Most of the outcasts are shorter than seven feet tall. Those who are not carry things in excess of a single stuffed snowshoe hare. Excepting one figure.

That figure slides from the ship like a droplet, slowing and speeding, merging with fellow travelers and departing to no obvious pattern. One could imagine that it would be difficult to follow the figure, given this, but again– the height! The mode of dress, poncho layered on poncho! The tattered, dirtied white handkerchief, fashioned into a mask, anonymizing even as it distinguishes! No, Londoners, here is someone made for following.

(Their purposeful stride and continual movement ought to be enough to avoid arrest for now, but they lack refuge as much as they lack, say, luggage.)

If one strides purposefully for long enough without in fact knowing where they are going, one may end up lost. Being lost, in Fallen London, can lead to some very unusual places.

This alleyway, for instance, despite its inconvenient location, is absolutely plastered with posters for various shows at Mahogany Hall. Hephaesta! Monsieur Pleat! THE VIRTUOSA PERFORMANCE OF EUTERPE VON EDELWEISS, THE DULCET MAIDEN!

Well, that's about as intelligible as most English text usually is. Let's focus on the images.

The figure draws upon memories from a distant land, of a painting of a blonde family seen once, examined once. Memories of faces nearby, grieving, angry. The face in the poster does not grieve or scowl (her face shows only the expression of public-facing enticement, which is no emotion at all). Also, her hair is different (where once it was just like her mother's) and her face has grown more lively (once wan). But this is her, isn't it? It must be. Little else would make sense, here.

The figure giggles, and pets the snowshoe hare. Its glass eyes shiver. Yes, even here, things make sense. A poster of EUTERPE finds its way off of the wall and into a poncho's pocket.

A man clears his throat behind them.

"'scuse me," he says. "I don't mean to interrupt, but as you've just come off the boat I imagine you've got some amount of surface coin on you, and it occurred to me that instead of you having it I should have it, on account of I've got this knife."

The giggles return. They're joyful, uncomplicated. Very loud.

"Oh, Londoner, if you knew me better you would not be imagining such a thing." Is that accent Icelandic? Would you know it if you heard it? "I could hop in place, and you could listen for a jingle. You would not hear one." The figure strokes the hare again. "Do you really have a knife? I don't."

The man looks perplexed.

"Course I've got a knife." He waves it around. "I- you don't have anything? Kind of bloody luck I've got, you wouldn't... Bah."

He puts the knife away and walks off, muttering to himself.

"Take heart, stranger. At least you have a knife." Well, that's one Londoner met. Now, for the rest.

Mahogany Hall. This sounds like a place that would be easy to find even in vast Fallen London. The figure waits a polite length to let the would-be thief escape, and lurches out of the alleyway. Eyes are kept out for: aspen trees, additional assailants, and anyone who might need a new friend.

There are no trees of any kind. Additional assailants do not materialize. Many people need friends, but none of them initiate conversation with the tall stranger. Mahogany Hall is indeed not difficult to find.

There are, however, guards out front.

Quite.

The lack of trees is disappointing. If people live down here, so too should trees. This is an outrage. The guards are more commensurate with expectations. The figure observes, and then melts away. There is stealth involved; a willowy shadow is still a shadow, after all. But it's surprising how unsuspicious people can be if you dress like you expected their attention. They will notice you, of course. But suspect you? Why, you have a stuffed animal and absolutely no guile. Harmless. After around a half hour of skulking, one emerges with some idea of the operations of the Hall and its employees.

One is also, dimly, hungry, and ought to begin looking for food, shelter, and other material needs.

There's an aging woman with vibrantly red hair and pearls around her neck looking at them with some concern.

"I hope I'm not being rude, but are you new, dear? You look... out-of-place."

Aren't we all aging women?

"You're just being accurate! I'll let you know when you begin to be rude."

There's a drawing-up of height, and the taxiderm hare goes under a poncho.

"I am..." Which name? "Oakley. Oakley Banishbur. I'm pleased to acquaint myself with you."

The woman looks shocked for a moment. "Oh, you are new! Your Christian name's an awfully intimate thing to be giving out to anyone you meet. They call me the Softhearted Widow - I'm sure you'll get something to call yourself eventually, or I could try to come up with something."

