That’s ok with me,” Lisbete said, sensing some discomfort from the Pantocratorian.

“That’s fine,” Becky agreed, looking at the menu.

“What do they have here?” Nicole asked no one in particular as she looked as well. “I think I’ll just have a soda.”

“I might get some bitter balls,” Becky pondered.

“I’m thinking the iced coffee and a muffin,” Lisbete said.

Marie-Théophanie approached the counter and ordered a Pink Bunny Cola for Maerlaevar, and a koffee verkeerd for herself, and half a dozen bottles of water since she had been told they would check her for water bottles at the gate. Which they had not. Another resentful swipe of the implanted SIN chip.

Becky did indeed get the bitter balls with hot coffee.She seemed pleased with this, resuming her seat and tasting a bitter ball speculatively. “Not bad.”

Nicole wound up also getting a muffin without sprinkles along with a water. She looked at the muffin, rather displeased. “Does anyone want to grab a proper bite after this? Somewhere the kids’d like?”

Looking at her own sprinkle-less muffin, Lisbete nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. I’m sure the kids will work up an appetite.”

“Any suggestions?” Marie-Théophanie asked over her coffee.

“If you like Tehuan food, I could get us all the employee’s discount at La Bamba,” Becky volunteered.

“Oh, you work at La Bamba?” asked Marie-Théophanie.

“We love Tehuan food,” Lisbete said.

“I do,” Becky said with a note of pride. “My father was Tehuan and I always loved the food. I learned all of his mother’s recipes. I used to cook professionally before my oldest, David, came along, and now with both kids in school and being in sort of a transitional mood anyway with the move to Knootoss I’m trying to make a career out of it.”

“That’s really great.” Marie-Théophanie answered, although she couldn’t imagine wanting to go back to work even once all her kids were in school. “I don’t think my children have ever had Tehuan food. Is it all spicy?”

“Not all of it,” Becky reassured her. “If you don’t want spicy, I can advise you some on the menu.”

“That sounds good.” Marie-Théophanie replied.

“Do you have vegetarian stuff?” Nicole asked.

“A lot, yeah,” Becky said. “I’m happy to share my favourites with everyone.”

“This is a pretty unusual playground, don’t you think?” Marie-Théophanie asked, moving the discussion on from lunch. “Have any of you been before?”

“Our church group came once,” Lisbete said. “The kids loved it. We loved it because there were things for the little ones and for the older kids.” She laughed. “Of course it wore us out; we didn’t have any helpful teens with us to watch the little ones, so we were running all over the place.”

“I’ve never been before,” Nicole said. “They say it’s supposed to be really good for the kids because it’s so unstructured. It’s like playing in an empty lot in the neighbourhood.”

“How unstructured is it, really?” Becky asked. “It seems to take a lot of rules to simulate that experience.”

“It’s certainly different from how we played when I was a child,” Lisbete said. “My brothers and I used to roam all over town during the summers and school holidays. As long as we were home for dinner, all was well.”

“It’s harder to do that in big cities like Lichtenburg though, I suppose.” Marie-Théophanie replied. “I mean, you wouldn’t want your kids running loose about a city.”

“I guess it depends,” Nicole said. “I grew up in Narich but we still felt safe in our local neighbourhood.”

“Is it as big as Lichtenburg?” asked Marie-Théophanie.

“I think so,” Nicole said. “Narich is the largest city in the Caldan Union. It’s three or four times the size of Tarana, I know.”

“Do you think it would be safe now?” Marie-Théophanie asked. “Like, maybe when you grew up it was safer - would you let Charlie roam about Narich today?”

“Maybe some parts…” Nicole said hesitantly, “when he’s a few years older.” Then she laughed at herself. “I guess that counts as a no.”

“Back in Excalbia, lots of my friends still let their kids - once they’re nine or ten - go out on their own in towns and smaller cities,” Lisbete said. “But I’m not sure I’d do in the Citadel or Landing. Or here.”

“We feel pretty comfortable letting our oldest out back in Cordelia,” Becky said.

“How big is Cordelia?” Lisbete asked.

“Well, Cordelia’s a province. We’re right near Beaumont which has about seven thousand people,” Becky clarified, “but we don’t live in town.”

“David’s twelve, right?” Nicole asked.

“That’s right,” Becky said.

“Almost a teenager,” Nicole repeated with a slightly teasing tone.

Becky laughed. “Don’t remind me!”

[The Resurgent Dream]

The atmosphere at La Bamba was warm and lively. Mariachi music played in the background at a low volume. There was a low din of conversation that permeated the restaurant. While there was a smattering of Tehuans in the crowd, looking for a taste of home, most of the restaurant’s clientele was Knootian and Knootian beverages mingled with Tehuan and Caldan brands. Becky led the group of mothers and children inside. She smiled at the greeter. “Hello, Nina.”

“Hi, Becky!” the woman said cheerfully.

“We’d like a table please,” Becky said.

“Sure,” answered Nina. She smiled to the group and turned to lead them to a table. “Do you all know what you would like to drink?”

“I’ll have the pear nectar,” Becky answered as the party took their seats..

“Me too” Alex chimed in.

“Can I try that?” Charlie asked Nicole.

“Sure, sweetie,” Nicole said. “I’ll just have a water myself.”

“Water, for us.” answered Marie-Théophanie, indicating herself and her children. She looked to Maerlaevar. “Mathilde, what would you like to drink, order anything you like.”

Maerlaevar thought for a moment. “Diet Pink Bunny Cola please.” She paused. “No, a normal one please.” She smiled to herself at the thought of this sugar-rich symbol of teenage rebellion.

“Do you have limonada con hierbabuena?” Lisbete Morgan asked as she ushered her son Tim and his friend Laura towards the table. “And milk for Tim and Laura.” She looked at Laura’s older sister and asked, “What would you and Tommy like, Kristina?”

“We certainly do,” Nina confirmed.

“Lemonade with spearmint sounds good to me,” the older teen said. She looked at her brother. “Tom?”

“Pink Bunny Cola?” He asked with a mischievous smile.

“Just one - and the normal one,” Kristine said, “or I’ll tell mom.”

“I’ll get those for you,” Nina said, before turning to head away.

Nicole opened her menu. “This yamadilla looks interesting,” she comments. “It’s like a quesadilla but with yam?” she clarified.

Becky nodded. “It’s popular.”

“I want the enchilada cake,” Charlie commented.

Nicole glanced at the menu again. “That’s fine, sweetie.”

Charlie smiled and looked at Lisbete. “How can there be a Church of Excalbia here when we’re in Knootoss? Those are different places!”

Nicole looked faintly embarrassed. “That’s not exactly how it works.”

Lisbete smiled. “That’s ok,” she said to Nicole. Then, turning to Charlie, she said, “I know it may sound a little funny, but our church is called the Church of Excalbia just because that’s where it started. But anyone… anywhere can join the church. There are quite a few Excalbians here in Knootoss who come to our church. And some people from other places. Even the occasional Knootian.”

“There’s a Church of Excalbia parish in Narich, I think,” Nicole said to both her son and Lisbete. “Remember when all those different religious leaders came to temple for that event commemorating the bombing of Solomon? I think one of them was from the Church of Excalbia.”

“I thought he was a Mussum,” Charlie said.

“The word you’re looking for is Muslim,” Nicole clarified, “and that was a different man.”

“Can we go see?” Charlie asked. Nicole looked at Lisbete, hesitant.

“I’d be happy to show you around the church any time,” Lisbete said. “It was originally built by Excalbian sailors in the late 19th century - almost 150 years ago.”

“Say thank you to Bishop Morgan,” Nicole instructed her son.

“Thank you, Bishop Morgan!” Charlie intoned.

Lisbete blushed slightly. “You’re welcome, Charlie.” She looked at Nicole. “And it’s just Reverend Morgan. Or Lisbete,” she said. “I’m not a bishop. At least not yet,” she tried to sound light-hearted, hoping not to cause any embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Nicole did indeed sound a little embarrassed. “I’m not really familiar with all of the titles.” She turned to her son. “Now, what do you want to eat?” Nicole asked her son. He resumed studying the menu.

“I want torta ahogada!” Alex chimed in.

Marie-Théophanie looked between Lisbete Morgan and Nicole Sugarman briefly (a woman priest was bad enough, but a woman bishop seemed even more deeply subversive) before returning to stare at the menu more or less uncomprehendingly. She naturally gravitated towards dishes with photographs next to them. Some of the dishes looked vaguely familiar, probably from television or that time she went to New Jerusalem with her family when she was thirteen, but she was dubious about most of them and worried they would be too spicy for her let alone the children. She looked over her menu about the table. The other mothers all seemed much more accomplished than her. They probably knew what these dishes were and which ones were spicy and not. In fact, Marie-Théophanie realised, feeling parochial and unsophisticated, they probably ate spicy food with strange names and ingredients all the time. Worse still, Marie-Théophanie realised that they probably realised how ignorant she was. They’d probably go home and tell their husbands about how stupid the Pantocratorian country girl with a veritable litter of children was…

“Mamam, do they have chicken nuggets?” asked Anne-Marie, finding the menu similarly bewildering.

“Uhh…” Marie-Théophanie began, and looked across to Becky. “Becky, do you mind recommending something for the kids? And… for me, maybe?”

“You might like the torta too if you ask for the tomato instead of the chile sauce,” Becky said. “It’s basically a pork sandwich.” She looked at Nicole. “You can also get a vegetarian version, with beans.”

“Thanks.” Marie-Théophanie answered. In truth it was embarrassing to order the same food as the children and she hadn’t meant she wanted one recommendation for her and the children, but now she had asked, and the question had been answered, it would be rude for her not to order as advised. Becky’s recommendation just affirmed that what she had feared was true. Becky knew she was parochial and unsophisticated, and surely the others did too. She turned to Maerlaevar again. Marie-Théophanie realised the teenager probably knew more about Tehuan food than her too. How mortifying. “Anything you’d like, Mathilde, I’m paying.”

“Oh! You might also like the lamb,” Becky added. “It’s a little spicy but not extreme. The kids might like the shredded chicken.” She couldn’t really read Marie-Théophanie response but she could tell the other woman wasn’t thrilled with her first suggestions. She was also trying to make friends and a bit self-conscious about it.

“Thanks!” Marie-Théophanie answered, obviously relieved, although her reasons may have been cryptic to Becky.

“What’s San Miguel hot mean?” Charlie interjected, having been reading the menu.

“It’s extremely hot,” Becky said, “I would not recommend it.”

“Why don’t you pick out something else?” Nicole asked her son.

“Dad would let me get it!” Charlie sulked.

“Yes, well…” Nicole looked away, embarrassed. She didn’t want to have this conversation in front of people she’d just met. “Just pick something else, dear. Do you want to get a bean torta like me?”

“Fine,” Charlie reluctantly agreed.

“The lamb sounds good,” Lisbete said, giving Marie-Theophanie a quick, and she hoped, reassuring smile. She turned to Tim and Laura. “Would you like the torta?” Both nodded, and she turned to Tommy and Kristine. “What would you like?”

“I’ll try the enchilada,” Kristine said.

“Me, too,” Tommy said.

“Thank you, Reverend Morgan,” Kristine said, shooting her brother a look.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

“Children,” Marie-Théophanie addressed her brood, although only Anne-Marie notably paid her any mind. “Madame Becky thinks you might like the shredded chicken, or the torta, which is like a pork sandwich.”

Apparently buoyed by her additional, non-child lunch option, Marie-Théophanie tried to start a conversation with Nicole.

“Jean would probably let the kids order anything they want whether they’d eat it or not too, and expect me to be the baddie.” Marie-Théophanie remarked to Nicole. Then it occurred to her she had complained about her husband, and nobody liked women who complained about their husband. “Not that I’m complaining, uh, I mean.”

“Oh, Nick’s the same way,” Becky reassured her. “I love him to death and I’m not complaining either but, among friends, I think we can joke a little about stuff like that.”

Charlie looked at Nicole. “Is daddy going to come visit us here?”

Nicole tensed. “I’m not sure, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later.”

Mercifully, that was when Nina returned to take their orders. Marie-Théophanie ordered the lamb for herself and alternating dishes of shredded chicken and pork torte for the children. Although it was a strange way to express it, she assumed Charlie was asking whether his father might meet them at the restaurant later. Nicole ordered two bean tortas and Becky ordered a torta for her daughter and lamb for herself. Lisbete ordered the lamb for herself, tortas for Tim and Laura, and enchiladas for Kristine and Timmy.

“This is going to be really good!” Alex informed the other children. “What are daddy and David eating? David hates onions. If there’s onions, he’s not going to eat them! Not at all!”

“Your father knows that,” Becky said, mildly amused. “David is my oldest,” she said to the other mothers. A bit too old for today’s activity. He and his father are making a day of it.”

“That sounds lovely,” Nicole said.

“Me and daddy could make a day of it,” Charlie said, returning to the earlier conversation with no clue as to why his mother found it embarrassing. “I don’t want to have to fly back to Narich. I want to show him all the Knootian stuff.”

“I have to talk to him,” Nicole said.

Marie-Théophanie realised from Nicole’s reaction that she had misinterpreted Charlie’s response. Evidently, her husband was back in Narich. Maybe there were even problems in the marriage? Still, she could hardly fault Nicole’s husband for preferring his homeland to Knootoss. She’d certainly be back home in a heartbeat if not for Jean’s career, home with her family and the friends she had grown up with… but that must be the opposite of Nicole’s problem, she supposed. It must be Nicole’s career which brought her here, then.

“Erm, is your husband back in the Caldan Union, Nicole?” Marie-Théophanie asked, her voice uncertain and tentative, as she was concerned she might cause offence or sound stupid or both.

“Yeah. Ben is still back in Narich where he’s a…” Nicole sighed. If she was going to be friends with these women, she would have to be honest with them sooner or later. “Ben and I are separated, actually,” she blurted out.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Marie-Théophanie responded self-consciously.

“It’s ok,” Nicole answered.

“If you want to talk sometime…” Becky said, trailing off. She wanted to be supportive without putting Nicole on the spot and she wasn’t sure she wanted Alex to hear the details.

“I’m sorry to hear about that, Nicole,” Lisbete said. She started to duplicate Becky’s offer to listen, but having just met, she hesitated, not wanting to come off as too forward. Or even worse as too much a member of the clergy than “one of the girls”.

Marie-Théophanie thought about how she would manage in Knootoss with the children without Jean, and felt immediately overwhelmed. It didn’t bear thinking about. Nicole must be very brave and very organised, she decided, and on top of all those things Jean managed in her own relationship. Even though she knew foreign women often left their husbands over little things, she assumed that this Ben must have done something awful for Nicole to not just leave him but to flee to Knootoss to get away from him. She mulled on these thoughts, uncertain how to move the conversation on or change the topic.

[Pantocratoria]

Marie-Théophanie had worked for hours while the older kids had been at school to get the apartment so clean and tidy that it practically sparkled, and with Maerlaevar’s help over recent days she had caught up on her backlog of washing and ironing. After returning from the school pick-up, while Maerlaevar supervised the children, Marie-Théophanie pre-prepared for dinner, so that when the time came she could just finish baking the quiche and dressing the salad. She breast fed Étienne and set him down in his cot in the bedroom, leaving Maerlaevar babysitting in the living room, and then showered, dressed in her best dress she could still claim to be casual, and made herself up lightly. By the time she emerged from the hallway, Jean had arrived home, and was paying Maerlaevar on her way out the door. They still thought it strange that the girl’s father apparently didn’t want them to pay her anything, but they had to insist on paying her something for their own self-respect if nothing else. They told her that if she wouldn’t or couldn’t keep the money herself, she could donate it to charity. Hopefully that mollified the sensibilities of everyone concerned in the transaction.

“Thank you, Mathilde.” Marie-Théophanie said. The girl’s help had meant she could feel prepared and in control of a stressful situation.

Not long after Maerlaevar was out the door, Jean addressed that stressful situation directly.

“I’ll quickly change so my shirt doesn’t smell sweaty from the train when that social worker gets here.” Jean told her, stopping along the way to kiss her on the cheek. “You look terrific. And so does the place.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.” Marie-Théophanie nodded back at him.

While Jean changed, Marie-Théophanie encouraged Anne-Marie and Marc to change out of their own school clothes, instructing Anne-Marie to pick a pretty dress for herself. The older kids trounced off down the hall. Elisabeth was already wearing a pretty yellow dress, which Marie-Théophanie noted with pleasure had not been soiled during the walk to and from school to pick up her older siblings, and so she let her follow her about the living room as she completed her own last minute checks. As she pottered about, Marie-Théophanie minutely adjusted the framed photographs on the book shelves, and slightly adjusted how the icon of the Madonna and Child hung on the wall, then slightly adjusted it back again. Why did the Blessed Virgin always look slightly crooked? She was adjusting a third time when Jean returned to the living room, having changed into some smart casual clothes of his own.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jean asked his wife.

It was not a frequently asked question. Marie-Théophanie blinked and didn’t quite know what to say. Did he think she had neglected something? As she pondered the question, the doorbell rang.

“Hell’s bells.” Jean joked. He buzzed the social worker up to the apartment.

When the door opened, a petite woman in her early thirties stood in the door frame. Her short brown pigtails and red skirt made her look younger, but her puffy red cheeks, thick thighs and put together laptop bag gave her away. Her large brown eyes were welcoming behind their little round spectacles. She looked Jean over, speaking Dutch:

“Good afternoon, sir. You must be Jean. Can I call you Jean?” She offered her hand. “I’m Wendy. Would you prefer to speak French? I can speak some French.”

“Hello Wendy. Jean is fine.” Jean answered in Dutch. “I would prefer if we could speak French, though, as my wife does not speak much Dutch.”

“Oui oui”, Wendy replied with enthusiasm, though her pronunciation suggested the language had been learned in school and not natively spoken. She looked around as she came in, trying to find something to compliment.

Jean showed Wendy in and gestured towards Marie-Théophanie, whom Wendy approached for an additional handshake.

“Wendy, this is Marie-Théophanie, my wife.” Jean introduced the social worker.

“A pleasure to meet you”, she said, having settled on the framed photographs. “You have a lovely home”, she said, smiling at some pictures of the kids. “Are these all from your family?”

“Yes, some of my nieces and nephews too.” Marie-Théophanie answered. “And on that bench, some of Jean and his parents, and of his friends from the army.”

“A different kind of family.” Jean observed.

“Would you like some tea or coffee, Wendy?” Marie-Théophanie asked.

“Oh yes, please. With a lump of sugar if you have it!”

“Erm…” Marie-Théophanie looked a little uncertain. “Coffee with sugar? Or tea with sugar?”

“Coffee, please. But tea is fine too!”

Marie-Théophanie went to the kitchen to prepare coffees. She knew Jean’s usual order and it didn’t take her very long for her to prepare three coffees. Out in the living room, Jean offered Wendy a seat, indicating the couch, in easy reach of a coffee table which was large enough to accommodate both a laptop and a beverage.

“I hope this hasn’t been too stressful for your family”, Wendy said as she made herself comfortable on the couch, setting her laptop bag next to her and leaving it open, so she could easily reach into it. “Often when a social worker visits for the first time, people are quite worried. Especially when it’s a referral. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them. I usually take a little time to explain what we do.”

“To be honest, Wendy, it has been quite stressful, and unwelcome, although I appreciate that you are just here doing your job and trying to help.” Jean told her frankly while Marie-Théophanie worked in the kitchen. “My wife found the school quick to judge and short on empathy.”

“I understand. It’s often difficult. You trust your schools’ teachers and staff with your children, after all. When they file a report like this, it can feel like that trust has been violated. Just know that, most often, it is motivated by genuine concern for the child. And in Knootoss there is a … how do you say in French… duty to report.”

As Marie-Théophanie returned with three cups of coffee on saucers on a tray with a modest plate of various biscuits, Jean nodded.

“There are also preconceptions about foreigners and their family lives, like there are in all countries.” Jean observed.

“It’s really sad that you feel like you may have - you know”, Wendy began. “Racism and discrimination against anyone for any reason is strictly forbidden. And if you feel at any point that you have been treated badly by me because of your heritage, you can report me. Though I try not to misstep!”

“I am sure we will have no problem like that with you, Wendy.” Jean smiled, as Marie-Théophanie finished serving the coffee, and then sat down next to him.