Oh, how lovely! Oakley enjoys a good custom. (And the name they gave, like all of them, isn't Christian at all, so no harm done!)

"Let me see if I have the format down? Could I be called the Pliable Stranger, for example?"

"Well, that's the kind of name you'd end up changing, isn't it? Unless you want to be a stranger to everyone, and a stranger forever."

"Oh, that was simply an example. my Soft-Heart. A very apt example, but completely imaginary. I think I ought to let others name me, as I've always done."

They hold aloft the stuffed snowshoe hare, freed again. "This, however, is Voda. I had to work very hard for her name, so I'd like to keep it established." Dust has gathered on eyes that otherwise look liquid, cold, and dead. The stranger wipes at them with a damp fingertip, with a practiced air.

The Widow nods. "Well, it's lovely to meet her too, I'm sure. So what brought you to London, dear?"

The wind, the water, and the hope that they like me better than they like my competition.

"Oh, I'm a permanent tourist. And all things tend to travel downriver over time. And I hear the art in London is something worth seeing." Oakley looks around, like the art might be over there, or there, behind that urchin.

"Oh, the art's lovely - you'd want to go to the Veilgarden for that, though, not Mahogany Hall. All Mahogany Hall's got is singing and dancing and lots of girls wearing not much at all. And Veilgarden's got all that too, but they've also got art."

"I'm in your debt for the advice, Widow. Thank you ever-so-sweetly."

Voda the hare's fur ripples in a breeze that is, somehow, stagnant.

"And where would I want to go, if I took the notion into my head to lay my head down?" The stranger may need to lie diagonally in any bed they find, given their stature.

"Well, there's flophouses all 'round the city, but I'm sure you wouldn't want those, they'll rob you blind... don't have any family in the city, do you?"

"Oh, that's not problem at all, I've already been quite blindly robbed." The stranger turns out several of their more obvious pockets. "And no family, no. No."

The Widow looks shocked. "None at all? And you've been robbed? Oh, dearie, you should've said something - why don't I give you my address, and when you've a mind to sleep I'll let you stay in my spare bedroom? My latest lodger took a sudden visit to the tomb-colonies, so the bed's free - it might be, um, a bit short for you, but you'll probably be fine if you curl up a bit."

Pure delight, like that a child or a very elderly person.

"The last few robbers were quite sorely disappointed in me as a selection. If only they had known the fortune that would be coming to me! Thanks dearly, my dear."

Oakley takes the address warmly, though their thankful hand on the Softhearted Widow's shoulder is quite cold. They saunter towards Veilgarden for appearances' sakes, looking for a cool, clean drink of water or perhaps a game of chance to observe. They have the rest of the day to kill.

Veilgarden contains few sources of pure water, but there is a bar called the Singing Mandrake which has extremely weak wine, for only two pence a bottle.

Alas, penceless. Is it, perhaps, entirely possible to vanish an open bottle or two into a poncho pocket? If it seems obvious its attendant has given up on it? Because such a possible thing deserves to be tried, if indeed it is.

If they're patient, they can indeed snaffle a couple of half-full bottles of Greyfields 1879. Not the finest vintage, even for mushroom wine, but beggars really can't be choosers.

Ah, multitasking. It is so blessedly efficient to be begging, borrowing, and stealing, all at once. And how lucky that they aren't full!

To someone watching closely from a vantage within Oakley's pockets, something odd would seem to be happening to either bottle. As a glad-handing Oakley strikes up conversations with bargoers, the wine bottles, cold though they are, begin to bubble minutely, as if the mushroom wines were boiling. As Oakley gives insightful romantic advice to a barmaid, one bottle frosts and freezes slushily, nearly overfilled, while the other, much reduced and darkened, is cold, but subtle about it.

After about a half-hour, one pocket holds a bottle full of pure, clean water (or ice, rather) and the other holds a bitter (but quite compellingly strong) mushroom brandy. As the stranger said to the barmaid, sometimes a couple is more compelling when kept apart.

Are there flyers handy? Or perhaps newsprint.