“One of the things that we’re committed to, is making sure that all children in Knootoss, no matter their background, are raised well. That their needs are met. Their rights are respected. That is why people who are worried about a child can contact us. And some, like teachers, have a so-called duty-to-report if they suspect that something might be amiss.”

She gave the pair a sympathetic look: “Most often, parents try their best, but sometimes they struggle. Being a parent can be really difficult sometimes. And that is why we’re there to see what is going on, if we need to enter one of the legal processes available to help the child or the children, or if we can simply suffice with friendly advice or some kind of support. We have networks we can refer to for support.”

“Are you a mother, Wendy?” Marie-Théophanie asked.

“We appreciate your willingness to help.” Jean quickly added.

“Not yet”, Wendy said. “My husband and I are still saving to buy a house, first. I suppose I’ve seen so much, I really want to make sure that when I bring a child into the world, I can provide everything they need for them. But I do love children. I used to babysit as a teenager. Anyway, it just grew from there”, she explained. She reached for her laptop and put it on the table, but did not yet turn it on.

“I have a questionnaire, but I usually prefer to start with the parents themselves. How do you experience parenting? I have some information from the report, but I’d like to hear about your struggles and successes.” Her gaze fell on Marie-Théophanie first.

“Please don’t believe everything you read in the report.” Marie-Théophanie began. “Mademoiselle van Rumbeke seemed to twist my words or understand everything the wrong way when I talked to her.”

“I’m not allowed to comment on the findings of concern in the report, or even confirm who made it”, Wendy said, apologetically. “But in general terms, I understand that things can sometimes get a bit … hectic?” she said, trying to put it as gently as she could. “Juggling quite a few children.” She looked about the apartment as though to size it up, too, but didn’t yet say anything.

“I had several bouts of morning sickness while walking the children to school that morning, so, it was a little hectic, yes.” Marie-Théophanie answered.

Seeing that she was already letting her frustration get the better of her, Jean patted her gently on the knee and tried to prompt her.

“Let’s try to answer Wendy’s questionnaire, hmm?” he suggested.

“So, a … fifth little one is on the way?” Wendy asked. She tried not to sound too worried. “Oh, it’s fine. So long as we get there in the end!”, she added when Jean corrected her.

“We only just found out.” Jean nodded.

“Most Knootian parents have trouble managing one or two”, Wendy suggested. “They say it takes a village. But of course, you’re here in a different country. Do you have help? A support network? A nanny, maybe?”

“I have started to make some friends, and there is a girl upstairs who helps me out a lot, yes.” Marie-Théophanie answered.

“Hmm. I see.” The social worker looked thoughtful. “How do you both manage to combine parenting with your jobs?”

“Well, it’s… normal enough, I suppose.” Jean answered. “We always eat as a family at breakfast and dinner, and we do most family activities on the weekend, or maybe Friday night. The kids are still too little to stay up too late on a week night, you know?”

“Of course”, Wendy agreed with Jean as she fired up the laptop, then, letting it run for a while as they talked. “And you, Marie? Or is it Marie-Théophanie?”

“It’s… you can just say Théophanie, or even, Tiffanie if you like.” Marie-Théophanie said.

“Tiffanie. I like that”, she agreed.

“I’m a housewife.” Tiffanie answered, apparently uncomfortable that it was assumed she’d be employed as well. “Elisabeth is not old enough for school yet, and Étienne is still breastfeeding.”

“Of course,” the Knootian woman answered. “Oh! Just a moment!” Her fingers danced over the shallow keyboard as she entered some credentials. The form was already on the screen, much of the data prefilled. She added some rapid notes, using only some key words in Dutch that she’d presumably fill out later: ‘Pregnant 5th’, ‘Full time work father/housewife mother.’ Finally, she looked up. “Are there ways you think you could use more help? From Jean, or perhaps somewhere else? I understand it can be difficult to ask when there are … expectations. And I’m sure Jean works very hard, too.”

“I suppose some things are easier when you are nearer your family and friends with children about the same age.” Marie-Théophanie ventured. “Not so much the daily things, you know, more like the unusual things, which come up from time to time. They were easier to manage back home in Pantocratoria.”

“I understand”, Wendy agreed, looking for Jean to add his piece.

“I think we’re starting to build a support network here in Knootoss.” Jean said. “But obviously, it is hard at first, being an expatriate. Lots of my expatriate colleagues tell me the first year is the hardest, you know? And then you settle in a bit better. We are still settling in.”

“You plan to stay in Knootoss then?” Wendy asked. “And I haven’t asked to look around the house, but I’m, ah, familiar with the neighbourhood. And I’ve seen apartments like these before. Are they transitional housing for your family? Usually a place like this would be occupied by two, maybe three people. And apartments like these are typically not very accomodating for children.”

“We plan to stay for a few years, I suppose, but not forever.” Jean answered. “We have a home back in Tzimeparche and our families are nearby, that’s still home for us in the end. But working here is a good opportunity for me, and will really put us ahead for when we do move home. The company gives me an allowance for housing in the salary package, and this apartment is within that allowance.”

“What about you, Tiffanie?” Wendy asked. “How have you experienced the change? The apartment. Being away from your family and home.”

“In Tzimeparche we had a house, and a lot of outdoor space.” Marie-Théophanie replied. “But there are advantages to an apartment too. It’s… easier to keep clean. Less floor to vacuum and things.”

“Hmm.” Wendy tilted the laptop’s back towards herself after quickly scrolling to another page. “How would you say your energy levels are, Tiffanie?”

“Uhh… normal, mostly?” Marie-Théophanie answered. “I mean, I am tired sometimes, you know, especially if I have a midnight feeding, but I have the energy to exercise and walk to and from the school and things.”

“And how is your sleep? Do you get enough? Do you find it difficult to sleep sometimes?”

“Sometimes I find it tricky to fall asleep after a feeding, especially if it is close to when I’d wake up anyway, or when they come at different times. Babies go through different phases about when they want to feed, and it can take more time for you to adjust than for them, you know?” Marie-Théophanie answered. She couldn’t help but add. “Or, you will know.”

“Hmm. Yes. I’ve seen a lot of that.” Wendy looked thoughtful. “When was the last time you went out to go and do something by yourself? Something fun, I mean. Be with friends, or go see a movie, or something. Have Jean or the girl from upstairs watch the kids?”

“I… went to a restaurant with some other mothers from the school, but that was with the kids. I suppose you mean without them?” Marie-Théophanie asked. Wendy nodded. “Well, I’m not sure, actually… but I wouldn’t want to see a movie by myself, that would be… a bit sad, right?”

“Oh, it’s not about the movie. It’s just … I worry you may have too much on your plate, Tiffanie. Four kids. Fifth on the way. An apartment that’s a bit too small. I could go and take measurements and consult the rules and regulations, but that’s probably a bit beside the point. You are both loving parents who want the best for your kids, right?”

“There are rules and regulations about how big an apartment has to be?” Jean asked, surprised.

“The apartment is big enough for a small family, but kids need space”, Wendy replied, addressing Jean: “I believe you mean well. You both do. But it may be a good idea to reflect on the current situation for your family. It may be too much to expect Tiffanie to take care of five kids, mostly by herself, in a small place like this. Even if your employer’s stipend pays for this place. I don’t want to go and sit in … ah, this is a Dutch saying, I suppose. Sit in your chair, as we say. But you recognise the problems, I hope?”

“Well, Wendy, if you think my employer should increase my housing stipend, I would certainly agree with you, and I’d welcome any specific legislative references or written advice you could provide.” Jean told her.

“I don’t suppose a housing stipend would take kids into account”, Wendy suggested.

“That seems like something the government should address.” Jean replied.

“Maybe”, Wendy agreed, smiling faintly. “But that’s not something I have the power to change. I could recommend certain support resources, if you like. Not money. I mean, booklets, some networks for local parents. But maybe it would be better if I give you some time to talk it over with your family, and consider your situation. I can come back in a few weeks, maybe a month, and see if things have improved, and if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Improved? Do you think our apartment will expand itself?” Jean asked. “We’re otherwise perfectly content.”

Wendy looked a little pained as Jean said that ‘we’ are perfectly content, her gentle brown eyes falling on Marie-Théophanie. For her part, Marie-Théophanie enjoyed the feeling of Jean standing up for her, and looked, if anything, bolstered by what he had said.

“Wendy, we appreciate that the school report had to be attended to. We understand that the school was concerned that the children had been a little late to class too often. But a lot of assumptions underpinned the report they made which are founded more in the preconceptions of the school employee who filed that report than in reality.” Jean said.

“That is why I don’t plan on recommending a legal route for this case”, Wendy said in agreement with Jean. “But I would like you to think, as a family, about what to do. I could make some suggestions, but you’re both smart, loving people who want the best for your children. And you know better what the situation calls for than I do. But it’s certainly worth considering both of your work-life balances, expanding your network - which you’re already doing - and what your long-term living arrangements will be. Larger homes are available on the outskirts, though I appreciate that would probably mean a longer commute for you, Jean”, she suggested.

“That’s a good suggestion, and we’ll look at those options, although I worry that they might also be too far from the school.” Jean answered. “Not that we are the biggest fans of the school, right now. But we do need a French school close by, wherever we live, and that’s why we chose this place when we first moved here. We were new to the country then, of course.”

“Of course”, Wendy agreed. She quickly finished her coffee, then, typing a few more keywords into her form before shutting the laptop entirely. “I’ll come back next month to see how those are going, alright? After that, I can probably either close the case, or refer you to someone better able to help with specific issues you couldn’t work out as a family.”

“If you think it is necessary.” Jean allowed.

“Great”, Wendy said, rising to her feet. It had not, after all, been a suggestion, but she didn’t seem oppressive as her pigtails bounced back and she smiled widely. “I look forward to seeing you both again. Will the kids be there too? My coordinator will send you a date and time.”

“That would depend on the date and time, I suppose, but probably.” Jean answered, as he stood and walked to the door to show Wendy out.

Once Wendy was gone Jean rolled his eyes at Marie-Théophanie.

“I know.” Marie-Théophanie answered. “Always trying to put words into your mouth, never interested in what you have to say. She’s like a nicer version of Kim van Rumbeke.”

“If they didn’t have to employ so many nosey know-it-alls, imagine how much the government could cut taxes.” Jean sighed with a chuckle.