There are many handy flyers, advertising various poetry readings, brothels, and whatever a "honey-den" is.

Oakley finds a nice minimalist flyer, and pockets it next to the one for Euterpe's Virtuosa Performance. Intrigue loves company, and a tourist ought to have a broader itinerary if examined. A handy cork corks the brandy bottle.

Oakley will attend a poetry reading, and attempt to woo a quill from its current partner. Ink, as well.

An Effervescent Poet is willing to part with a quill and inkpot, in exchange for a kiss on the cheek.

Ah, but which cheek? Who can decide this sort of thing. Two kisses, and no fewer!

With the mendacious aura of shrewd negotiation around their shoulders, Oakley ducks into an alley and whips out the minimalist poster, placing its printed side against the bricks of the wall. With the inkpot balanced on one knee, they write on the back of the flyer:

And they finish with a passable, if scratchy, likeness of Voda the stuffed white hare. This brand label, in its glory, is attached with wax from a nearby candle to the bottle of mushroom brandy.

Now we just need a buyer. Oakley sips from the still mostly-frozen, other bottle, while hunting.

A woman wearing a hat festooned with bright green mushrooms is sitting at a table outside a café and beholding them with faint amusement.

Hello there. What a lovely hat. May I sit. And so on.

Oakley sits with the bottle of OAKLEY JUICE pinned under their hands, upon which they rest their chin. An attempt at meaningful eye contact is made, but frustrated by the hat and its interaction with Oakley's height, even sitting. In sum, they look as if they have something to sell the mushrooms rather than the woman.

She flashes them a grin. "You may certainly sit." When they have, she continues, "I haven't seen, ah, Oakley Juice in the wild before, and I must confess some curiosity."

Oakley looks around. Hardly wild around here. Untamed, surely, but no trees, no lichen, no bears. What passes for wind is just air, harassed by the tall buildings.

But one digresses. "One could argue that no one has ever tasted it before." Oakley has certainly never done this with mushroom wine. Or written a label on it in English.

Her eyes sharpen. "Really? Would you in fact argue it?"

Caught-out amusement from behind rumpled white cloth.

"Well, I'm a foreigner three hours off of my boat of arrival. The first thing I do is... none of your business, I think, but the second thing I do is... well, second thing I do is wallow in the pity of a widow. But the third thing is I take ingredients unique to London, and methods unique to myself only, and create the juice."

Oakley smiles, but then winces.

"Only point of contention is that bottle was tasted before I sourced it. Question becomes, if I drink a river have I tasted the ocean? Fourth thing I do in London is offer you the ocean."

She grins, showing teeth. "I understand entirely. Hmm..."

She stares at the bottle, dark passion in her eyes. She slowly lifts her purse, snaps it open, and withdraws a brilliant faceted diamond the size of her thumbnail.

"This would sell for twelve Echoes and fifty pence. I was going to use it in my latest sculpture, a Bazaarine trifle, but if you promise me that you won't sell your concoction to anyone else, I'll give it to you."

Idle dreams of brandy riches vanish. She's just too compelling to refuse. Also, money in the hand is the only kind Oakley really cares about.

Even trade, thank you. The diamond goes in a pocket even Voda doesn't know about.

The brandy is. Well, it's.

First of all, it's high-proof. If it wasn't the as cold as snow melt, it might just evaporate the second the cork comes out, it's so high-proof. It's also definitely made from bad mushroom wine.

But the taste of it is so intense! So vivid! Not pleasant, not by any stretch, but also not lazy, not afraid. And, on reflection, as the sluicing, burning rain of it numbs the strange muscles of the stomach rather than of the throat... it's clean. In a city of fogs and grimes and smokes, it's a rare taste of something unadulterated.

And the label is, well, somewhat charming.

Oakley asks about art.

The lady sips the brandy. In the first second after her sip, she looks smug. Then she looks troubled. Then she hiccups silently, and stares appraisingly at the person across the table.

Finally, she chuckles and takes another sip. "Art, you say? This is art. Of the Celestial school, I'd say, or possibly the Nocturnal. It's not often you see the two mix together, but you've inspired me to try with my next piece."