Marie-Théophanie gathered the empty coffee cups onto the tray and took it back into the kitchen, and Jean followed her.

“We do know the city a bit better now than when we picked this place, maybe we can find something which is still close enough to the school which is a bit bigger. We’ll at least have to look before she comes back next month.” Jean said.

“Really?” Marie-Théophanie asked, a little excited by the idea. Then she realised Maerlaevar wouldn’t be living upstairs if they moved, and was more circumspect as she cleaned the coffee cups in the sink.

“You know, everything’s online now, once upon a time I could have picked up a bunch of real-estate brochures and left them strewn about the living room for her next visit.” Jean observed.

“Oh, back in my day,” Marie-Théophanie teased, the age gap between her and her husband being one of the topics she was comfortable making jokes at his expense about. “When people sent emails on the telephone and they called them faxes.”

“Yes, back then.” Jean smiled. “Anyway, probably it goes nowhere but appeasing Wendy, but it’s worth a look. Maybe we find something surprising.”

“What was Wendy’s surname, anyway?” asked Marie-Théophanie as she put the clean coffee cups on the drying rack, and turned to the oven to pre-heat it in preparation for the quiche.

“I… I didn’t ask, actually.” Jean admitted. “Hopefully it wasn’t van Rumbeke.”

[Excalbia]

Joint post with The Resurgent Dream.

Holy Saviour Church
Vuilendam, Hartstad, Knootoss

From the outside Holy Saviour Church looked like a typical 19th century Protestant church. It was fairly narrow, built of red brick with a cross-topped steeple that rose above the main door at the front of the church. Rows of stained glass windows were. visible on both sides of the church. A sign outside read in English and Dutch: “Holy Saviour Church - Church of Excalbia - established 1852 - The Rev. Lisbete Morgan, Pastor”.

Inside the church, Lisbete flitted about making sure everything was in order. In Excalbia, most churches were open every day, but with only a few part time staff, herself, a part time secretary and a custodian, Holy Saviour was usually open only on days with scheduled services. Or when they were expecting a tour. Usually, those interested in seeing the church were visitors from Excalbia or the occasional class studying different religions. Today, however, Lisbete would be hosting some new friends.

Lisbete tugged at her Roman collar and straightened her cross, making sure it laid flat against her blue jacket. She walked into the church’s entryway, which the congregation generously called the narthex, and paused at the mirror hanging above a small table filled with brochures and contact cards. She was not very tall by Excalbian standards but was still taller than most women in most parts of the Western Atlantic. She adjusted her brownish-blonde hair and swiped a smudge from her cheek. Satisfied, she turned and unlocked the front door, and waited for her visitors.

Nicole was dressed in a floral dress that came down to a little below her knees with a blue jacket and respectable heels. She was holding hands with Charlie and, truth be told, she was a little self-conscious. She wasn’t quite sure what was appropriate. This wasn’t a religious service, after all, but neither was it some tour group trudging through. It was a personal tour from the pastor whom she was also beginning to regard as a friend. She also found she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to knock or just walk in. Could a knock even be heard? After a moment’s pause, she did what most people in her generation would do. She took out her phone and texted Lisbete that she had arrived.

Lisbete felt her phone vibrate and took it out of her pocket. She gave a quick smile when she read the message and quickly moved to open the door.

“Welcome,” she said with a grin as she opened the double wooden doors of the church. “Please come in.” Lisbete turned to one side to allow Nicole and Charlie to enter the narthex. “Welcome, welcome,” she repeated. “I hope you found it ok!”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for having us. It should be very educational,” Nicole said warmly.

“Thank you, Revenant,” Charlie said.

“Reverend,”Nicole corrected him.

“Thank you, Reverend,” he repeated.

Crouching to Charlie’s level, she added, “You’re very welcome, Charlie. Tim is here, back in one of the Sunday School rooms playing. After we tour the church, you two can play, if you want.”

“I like Tim!” Charlie enthused.

Standing, Lisbete gestured to the small hallway they were in. “We - somewhat generously - call this the narthex; it’s just a vestibule.” She smiled and reached over to a table to pick up a brochure, and handed it to Nicole. “This has the history of our church. It was built in 1854 - the church was founded a few years earlier, but met in other locations until this building was built.” She opened another set of doors and started to lead them into the sanctuary of the church. “The church was built by some resident Excalbian merchants and the factors for a few Excalbian shipping lines. Back then, the congregation was mostly those gentlemen and their families and Excalbian sailors in port.”

“What’s a narthex?” Charlie asked, sparing Nicole the embarrassment of admitting she didn’t know either.

Lisbete smiled. “It’s just a fancy name for the entryway to a church.” She looked around. “They tend to be a little larger than this one. I’d be tempted to just call it an entrance, but the church council likes to call it the narthex.”

After stepping through the doors, they entered the nave of the church. There was a high, vaulted ceiling made of wooden beams and brick walls with large stained glass windows. The windows all seemed to depict Bible stories related to the sea - the Creation, Noah’s flood, the parting of the Red Sea, Jonah and the whale, Jesus calling the disciples from their fishing boats, Jesus calming the waves, Jesus walking on the water, and St. Paul on the stormy sea.

“I know most of these,” Nicole said, as she drifted towards the window depicting St. Paul on the stormy sea. “What’s happening here?”

“Ah,” Lisbete said looking up, “that’s a more obscure story. It’s from the Book of the Acts of the Apostles. St. Paul was on a ship on his way to Rome for trial and the ship wrecked on the island of Malta.”

“Interesting,” Nicole said. She looked at it like she felt she should comment more but she couldn’t really think of anything to say. “Wasn’t he a prosecutor or something?” she asked, feeling ignorant.

“St. Paul?” Lisbete asked. “He was a pharisee - an expert in Jewish law. He did persecute the Early Church; he was there when St. Stephen was stoned and he was traveling to Damascus to carry out further persecutions when Jesus appeared to him on the road, leading to his conversion.” She smiled. “I love his story. It always reminds me that anyone can turn their life around and become a force for good.”

Wooden pews flanked a central, red carpeted aisle. At the front of the church, there was a raised dais with a white cloth-draped altar standing at the back wall beneath a large bare cross made of wood. To the left and right of the dais stood wooden pulpits. To the right of the dais was an organ with a few pews that seemed to be for a choir. To the left was what appeared to a large stone basin - large enough for several adults to stand in it.

“That’s for baptisms?” Nicole guessed, walking over to look in the large stone basin.

“Yes, it is,” Lisbete said, “that’s one of the things that distinguishes the Church of Excalbia from other liturgical churches. Rather than infant baptism, we practice what can be called ‘believer’s baptism’ or ‘credobaptism’. Essentially, instead of baptizing infants, we dedicate them and then once they’re old enough to make a profession of faith, they’re baptized. Traditionally, we practiced baptism by immersion - that’s why the baptistry is so big, but it’s becoming increasingly common to baptize by affusion - pouring water over the head.I also understand that the Synod has just recently voted to accept infant baptism when performed in another church.” She laughed. “That’s probably more than you wanted to know. I’ve had to learn that whenever I start talking about the Synod I’m probably getting too down into the weeds, as they say.”

“No, no, this is supposed to be educational.” Nicole paused. “That is an okay reason to be here, right?” She hoped she hadn’t given the wrong impression.

“Absolutely!” Lisbete smiled and nodded. “I enjoy having folks visit. We do get the occasional group that wants to learn about the history of the church and just what the Church of Excalbia is all about. I love showing people around.” She leaned slightly towards Nicole. “I do try to be sensitive, however, about going off on tangents or getting too wrapped up in details, so just let me know if you’re interested in hearing more about something or if you’ve already heard enough.”

“No, no, I’m interested in learning and getting to know you better.” Nicole grinned. “So what is the Church of Excalbia all about?”

She continued walking towards the front of the church. “Back when this church was built, the Church of Excalbia was still fairly new - having only been established by Emperor Joshua I about 40 years earlier. It was still sorting out which parts of its inheritance from the Baptist, Reform and Anglican traditions it wanted to keep and emphasize.” She looked around and gestured with her arms. “The builders of this church were on what we call the Low Church end of the spectrum - more in touch with the Baptist heritage than the Anglican. So, there are no side chapels or statues in this church. Also, originally,” she pointed to the larger of the two pulpits to the right, “that pulpit was in the middle of the dais and the altar would have been right in front of it. That emphasized the importance of the sermon in the service. As we’ve gotten more High Church, we - in all of our churches, I mean - have moved the altar to the center and to the back wall and moved the pulpit to one side. That reflects equal emphasis on the Liturgy of the Word - the readings from Scripture and the sermon - and the Liturgy of the Eucharist - the Lord’s Supper - the sharing of the bread and wine.”

“I notice the cross is just bare,” Nicole said looking up. “There’s not an image of Jesus, but there are images in the windows.” She took a step closer. Charlie was looking around curiously. “How does the Church of Excalbia do the eucharist? I’ve heard that there’s a lot of different understandings and rituals but I never really understood any of it.”

“Well,” Lisbete began, “the bare cross dates back to the original construction. It’s another echo of the more Baptist aspects of our heritage. While there’s various explanations for why… that side of the family, if you will, preferred the bare cross, I’ve always believed that that preference was rooted in a perception of the crucifix as… too Catholic. Nowadays, most Excalbian Churches use a crucifix.”

“I always assumed it was some sort of Second Commandment thing?” Nicole asked.

“Yes,” Lisbete said, “that was a big part of it, especially for those who came out of the Baptist and Reform traditions. Some in the Baptist church, even today, are especially… concerned about using a crucifix as it depicts Christ at His death, while the bare cross alludes to the Resurrection.

“As for the Eucharist, we do it by intinction,” she said. “The congregants come forward and take a wafer, which they then dip in a chalice of wine. That’s the most common way to receive communion in the Excalbian Church. Some churches, on some occasions, will offer congregants the bread and wine separately, with people drinking from a common chalice. Now, back when this church was built there was a third option - receiving communion in the pew, taking wafers and small cups of wine distributed by deacons. But even by that time, that method was falling out of favor and isn’t practiced at all today.”

“But what does it mean in the Church of Excalbia?” Nicole asked curiously. “Is the wafer, I mean, do you think it’s, you know, God?”