Mixing, unmixing, these are essentially the same thing.

Oakley looks for all the Neath like they have no clue what the woman is talking about. This doesn't appear to concern them.

"I'm glad you enjoy it. I hope all of my endeavors in this city are as fulfilling."

Oakley communicates through a series of subtle gestures and expressions that they have no clue where one goes to sell a diamond.

She takes their meaning. "If you wanted to sell something - such as a diamond, such as the one I just slipped you - you should go to the Bazaar. It's right in the center of the city, they'll take just about anything off your hands. Except your soul. For that you'll have to go to Ladybones Road."

"I don't usually expect things to be quite so conveniently located, in cities. I am interpreting this as a pleasant surprise."

The stranger asks profusive questions about the artist's art for about thirty minutes, and then departs. What should they call her, by the by?

She's called the Bohemian Sculptress. "There are other Bohemians," she says smugly, "and other women who sculpt. But I am the Bohemian Sculptress."

Oakley needs a London title just so they can appropriate that line.

Onwards! The stranger moves for all the world like they're traversing a treacherous jungle or rugged swamp rather than cobblestones.

No one harasses them on their way to the Bazaar, somewhat miraculously.

These are the benefits of preparedness, after all! And, perhaps, of looking like each swing of your elbows might dislocate someone's jaw. Ounce of prevention, and so forth.

Oakley undertakes the complex and loathsome procedure of trading a beautiful gemstone for fiat currency. Convenience be damned, although this does mean they can buy food now.

"Oh, glorious!" says the pawnbroker, examining the diamond. "I'd swear there's a bit of sunlight caught in there. Here you are, my fine gentleperson," he says, handing over twelve slips of inked mushroom paper and a handful of copper coins. "Is there anything else I can do?"

The gentleperson avails themself of some education regarding what, precisely, the practical value of an Echo might amount to. How much tea, and of what quality, could one obtain with this amount? they ask, and hold up a random number of bills. And so they continue, until they have arrived at proficiency. For his trouble, Oakley is willing to give the man first crack at being handed back the pieces of mushroom paper he just handed over himself!

OAKLEY'S SHOPPING LIST

A little knife, of the sort used for whittling.
A pair of shoes rated for London streets.
Matches!
Any loose keys.

(After, assuming Oakley's command of local value is holding up, they will spend the rest on things less likely to be found at a pawner's: A meal, a set of big-and-tall Londoner clothing, and, perhaps, Oakley intones to the world, some fucking wood.)

They can get a whittling knife, matches, a block of elm wood, and a couple of loose keys for seven pence. For shoes, the pawnbroker directs them to Mercury; for the clothes, Gottery the Outfitter; and for a meal, just about anywhere in London has its own specialty, but the pawnbroker is particularly fond of the devilled kidney at Dante's Grill in Moloch Street.

The road to hell is paved with organ meats, apparently. (And Oakley is largely a herbivore anyway.)

The supplies are appreciated. The wood, though, is a boon; Oakley was chafing slightly under the weight of all this fungality. They tend to go for paler finishes than elm offers, but that's nothing few weeks left in a patch of sunlight won't... fix... hm.

...

Oakley looks perturbedly into the middle distance for a count of ten, blocking egress for a number of Bazaargoers.

...

There's no sun down here, is there.

...

They rub their temples under their covering of white cloth.

Alright, gentleperson, shake this off and continue shopping. Oakley requires rather long shoes, and quite specific tailoring so far as clothing goes. This is likely to take all whatever-time-of-day-it-is, so food is going to happen first. The architects and moneymakers of London won't shut up about mushrooms; how about its restaurateurs?

They are rather fond of mushrooms. If Oakley would prefer potatoes, however, or some other root vegetable, they can be procured.

Oakley intends to find a meal containing, if not every root vegetable, than at least a quorum of them. The more dirt-flavored the better.

Are there, perhaps, folks? Folks of any particular intriguity?

There are folks everywhere, in fact.

Some of them are discussing cricket, a singularly bizarre sport that still manages to be largely uninteresting. Some are discussing the forthcoming election; the Northbound Parliamentarian is currently leading in the Unexpurgated Gazette's polls. One of them is discussing a fabled card game called the Marvellous, the winner of which receives their heart's desire.

Oakley gnaws on a carrot that managed to avoid the death by boiling so many of its fellows clearly suffered. Survivor's guilt has left it recalcitrant, and also pretty fibrous. Oakley, it seems from how the gentleperson gnaws, is discontent to find just how much English there is left to learn.

Voda the hare sits on Oakley's table, like an aggressive centrepiece.

"The Marvellous" strikes Oakley as a very bad title for anything, much less a card game. A magic card game. Compelling! They insert themself abruptly into the conversation by leaning across their own table, Voda at about their navel, and propping their chin on their hand, elbow planted on the speaker's table. More attention has rarely been paid. Any startled silence is met by batted eyelashes and a, "Please do go on!" Half-finished vegetable stew is held deftly in their free hand.

The tale-teller pauses for a long moment, then at Oakley's prompting, slowly continues, getting back into his stride. "They say it can only be played under a particular conjunction of stars. That they play with a stake of souls, or myrrh, or star-stuff. That the cards they play with are etched in pure gold. But what I know is this... that if you want to play, you should go to the Devious Bookseller's in Spite, and ask him about the game of the stars."

His tablemates groan. "A bloody advertisement," one of them says.

Oakley is not particularly familiar with the concept of advertisement. They have heard of it, but in the way that they've heard of the southern hemisphere, or of tornadoes. If this has in fact been one, it was at least a useful example of the breed.

It takes Oakley a few moments to ascertain that Spite is a place-name and not just a suggested state of being, but afterwards they bolt down their remaining victuals and head thataway, taking directions from the tale-teller and leaving him, presumably, relieved. Voda swings behind them out the door by one ear.

Cards of pure gold are something the gentleperson could take or leave, and myrrh only slightly less so, but stars and souls promise the kind of magic that seems, so far, to be scant in London.

The Devious Bookseller's is a small and somewhat squalid shop, located between a kosher butcher's and a low-quality honey-den.

The owner looks up from a periodical and leers slightly confusedly at Oakley. "'ello," he says. "You lookin' for something, si- ah, mad- er, yes?"

The smallness is amplified by Oakley's presence in the doorway. The squalor is largely unaffected one way or the other.

"Yes!" Oakley says, voice loud despite the acoustical absorptive power of books when amassed. "I-am-here-to-ask––about-the-game-of-stars," they recite, like they're reading from a script. The gentleperson's gender goes unaddressed, but they do grin beatifically.

"Ahhh," the Devious Bookseller says with a grin. "Yes, indeed - I'll sell you the book that'll start you on your path."

He holds up a slightly battered book titled On the Maladies of Goats.

Oakley squints.

It is highly unlikely that a book with such a title contains knowledge that this gentleperson lacks. On the other hand, money is essentially meaningless and purchasing things is fun. Still, it's good for one's reputation to haggle. Exactly how much worthless London coin is one meant to spend on texts regarding animal husbandry?

Thirty pence, apparently, in whatever currency Oakley prefers. How low he'll go depends on how aggressively Oakley is willing to haggle.

A peevish expression crosses the gentleperson's face, wrinkling their tattered mask. Money may be false in its value, but it's not quite that false.

A temptation arises to simply steal the book. Swap its cover with a quick application of library paste, maybe. It might be fun.

Instead the gentleperson will apply their career skills. (Or rather, other career skills.) A touch of vexing flirtation and rather more "I am sorry, English is not my native tongue, what does this word here mean?" ought to determine if the book is worth anything, at least.

This particular book is worthless, but the proprietor won't accept less than ten pence. He has costs to cover.

Well none of this is making much sense. Yet. How intriguing.

Oakley will give the man thirteen pence, and take the book. Also, a handshake: cool, soft, bloodless, friendly. Oakley beams and gives an impressive illusion of eye contact while they actually glance about the bookshop. Any hidden doors, or hidden dastards? Is there anything here untoward, other than the bookshop's master? (Oakley is rather Devious, themself, but that word has connotations the gentleperson deftly avoids that others often don't.)