“Oh, I see,” said Lisbete. “That was quite a theological debate early in our church’s history. Those who came from the Baptist heritage understood in purely symbolic terms, while those from the Reformed and Anglican heritage believed in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, but differed over whether it was solely a spiritual presence - the Reformed side - or a corporeal presence - more along the lines of Anglican or even Catholic doctrine. In the end we embraced the doctrine of ‘real presence’ - meaning that Christ is present in bread and wine in a supernatural manner that conveys His grace to us - while leaving whether that means spiritually present or corporeally present undefined.” She shrugged. “It’s sort of a middle ground that fully pleased neither side, but also left neither side alienated.” She smiled and shrugged again. “We tend to do that in our church.”

“That’s probably a good way to do things,” Nicole agreed.

“What do you mean physical presence?” Charlie asked. “Does it turn into a body or something? That seems like it’d be weird to eat.”

Lisbete turned and crouched down to Charlie’s level. “Well, Charlie, while all Christian churches celebrate the Eucharist - or the Lord’s Supper - to remember His death - and resurrection - and because He told us to - different churches understand what it means in different ways. See, at His last supper before He died, Jesus took bread and gave it to His followers to eat and said it was His body broken for them and He gave them a cup of wine and said to drink it because it was His blood shed to make a new covenant - a new… agreement … with humanity. Now, some churches believe that the bread and wine we use for the Lord's Supper supernaturally becomes the body and blood of Jesus, while still looking… and tasting! … like ordinary bread and wine. Some churches think Jesus was just talking symbolically… using comparisons to make His point and that the bread and wine stays bread and wine. Others, like us, believe that sometimes there’s two sides to something - the physical side we can see and touch and the spiritual side that we can’t - and we believe that the bread and wine spiritually becomes Jesus’ body and blood while still physically being bread and wine.” She smiled. “These are hard things to understand. People a lot smarter than me have spent a lot of time trying to understand them, but I don’t think anyone fully understands it. So, I just trust in my faith in God.”

“Christianity is confusing,” Charlie concluded.

“It can be,” Lisbete agreed.

“All religions are confusing,” Nicole said. “The Last Supper was during Passover, right?”

“Yes, it was,” Lisbete said, rising. “We believe that Jesus used the third cup - the Cup of Redemption - to initiate the new covenant.”

“I know about that!” Charlie responded.

“Well, it was a little different in the Second Temple period,” Nicole instructed him, feeling not entirely out of her element for the first time since she’d been here.

“Because of the animals?” Charlie asked.

Nicole looked uncomfortable and didn’t answer. “So why has there been such a shift away from the Baptist roots?” she asked Lisbette.

“That’s a good question,” Lisbete said, “part of it is that a majority of the Baptists in Excalbia never joined the Church of Excalbia, choosing to remain in their own churches. So, over time their influence waned. Also, it turned out that Baptist traditions and practices were not… the most compatible with a hierarchical church. They tend to prefer a lot of autonomy for their local congregations and tend to give authority over their churches to their congregations. So, we sort of naturally drifted more towards the Anglican, or High Church, tradition.”

Lisbete turned towards the organ. “Charlie is being so patient,” she said, “I’ll point out a few more things, then we can go meet Tim.” She pointed to the organ and the pews behind it. “Our choir sits over there. Another change from the original layout, where the choir sat on the dais behind the pulpit. The organ was built in 1861 and has 672 pipes. Not very big, really, but big for a building this size. It was restored in 2008 with a grant from the Excalbian government’s Overseas Heritage Fund.” She gestured back to the windows. “The windows were imported from Excalbia and were funded by the Southport Shipping Company, one of the main Excalbian companies that had offices here back in the 19th century.”

“Are your services in English or Dutch?” Nicole asked. She walked a little towards the organ. “It’s…I don’t know. 672 sounds like a lot.”

“Both, actually,” Lisbete said, “but that’s because two congregations share the church. Our congregation, the one that built the church, was founded for the expat community and offered services in English, and we still do so today. However, the Church of Excalbia also exists in Knootoss, though it’s a very, very tiny minority, and we have a small Knootian congregation that meets here and holds services in Dutch. Our service is Sunday morning at 10, and theirs is at 11:30.”

Charlie ran over to it and looked it up and down. “It is big!” he exclaimed. “Why do they have organs anyway? You never hear about them in music that isn’t religious.”

“Well, Charlie,” Lisbete said, “organs used to be quite common in classical music. In fact, there is a huge organ with over 30,000 pipes at the Imperial State Theater in Citadel Excalbia, and an even larger one at the Lowenstein Grand
Theater in Landing.” She paused, then added, “And electronic organs are sometimes used in jazz and pop, and they’re often used in baseball stadiums of all places.”

“Excalbians like baseball, right? It’s like lacrosse?” Charlie asked.

“Not exactly,” Nicole said.

“Does Tim play baseball?” he asked next, seeming eager to go play with the other child now.

“He does,” Lisbete said. “He played tee ball, like baseball for little kids, back home, but there’s no league here. I bet he’d love to play catch with you and teach you baseball.” She gestured to a door to the left of the baptistery. “Should we go see him now?”


“Yeah!” Charlie agreed. “I don’t have a baseball stick! Can I use my lacrosse stick?”

“I don’t think that would work,” Nicole said.

“Well,” Lisbete said, “to play catch you only need a glove and a ball, and Tim has an extra glove you can use.” She led them to and through the door.

“This is our educational wing. It was built in 1906, expanded in 1948 and renovated in 1979 and 2003.” From the sanctuary a short hall led to a long hallway that continued to the right, parallel to the aisle of the sanctuary, and a short hallway that continued straight, with a single door to the left and a double door at the end of the short hall. Lisbete gestured to the door to the left. “Our church offices are there. And our church hall is straight ahead. We use it for our monthly suppers and receptions for weddings, funerals and baptisms.” She started down the long hall. “Our Sunday school classes meet in these rooms. Tim is down here.”

Nicole and Charlie walked with her. “So you just throw the ball with your hand?” Charlie asked.

“I think so,” Nicole said. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Tim will show you how to do it.”

Charlie started running ahead. “Hey, Tim!”

Down the hall, a door opened and Tim looked out. “Charlie!” The boy called out. “I’m building a huge Lego fort! You can help me finish it!”

Lisbete smiled and called out, “And later Charlie wants you to show him how to play catch.”

“Awesome. I brought my gloves and ball. We can go out and play on the playground!”

“Mama said I don’t need a baseball stick!” Charlie said as he ran up.

Lisbete turned to Nicole. “Would you like a cup of coffee while the boys play?”

Nicole nodded. “That would be nice.”

“Ok,” Lisbete said with a smile. “Tim, Ms. Sugarman and I will be in my office.”

“Ok, Mama!” Tim said as he excitedly ushered Charlie into the classroom.

“Back this way.” Lisbete led Nicole back down the hall to the church office. She opened the door. Inside was a fairly large room with a few waiting-room style chairs, two desks and a large printer-copier. There were windows at the back and another door to the right. Lisbete continued to the second door and opened it. She flipped on the light switch.

“Come in and have a seat,” she said. Inside the office was a sofa and a two armchairs next to a window. Further back was a desk covered in books and papers. Behind the desk was a large bookshelf filled with books and knickknacks. To the left was a small table with a single-serve coffee maker and several mugs. Next to the coffee maker was a case with coffee pods. Above the table was a crucifix and above the sofa was a large painting of Jesus feeding the multitude. “What would you like, Nicole? I have dark roast, medium roast, decaf and gingerbread.”

“Medium roast,” Nicole said as she took a seat on the sofa, crossing her legs and leaning back as she looked around the office. “In here, you have the crucifix,” she noted, since she had talked about it during the tour. “Thank you for doing this, Lisbette. I’m sure your social calendar is full with your new congregants but it has been nice getting to know some of the other mothers.”

Lisbete brewed two cups and placed them on a tray with some little cups of cream and packages of sugar and stevia. She carried it over and set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Here you go,” she said. “And it’s a pleasure! It’s so nice to finally be making friends with some other mothers!” She sat down in one of the armchairs and poured some cream into her coffee. “I have made some friends in my congregation, of course, but it’s different when you’re someone’s pastor. It’s hard for them to put that completely out of mind.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“So, I know you said you’re originally from Narich. What brought you to Knootoss?”

“Work, mostly,” Nicole said as she put some sugar in her coffee and took a sip. “Thank you. My company, Atlantic Sustainability Consultants, has recently gotten a lot of work in Knootoss as they deal with clean up and with reforming some environmental practices. I was a little hesitant about Charlie being so far from Ben but Ben said he thought it was a good idea. He’s tied up in the company too. But I’m not sure he’s taking it as well in practice.”

“That must be interesting - and rewarding - work,” Lisbete said, sipping her coffee. “But it must have been a difficult decision to leave home and come here. So, Charlie’s father works for the same company?”

“Charlie’s father is a director,” Nicole clarified. “However, he invested a great deal of money in the company, back when he liked me.” She smiled a little wistfully. “How about Tim’s father? I don’t think you’ve mentioned him.”

“Bob is the reason we’re here,” Lisbete said, “he’s an AI programmer with ExBot - they build industrial robots. The company transferred him here after they signed a new contract with a Knootian partner. It was fortunate that Holy Saviour was looking for a new pastor at the same time.” She smiled. “And it’s a wonderful opportunity for Tim to live abroad and experience… a different way of life.” She paused. “Bob’s father was in the Imperial Navy and he spent a few years living in Ajuba, Zamimbia and Cyretopolitania as a child. When we first met, he had the most fascinating stories. And we’ve both wanted to give Tim a similar opportunity.”

“I like Charlie having that too,” Nicole agreed, “though Narich does have a little bit of everything. It’s always been a point of pride.” She took another sip. She looked around the office for a moment as if she were considering something. “The Church of Excalbia doesn’t sound all that different from the Caldan Episcopal Church. Not that I really know much about that stuff.”

“It probably isn’t all that different,” Lisbete said. “I’m a big believer in ecumenism, so I like to think that, deep down, theologically, most Christian churches are a lot more… similar than different. And our practice over the last century has become much more similar to the Anglican root we share with CEC.” She paused. “How about you? I heard you mention ‘temple’ - do you attend a house of worship - I’m guessing, and pardon me if I’m guessing wrong - a synagogue here in Knootoss?”

“We are Jewish,” Nicole confirmed, “but it has been interesting trying to find somewhere that’s a good fit. There’s this absolutely gorgeous, ancient building not that far from where we live that’s just full of so much history but the actual services and congregation are Orthodox and that’s not really what we’re used to or believe. There are a few places that are a better fit but a longer distance too.”

Lisbete nodded. “It can be hard finding the right congregation.” She paused. “And I sympathize about the trip; even our little church here is a little further from home than I’d like.” She paused again. “There’s an interfaith group, mostly expats, who get together once a month. One of our group is a Reform rabbi - Lily Koehler is her name. I can ask her for some recommendations, if you’re interested.”

“That would be wonderful!” Nicole agreed immediately. “Thank you, Lisbette.” She smiled warmly and took another sip of coffee. “Is she also Excalbian?” she asked with casual curiosity.

“No, she’s from New Virginia. In the Confederation,” Lisbete said, “but she’s been here for a long time. I’ll have her give you a call with some recommendations, if that’s ok.” She sipped more of her coffee. “Do you think we should check on the boys?”

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post with The Resurgent Dream))

PrimaFit Eissenstraat Gym
Lichtenburg, Knootoss

Nicole didn’t get to go to the gym nearly as much as she would like. Almost all of her time was divided between work and Charlie. Fortunately, today, there had been a bit of a gap in the workday. It wasn’t exactly a good thing. A few meetings had been canceled with potentially bad consequences. So she’d wanted some time to think and to try to calm down. It was her first time in a Knootian gym and she was already feeling better, focusing on the simple, physical effort as she pedaled the cycle. Her attention was mostly on the screen, which had been set to offer a personalised exercise regimen.

When she was about half an hour into it, she noticed a guy making eye contact from across the aisle, working on the rowing machine. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, she guessed, about two metres tall, wiry build, with a white sports headband holding together dark blond hair that was just beginning to turn lighter in a few places. He was looking at her with greenish eyes, lifting his chin when he saw he'd been noticed, as though to say 'what's up'.

Nicole smiled back to him. She was a little surprised to find her gaze lingering for a moment. It was only a brief thing. She looked at the screen again. She wondered if it could be set to read or watch something while she worked out.


Later on, he joined her on the treadmill next to hers, exchanging a glance before speaking up in Dutch, though his accent was decidedly non-local. "Doing good. New to this gym?"

“First time,” she replied in the same language. She couldn’t really tell the difference. Her Dutch was decent but, also, decidedly accented. “I’m Nicole.”

"Mark!" he replied, lifting his right hand from the panel to pantomime shaking hands. He'd already begun his trot. "It is a pretty good gym. Just avoid Friday afternoons. There is a company nearby that lets its employees go during work hours then. Gets really busy."

Nicole laughed at the pantomime as she continued to pedal. “Technically, I’m here during my work hours.”

"Working remote as well?" he asked. "My manager doesn't mind when or how much I work, so long as I get the job done. I love it."

“I just had a sudden hole in my afternoon,” she said, not sounding inclined to elaborate. She glanced over, her gaze moving over him a little more this time. She looked back to the screen. “It sounds like you have a good boss. What do you do, Mark?”

"Aerodynamics", he replied. Tapping at his own screen to adjust the speed. A little faster now. "Part of design for aircraft. Fixed wing drones. Boomerangs." He grinned a little, hoping that hasn't been too bad a joke.

“Boomerangs?” she asked, seeming not to get he was joking at first. Then she laughed and blushed.

Mark sighed in relief: "I work for LA. Like what seems like half this town. What about you, Nicole?" He seemed to make a point of repeating her name back to her.

“Atlantic Sustainability Consultants,” she answered, smiling over at him. “We provide environmental advice to a variety of public and private actors.” She laughed. “Sorry. I’m sounding like the brochure.”

"Hey. If you can still use multiple syllables, you can run faster", he replied with a smile, teasing. He turned up the speed on his own machine as though in a challenge. "Sounds good though. We need to take better care of that. You know. The air. The water." He made an expansive gesture.

“Yeah,” she said, turning her own machine up. She grinned competitively as her legs continued to pump. Muscles straining. Sweating. She gritted her teeth. “I…” She gasped a little, struggling for breath, and then just focused. Getting a harder workout than she’d initially planned.

Mark focused on his own breath as well, steadying himself. Seeming comfortable just running together for the moment.

"... don't overextend yourself on my account", he said. "The algorithm is still getting to know you", he added with a grin. "I go run in the park when I don't want to get measured. When the particle count allows it."

“Yeah…” she said, allowing it to slow down. “I was just…” She shook her head. “They do have some nice parks here. Are you local?”

"Nah", replied Mark, green eyes seeking out hers, briefly "Cymric boy. Won't make you pronounce my home town yet." He made it sound like perhaps he would in the future. "Stuck around after graduation. So I guess I've been here for… uh…"

He smiled sheepishly as he realised he'd been here longer than he had been in Knootoss' northernmost province, even if he still considered it 'home'. "... a while, I suppose", he conceded.

“Longer than me,” she admitted with a small laugh. “Cymric boy, huh? So I guess you grew up close to the border?” A little hesitant. She’s half expecting a lecture about assuming too much. She lowered her sky blue eyes and looked down at the screen once more. The machine was still getting to know her.

"Close as can be. Most of the border is pretty empty. Used to go there a lot. What about you? What's your story? I would guess you're not a local either. If that's not too much of a presumption."

“I’m from Narich,” she answered him as she slowed the machine a little more. “So, no, you’re right. I just moved here this year.”

"That's a bit further off", Mark answered, impressed. "How are you liking it so far?"

“I love it,” she said. “It’s a great city. Just starting to meet people, you know?” Another smile. “How about you?”

"I love meeting new people", Mark answered. He took in a breath, as though gathering courage.

"I have to go to the next machine. But would you like to catch up over a drink some time soon? Would love to know more about your Knootian adventure."

Nicole nodded and stopped. She stepped off the machine and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “I’d like that. Let me give you my number.”

"Great", he answered. He tapped at his sports watch for a moment to transfer the contact information via a direct connection. An app that was on most Knootian smart devices allowed that now.. Though he stood ready to tap out the number if that was how it was going to go. Some people from abroad were old school, after all.

She got out her phone and tapped it a moment, holding it over the watch. It bleeped obligingly.

"Thanks!" he said. "I'll message you tonight!" He then held up his hand in a wave and smiled one last time, before jogging over to an adjacent room.

[The Resurgent Dream]

Restaurant De Dok
Lichtenburg, Knootoss

Nicole smoothed down the skirt of her little black dress as she stepped out of the cab. She took a deep breath. She hadn’t really been on many dates since she and Ben had separated. She smiled lightly as she made her way towards Mark.

She found Mark checking out his phone outside an industrial-looking building of red brick with exposed metal framing painted matte black, and underlit signage proclaiming the place to be ‘De Dok’ in a font that looked like an old newspaper headline. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up:

“You made it!”

“I’ve been looking forward to it!” she affirmed, hugging him lightly. He seemed surprised, but returned the hug before he led her into the restaurant, where a small queue of well-dressed people was waiting to be let in, just beyond a cloak room of exposed brick and metal hangers.

“They don’t do reservations”, Mark said by way of apology as he offered to help Nicole with her coat.

“That’s fine,” she said, sliding out of it. The dress left her arms bare save for the elegant watch on her wrist. In the Caldan Union, as in most places, watches had become more jewelry than a necessary timepiece.

The interior of the place beyond was industrial, too, with vintage furniture to sit on. No seating area was even, and after a short wait, a blond girl in tight jeans led the pair to a cracked leather couch on a slightly elevated platform that also held a hardwood table. An indie rock band that Nicole had never heard of played live music off to the side, though only a few of the guests paid them much attention.

The server was already gone to bring in the next set of customers, and so Mark asked: “What’ll you have?”, handing her a drinks menu that included double and triple-digit prices for cocktails.

Nicole took a moment to look through the menu, smiling slightly. “The grasshopper looks good,” she ordered, selecting something roughly in the middle of the club’s price range.

“I’ll have the Blue Moon Midnight”, Mark chimed in after a moment, seemingly doing the same. “So. How’s your day been?”

“All right,” Nicole said. “Just work and then I had to drop Charlie off at the babysitter. How about you?”

“Charlie?” the Knootian seemed to ask in surprise. Then he showed an ‘oh’ face. “Oh. Met someone interesting at the gym - but not much else”, he quickly answered, though he looked at her with curiosity still.

“Charlie is my son,” she told him, trying, and maybe failing, not to look too nervous about his reaction to that. Then she smirked a little at his next comment. “Oh, really? Who is she? I hope I’m not keeping you from her.”

“Hardly”, he answered before passing on their order to a different girl - purple and pink hair, equally tight skinny jeans - who seemed to pass for staff only by the button she wore on her ironic ‘Rock is Dead’ zombie guitarist t-shirt. There was something sheepish in his expression as he turned back to her: “How, uh.” Another pause. “How old is he? Or if you’d rather not talk about him - Charlie I mean… not sure what dating etiquette is for this sort of thing.” He showed a disarming smile that seemed to show he was a little lost.

“Oh, no! You can ask!” she reassured him. “I wouldn’t want to take you by surprise or anything. Charlie is seven.” She smiled gently. “I’m not all that sure either. This is actually the first date I’ve been on since his father and I parted ways. I just don’t want to…” She trailed off a little, looking around the place. She wondered if she should have worn jeans.

"Yeah, that must be hard,'' Mark agreed. He seemed to relax a little. "Don't worry about me. I'm just happy this isn't a pool boy situation." He showed a little smile, as though he was joking. He looked around as well.

"Uh. I hope the place is okay? I have seen it blow up on all the socials. So I figured…"

“I like the place,” she said. “I was just wondering if I should have worn jeans.” She laughed and leaned back, relaxing a little. “It is hard, yeah, but it’s also kinda, you know, nice.” She reached out and slid her hand into his.

“It is”, Mark agreed, gently taking her hand as he looked around himself. “This place is aggressively casual”, he opined. “But most of the guests are, uh, closer to our age. See?” He nodded in the direction of a nearby table-and-stools set that looked like it had been ripped from a 1950s diner movie set: “Businessman. No jeans. The woman he’s with has a pantsuit. And the girl that’s with them… okay, she has jeans.”