No hidden doors or dastards. Before Oakley can take the book, the Devious Bookseller writes an address on the inside cover. "That's where the game was held last time. And, here..."

He hands over a slip of paper with another address on it. "A certain lady wanted to meet whoever bought a copy of that book. Don't know her name, but she had a red headscarf and a pet monkey."

Oakley adds these to their vast collection of addresses that have been slipped surreptitiously to them by various– andskotinn, those were all lost in That Robbery Which Occurred Prior to the Most Recent Robbery! Fine. Oakley begins a new collection of misbegotten addresses. How mortifying to have only two.

"I thank you. Please do let me know if you ever need help tracking someone down, so that I can return your favor."

With that, Oakley departs. On the streets again, they take a moment to reshuffle the book and the paper and realize that, in fact, they have a third address, given to them by the Softhearted Widow. Not so scandalizing, as addresses go, but Oakley is heartened regardless. Three is a much better number of them to have. They hum to themself gleefully.

The money they have left to spend is, well, probably something to keep to hand if they're going to be gambling soon. (Even if the gentleperson is assured that the stakes will be stranger than that, it would be silly to go empty-pursed.) Luckily, shoes in London are hideously expensive and, conversely, there is a real buyer's market in moth-eaten opera gowns. So Oakley spends none of their money on footwear (leaving them to trod cobbles in worn-thin fur booties entirely unsuited) and only a handful of coins on one such old gown.

It can't hold a candle to the fabric riot of Oakley's current bundle of glad ponchos, but it's the color of wine and will probably help them blend in at, say, an opera house of some kind. Plans!

Oakley would rather visit an intriguing monkey woman than show up at a gaming den uninvited. They apply skills of detection to this preference posthaste.

The address of the woman with the monkey is a charming townhouse, the door of which has been bashed off its hinges. A notice has been posted on the doorframe: INHABITANT ARRESTED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC DECENCY.

The house been ransacked - oddly, though the flatware is untouched, her bookshelves stand completely empty.

Also, that armoire over there is trembling slightly.

Oh, joy of joys, a police force. Oakley thinks dark thoughts on this topic whilst touching the flatware.

When they notice the trembling armoire, they slip a fork up one voluminous sleeve and wrench the thing open with their other hand.

There is a monkey in the armoire. It stares at Oakley appraisingly.

(Oakley is technically worth a fortune, but good luck selling them.)

Glacially, Oakley discards the fork. Friends, right?

Monkey approves (+1)

It bows somewhat curtly, scampers onto Oakley's shoulder, and indicates the door. On, noble steed, it seems to say.

Something growls at the monkey from under Oakley's many ponchos as soon as the scampering begins. It is not an audible growl, but Oakley (and all else who hear it anyway) stiffen and move more gingerly in the wake of the non-sound. Hands are rendered somewhat clammy.

Oakley proceeds under the guidance of their jockey, happy to emulate the humble horse. The gentleperson does take a moment to wrestle the front door into a position slightly more like that it once presumably must have occupied, and to graffiti the police notice:

INHABITANT ARRESTED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC DECENCY. VERY RUDE PEOPLE

–before departing, a slight ink stain on their left boot where the ink pot was balanced during the crime.

The monkey doesn't seem to notice the growling. It is not particularly amused at Oakley's graffiti; it taps its foot impatiently on their shoulder until they're done. When they are, it leads them back towards Veilgarden. Specifically, it leads them towards St. Fiacre's Cathedral.

The monkey can wait while Oakley writes three words and a line.

Oakley doesn't cathede very often, but is willing to try. At least the doors are tall, they appreciate as they enter.

The cathedral is not currently holding a service. There are a handful of Londoners among the pews anyway, and a clergyman keeping an eye on them. He double-takes at Oakley, but waves amiably.

Do people just... sit around in churches? Oakley wouldn't know. But they approve of all kinds of loitering on principle, and they wave back to the cleric.

What does the monkey do?

The monkey leads them towards the back of the church, but the cleric stops them before they can get very far. "Do you have some business with the Bishop?"

"Yes!"

Well, one assumes, anyway. They proceed onwards.