She laughed. “Ok. I feel better,” she agreed. “I don’t really go clubbing much anymore. Obviously.”

“I never did go clubbing much - not after I graduated high school.” Mark’s expression changed suddenly, to something like excitement: “And look at that. Over there, the table between the elephant paw umbrella stand and that loom that’s been converted into a bar…”

The direction he pointed out showed a group of men seated at a circular table. The largest of them was rotund, with a gray beard and unkempt hair and a deep laugh. He wore stained overalls, which seemed out of place. “That’s Adri Molenaar over there.” He clearly expected her to know the man. “And the guy in the plaid shirt that he’s talking to - I think I’ve seen him too. One of the Dwalmdam chief engineers. And the guy in the suit must be one of his finance guys. Or who knows. Maybe one of the finance guys responsible for the Commune? Or one of those business execs they sell the refineries’ output to?”

She looked over. “That was hardly who I was expecting to see out here,” she admitted. She looked back at Mark and then to the men at the table as if hesitating. “I didn’t…I mean….If you want…” She gave a small shrug. “I doubt they came here to mingle anyway.”

Mark laughed. “I’m not that much of an ass”, he declared. “Abandon you on our first date, to go stalk some famous anarchists?” He shook his head. “Just noticed them. That’s all. They’ve been in the news a lot, you know. And I’ve got a coworker that lives in the commune. Even considered moving there myself, but you know. The hassle. And the dust still hasn’t settled. I like my health too much.”

“I didn’t think you’d abandon me,” Nicole clarified. “I just thought you might want to stalk them together!” She winked at him, not serious. Well, not entirely serious. “Yeah, it is still a really dangerous area, but they’ve been making amazing progress. It’s such a radical change from what came before.”

The pair were interrupted by the server, accepting their cocktails before Mark would answer. “Yeah, it is”, he agreed. “Can’t say I’m all that political myself, but it seems to work out nicely for them. The refinery’s a big money earner, and the KEM’s had to write the whole place off anyway for the insurance money and government bailout.” He gestured vividly with his free hand as he continued: “My coworker - she’s got a lot more to spend living on the margins of that place. But it’s a bit rough and tumble, you know? Lots of undocumented people, some wanted people, gangs. Though she says it’s not nearly as bad as they make it out to be in the papers.”

“Most places aren’t,” Nicole agreed. “Still…” She hesitated. She seemed to abandon what she was originally going to say. “I think, ultimately, it’s an inspiring thing. I think a lot of what’s happening in Knootoss environmentally recently is inspiring. I certainly hope the Commune flourishes. Would you maybe like to visit sometime?”

Mark grimaced: “It’s your job I suppose - the environmental stuff, I mean. Yeah, I’d like to visit when it’s safe! Have you been?” he asked. “I mean, I was in Dwalmdam a few times before Purendal. It’s almost right across the river. But I’ve never been since then.” He then leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if confessing to something terrible: “Of course, I work for LA. I help design component parts for planes which, I’m told, aren’t the most environmentally friendly mode of transportation around. All the new green initiatives aren’t too popular in much of Lichtenburg - but I’m sure that’s not news to you.”

“It is my job but I cared about it before it was my job.” She shrugged a little. “I didn’t go into it because it’s where all the money is, you know?” She laughed.

“Oh yeah, I figured”, he responded. “And flying, you know. It really fascinates me. Wanted to be a pilot when I was a kid. Read comics about superheroes who can fly. So being able to help design these things - use my technical skills, it’s a dream job. One of the teams where I work has helped work to develop a new version of one of those Excalbian pulse engine jets. These would be Knootian. I mean, to fly like that. It’s amazing. But it’s not exactly clean. Best I can be said to have done is, uh, nowadays we do take fuel consumption into account, you know. Wing shape, aerodynamics. Weight. If it can shave off even a few percentage points in fuel consumption, that’s great for the environment and the end users’ bottom line.”

“Well, that is good and probably will do a lot in the long run,” Nicole said, “Especially since planes aren’t going anywhere. Nothing else is really that effective over the distances people travel these days. But I do want to hear more about little Mark wanting to be a superhero?” She grinned impishly. “Which one?”

“Not sure how much you know about Knootian superheroes?” Mark asked, laughing. “There’s Seagull-man. You know. A bit like Captain Caldas. It’s mostly comics - they did a movie a few years ago, but it didn’t do well outside of Knootoss so I don’t think they’ll do another one.”

“Seagull-man?” she asked curiously. “You’ll have to educate me? Is he like Captain Caldas but with a seagull instead of a horse?”

"He can turn into a seagull - or a kind of half man half seagull being", Mark answered. "Can spy on criminals from the sky. His origin story is a bit convoluted - there's different timelines. The movie timeline and the comic one where he gets his powers from the Light of the West. In the older comics he fights against the Red Bandit who is a supervillain version of Uncle Noel, and he later teams up with Bridgette Iesus' clone to destroy Knootoss. Uh…" He blushed. "I was a kid, you know", he apologised.

She just laughed. “I think it’s adorable,” she said. “And I wouldn’t mind being able to turn into a seagull, as long as I could turn back.”

"Real seagulls are disgusting," Mark said, laughing. "Did you see that viral video of those super fat seagull trying to wolf down that double patty burger? I swear that bird was too fat to fly. You'd be a more graceful bird if you could turn into one."

“Well, I don’t want to be too small of a bird,” she insisted. “I’d get eaten by a hawk or something.”

"So what bird would you be?" Mark pressed, reaching for her hand again.

“I could be a swan?” she suggested.

"Hmm. Large. Associated with purity. Territorial?", Mark teased.

“Well, not on the first date,” she said playfully.

"You're not pure on the first date?" Mark countered with a grin. "Just kidding. Just kidding." Unless? He squeezed her hand. "I would love to be a hummingbird. If only because of the way they fly. A human sized hummingbird would be amazing. And probably break the laws of physics."

“I’m not territorial,” she said, playfully indignant. She squeezed back nonetheless. “Not if you lowered gravity too,” she suggested. “You know, that totally possible thing…”

"They never let us do that in the simulations. It's very limiting", Mark pretended to complain."But hey. You have an embarrassing childhood secret from me now. Any dirt you'd care to share to make things even?"

She shook her head. “I’m happy having the advantage.”

"I see how it is," Mark answered with a smile. "So. How about another cocktail?"

“I’d love that,” she agreed.

[Knootoss]

((Joint Post with Excalbia, Pantocratoria, The Resurgent Dream))

The spacious halls of the KinderKennisLab echoed with the laughter and screams of children, as they ran about the place, carrying clipboards as they ran in small groups to go and see the various interactive displays, machines and tables.

When their bus pulled up in the parking lot under the museum at 11:30 am, they’d just caught the bus of another school class packing up and leaving. They were the second of three classes that would rotate through the museum on that day, and so the teacher and the Knootian parents who had come along to oversee the trip were all fussed about making sure that they weren’t ‘behind on schedule’.

After the kids had each been counted and handed their clipboards, though, the situation was pretty ‘hands off’. The old factory halls, connected by postmodern art deco semi-translucent plastic tubes, would eventually deposit the kids near the entrance again. Though the randomised ‘clues’ they were to hunt down on the clipboards meant they would spread throughout the museum and zig-zag through it in search of marks from the volunteers and museum employees at different stations. A few of the special needs children were constantly accompanied by their parents, but others were encouraged to roam freely.

Among them were eight year old Elodie Vachon, a tall girl with bright red hair and freckles, as well as Charlie Sugarman, Alex Harris,Timothy Morgan, Laura Bergs, and Anne-Marie Miziones.

The parents meanwhile, were encouraged to roam as well, though the museums' event coordinator had also tactfully pointed out the museum gift shop and restaurant, in case they needed a moment of quiet. The kids, she’d told them in halting French (most of the classes that visited were, after all, Dutch-speaking) would be best left to “Ah… faites votre propre voyage de découverte.”

At the start of the term, families at the school had volunteered the assistance of parents at various school trips and activities through the term. Marie-Théophanie Miziones had arranged childcare ahead of time for her toddler, Lisette, that day, but still had baby Étienne with her as she came to help supervise her daughter’s science trip. Her latest pregnancy was beginning to show as well, although not quite enough yet to necessitate her moving to true maternity wear. Her pale blue blouse was just a little tighter than usual. For the time being, Étienne was asleep in the stroller, and Marie-Théophanie took the opportunity to re-sort her day bag, and look over the other mothers to see which ones were familiar and friendly-looking.

Linda Bergs stood next to her friend and fellow Excabian, Rev. Lisbete Morgan. Though she was a little older than Lisbete, she was tall, blonde and typically Excalbian. “I didn’t expect so many adults,” she whispered to Lisbete.

Lisbete smiled. “It’s ok. They’re all friendly.”

Linda frowned slightly. “OK,” she said, sounding unconvinced.She started to speak but closed her mouth quickly. It was pointless to talk yet again about her feelings of being out of place in Knootoss and with the other parents at the French-speaking school. She watched her daughter, Laura, scamper away with Lisbete’s son, Tim, and some of the other children. A slight smile finally lightened her expression. She was glad her children at least were comfortable in this bizarre environment.

Marie-Théophanie recognized Lisbete immediately, but hadn’t met Linda before. As she re-sealed a packet of wet wipes, she convinced herself that she could still remember how to talk to adults, and then closed her bag and took a few steps towards the Excalbians.

“Hi,” Marie-Théophanie said, smiling at Lisbete, then at Linda. “I’m Tiffanie.”

“Hi, Tiffanie,” Lisbete said smiling. “This is my friend, Linda Bergs. Linda, this is Tiffanie - she’s from Pantocratoria.”

“Hi, Tiffanie,” Linda said with a slight smile and nod, “it’s nice to meet you. Have you been in Knootoss long?”

Just as Marie-Théophanie began to answer, they were joined by one of the Knootian parents, Mila Vachon, whose ginger hair had been cut short in a tomboyish cut. They were wearing a rather androgynous loose-fitting outfit of flowing fabrics, with wide pants and a rather masculine jacket. They approached the group as well, having not yet introduced themselves to the parents, despite leading the children in song on the bus.

“I’m Mila”, they said in French with a rustic accent that seemed to place her closer to the border with the Southern Low Countries, despite her rather urbane mode of dress: “Would you like to get a cup of coffee or something?”

“Mila, hello,” Lisbete said in halting French, “I’m Lisbete and this is Linda and Tiffanie. Coffee sounds good.”

“Yes, coffee would be fine, if you think we’re allowed…” Marie-Théophanie answered, wondering whether the teachers expected them to chase the children through the science activities and would disapprove of them stopping for coffee first.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting some of the other parents from this class’, Mila said with a smile. “I was really involved when my older one, Maxime, was attending primary school. But with my art and design jobs taking off, and between volunteering, I’ve not had as much time to do school activities with Elodie as I’d have liked.”.

Marie-Théophanie forced herself to smile through the feelings of inadequacy when she considered her idleness compared to this newcomer. She nodded as if she understood and agreed.

“How interesting,” Lisbete said. “What kind of art do you do?”

“I’m a part-time graphic designer, but my art is my real passion”, she answered. “I have a photo-sharing page around the theme of nature in urban spaces, and the resilience of reclamation of areas that we traditionally think of as neglected”, she said. “My art is usually line drawing and water colours, around more spiritual and expressive themes.”

“I would love to see it sometime,” Lisbete said.

“You can follow me under ‘Urban Enchantment Lichtenburg’”, she suggested with a smile even as she began to double back to the museum restaurant. “Though I’ll have an exhibit of my art again soon. I’d be happy to share the invite in the parental group chat.”

“That sounds great. Would you mind if I shared it with my congregation? Several folks are looking for more opportunities to appreciate the local culture.”

“Congregation?” Mila sounded worried and a little apprehensive suddenly.

Marie-Théophanie winced almost imperceptibly at the mention of Lisbete’s ministry as well.

Linda leaned towards Mila. “Lisbete is a priest in the Church of Excalbia. She’s the pastor of our local expat church. We meet at the Holy Saviour Excalbian Church in Haag.”

“Oh. Well.” They still seemed a little apprehensive, as she elaborated: “I personally follow spiritual beliefs related to my heritage, which includes magic, so I am not sure if it would be appropriate for your congregation. I— put a lot of myself into my art, you know.”

“Oh,” Lisbete said, “we’re a fairly open-minded and ecumenical group.” She laughed. “We are in Knootoss after all!”

Not for the first time, Marie-Théophanie wondered if there was room for God in Knootoss.

–

Charlie Sugarman was staring at his clipboard. Annie Miziones pointed at the electricity display on her clipboard.

“Hey Charlie, want to see electricity?” Annie asked the Caldan boy.

“No,” Charlie said, not particularly fun.

Nicole was not yet with the other parents. She was watching Charlie. She sighed and walked over. “Hello, Annie,” she said and then knelt down to speak to her son. “What’s wrong, Charlie?”

“I don’t wanna do this stuff,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” she told him.

“It’s like school stuff,” he protested.

“It is school stuff,” she said. “This is part of school, remember? You can put your hand up to this thing, see, and the electricity will come to your hand.”

“What thing?” he asked.

“Well, you have to go to it,” she explained. “But, see, it’s right here on your sheet. You have to go find it.”

“Will it shock me?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Well, that’s boring,” he said poutily. Then he looked back at Annie. “Sorry. My mum was bugging me. Anyway, I think we should go look at the electricity. You can put your hand on this thing and it’ll shock us!”

“I wonder if it feels funny.” Annie shrugged. “In the picture it looks like a crystal ball. Let’s go.” And off they went!

Nicole sighed and walked back to where the other adults were already gathered. Marie-Théophanie saw her and waved, indicating for Nicole to join her on the other side than the woman-priest and the graphic designer witchcraft adherent.

“Nicole, good to see you again.” the Pantocratorian woman said. “Linda and… Mila was it? This is Nicole. I know you already know Lisbete.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Nicole said, offering a hand to each of the two women in turn.

“Uh, nice to meet you, too,” Linda said, extending her hand to Nicole.

“We were just on our way to get coffee,” Lisbete said, smiling. “Please, join us.”

“I’d love to,” Nicole agreed readily.

“Mila, I prefer they/them”, the Knootian said as they introduced themselves.

They were almost at the restaurant now, which was another high-ceilinged hallway that would have used to house factory equipment. The somewhat cavernous space had been decorated with sleek industrial furniture, though concessions had been made to the child-centric nature of the place by including hand grips and rounded corners on the black metal chairs. Each table included a display for an app where visitors could punch in their own orders for expensive coffee and cakes, and then be notified when they were ready for retrieval at the bar.

“So many places have these…” Marie-Théophanie complained. Out loud, uncharacteristically. “They don’t want to pay for waitresses anymore.”

“I know, right?” Linda said, also being uncharacteristically outspoken.

“Not when they can have us do the job ourselves,” Nicole agreed.

“And the coffee is still just as expensive, or more, as when they paid for another worker.” Marie-Théophanie continued.

“I know, right?”

“I don’t mind going”, Mila said by way of offering a compromise. They were already typing a ‘Koffie Verkeerd’ or café au lait with a dash of extra milk and a slice of organic apple with locally sourced Chamaven apples into the menu, paying with the SIN-chip in their wrist before gesturing for the next person to place their order.

“I’ll help you, Mila” Lisbete said, as she finished her own order.

“It’s not because I can’t use the stupid thing or I can’t walk to the counter myself,” Marie-Théophanie protested Mila’s offer. “It creates unemployment.”

“I know, right?” Linda repeated. “It’s the same everywhere now.”

“If you go, I’ll clear the table when we’re done,” Nicole volunteered, not seeing any reason for them all to go but also not wanting to seem lazy.

“Unemployment isn’t really an issue, though, in Lichtenburg, is it?” Mila asked Marie-Théophanie. “It’s been hard to find people to do all the jobs. Which is why our school has so many expatriates, right?” They looked back at Marie-Théophanie mildly.

“Well, let me get the coffee for you, madame, I am an expatriate.” Marie-Théophanie said, suddenly aware of her heart beating a little faster, as she tapped in her order.

Mila didn’t seem to mind the ‘madame’ much, shaking their head. “I think about half of the parents at the school are”, they answered. “My husband still says he feels like he’s a foreigner himself, at times, even though we moved to Lichtenburg around 2014. Bellefontaine-de-Lys is very different, even though it’s just a drive south of here.” When they noticed Marie-Théophanie’s expression, they added: “Don’t worry. Lisbete and I will get the coffee. You’ve the little one to keep an eye on too, right?”

“He’s sleeping. I don’t mind.” Marie-Théophanie answered, quietening down. She knew she shouldn’t start arguments and wasn’t sure why she had gotten so agitated. “But, thank you, it’s kind of you.”

“Thank you,” Linda said to Lisbete and Mila. She turned to Tiffanie and tried to give her a sympathetic smile.

“It isn’t just Lichtenburg, they’re replacing people with machines everywhere.” Marie-Théophanie said, in a more subdued tone than she had protested before, not wanting to sound argumentative.

“I know,” Linda said. “Even when I go home to Excalbia, you hardly ever see a clerk at the supermarket or even a cashier at the movies or even the burger places… it’s all self-check-out and automated kiosks.” She shrugged. “Fortunately, we can still go to our hometown and Mr. Lapis still runs his corner market and greets folks by name.”


“That’s so nice”, Mila chimed in. “Bellefontaine is still like that as well. Though there’s only one store remaining, and I worry that it might close as well”, they told the group, before looking back at Marie-Théophanie: “You’re right, too. About people being replaced by machines. It is one of the themes in my art. The relationship between the mechanical, the artificial, and that what makes us human. I suppose I prefer dialogue over taking a binary position myself. The lyrics for a ritual song I’ve been teaching myself go into it too..” They then half-sang, half spoke, their voice melodious: “Their spirits run through the nerves of wire, Through the concrete bones and the furnace-fire –” and then smiled, adding: “This city is separate from us, but also part of us, and an extension of us, don’t you think?” She looked around. “Or at least, it can be, if we reach out to touch the grass.”

“Quite lovely,” Lisbete said, which made Mila smile. ““The earth is the Lord's, and all things in it”,” she added. “The creation reveals the Creator.”

Marie-Théophanie reflected that Mila seemed, if anything, rather too in touch with grass, but at least, if Mila was singing, it didn’t seem that she (Marie-Théophanie didn’t think of Mila as they) had been offended by Marie-Théophanie’s argumentative moment.

“It sounds as if Bellefontaine is very small. You don’t find it hard, going from a very small place to a big city?” Marie-Théophanie asked.

“That’s beautiful. You’re absolutely right”, Mila answered Lisbete, pleasantly surprised to find common ground. They nodded in agreement: “Beauty can often be found in unexpected places. It’s about opening your eyes, and your heart, I feel..” They then answered Marie-Théophanie: “It’s very different”, they agreed. Their pale cheeks flushed slightly as they leaned forward, as though to confess: “I was attending college here in Lichtenburg when my now-husband got me pregnant with Maxime. It was an accident, but a happy one. But we couldn’t possibly afford housing here, so we moved back to his parents’ village. It was pretty serene, but I could never quite settle there, you know. It’s a very close-knit community, so it is difficult to become truly accepted if they think of you as an outsider. So moving to Lichtenburg was really a family decision. Pascal could get a job here, and I have places to show my art, people who are like me, you know..” they sighed wistfully.

Lisbete nodded. “My first parish was in a small rural community and they were… less than enthusiastic about having a woman priest. Even one who was just the pulpit-supply minister until they could find a permanent pastor.” She sighed. “It, too, was a small, tight-knit community.”

“I lost a good friend, a local woman, when I came out as non-binary”, they said. “But I’m surprised to hear that Excalbians wouldn’t be happy with a woman pastor. I mean… “ They trailed.

“Accepting women in the priesthood is still fairly recent,” Lisbete said, “and though it was fairly non-controversial in the urban areas, the rural areas and small towns are still fairly conservative.”

“It’s… pretty different, I suppose, from the Catholic Church.” Marie-Théophanie said.

“In that regard,” Lisbete said, “yes.”

“Most of the priestesses in my faith community are women”, Mila began. But then a bell chimed, and the app showed that it was time to go and collect their order. They rose, inviting Lisbete to join them.

“Saved by the bell.” Marie-Théophanie muttered under her breath after Mila and Lisbete left the table.