The cleric stops them again. "Please state your business and your title, and if you have an appointment."

Oakley stops just a hair from the man's palm, roughspun poncho yarn reaching out to touch. They stare queerly at him, looming, looking for all the world like they have no clue why he's in the way. Heat does not radiate from the gentleperson's neartohand flesh. Their eyes on the clergyman's pate aren't especially warm, either.

They smile wider. Is that warm?

"The Bishop asked me here, and I'm concerned that if you haven't been told who I am, that you aren't supposed to know. That will teach me to use the front doors." Colorless eyes wrinkle behind white fabric. "You can tell him brought the monkey, if doing that will help you make sense of things. I'm willing to wait."

Oakley really assumed the monkey would be more helpful than this. Monkeys are usually quite helpful, in their previous experience. Nothing is the same in London.

His eyes widen, and he shivers. "Oh! Of- of course - I'll let him know you're here. With your... monkey."

He vanishes into the back office, and after a few minutes comes back out. "Please, go in," he says with a bow.

Oakley continues smiling. They can't believe that worked.

Does the monkey actually want to go where the bishop is? How complicatedly Oakley has to move in the next ten seconds or so hinges on this.

Yes, it would appear that it does.

The bishop opens his door and smiles thinly at Oakley. "Come in, my child," he says. "We apparently have urgent business."

Oh good, a patriarch. How nauseating.

The gentleperson ducks through the doorway.

The Bishop of St. Fiacre's is a man with dark skin, a bald head, and piercing eyes. He looks at Oakley with some interest. "So, you've come to me... why? The Marvellous isn't for another four years, you know. I'd play sooner, but you'd have to convince the others, and that's quite a task when half of them don't want to play in the first place. Hello, Gregory," he says to the monkey, as an afterthought. The monkey pretends not to have heard him.

Oakley was really hoping they could ignore the bishop and Gregory could talk, but perhaps that was naive.

"Oh, good, you know about the game of cards. I'm working from very limited information at the moment." Oakley sits, somewhere, so to be at eye level with the bishop. Long pale spidery fingers crisscross over one crossed knee. "I was meaning to meet a lady, but she is arrested. I made friends with this monkey, instead, who brought me to here directly."

"Also, I seem to convince your cleric that I am some kind of dangerous employee of yours. This was very easy."

"I believe he assumed you were one of my cousins, actually," the Bishop says absently. "They come to me seeking my aid every so often. How limited is your information? Do you in fact know anything except that it is a card game?"

"It's a very special card game, with steep costs and a reward so special that the rumors it generates are of gold and dreams. I begin to see the shape of the thing from these misshaped echoes. And so I'm very sure that my information will only become less limited as I proceed."

"Also, it has a very silly name."

"The name has been translated half a dozen times," the Bishop agrees, "and each time it has grown more ridiculous. In its original form it was called-" he scrawls a symbol on a sheet of foolscap. When the symbol is finished, the paper goes up in flames, leaving a pile of ash. "Which translates, as near as I can tell, to 'something delightful.' But with infinite layers of meaning, as is typical to that tongue."

He takes a sip from a cup of tea sitting on his desk. "The stake is steep, indeed. And it must be played by the six who played the previous game, plus one to replace the winner. Traditionally it is played only under a certain concordance of stars, but that requirement can be waived with consent from the players. The other requirements cannot. And, of course, the prize... is anything. The winner receives their heart's desire. The thing they want most. No limitations." He sips again. "Few limitations, I should say. They cannot manufacture love."

The gentleperson appears disgusted by the symbol, and relieved when it vanishes into ashes. Infinity ought to take place over time, or some equally expansive dimension. It shouldn't take place over a penstroke. Blech. Gesture, gesture, gesture. A motion of something thrown over the shoulder. Further gestures.

The gentleperson collects themself.

"The game that grants a heart's desire cannot grant a heart desire. Cute! As to the requirements, the stars are usually fickler than that, or far less fickle, usually not that middling level of fickle, in my experience. Why do they bow to mortal whims? And how does one even see the stars from down here?  And why do I ask these questions aloud?"

Oakley is not asking the Bishop, clearly. This they do ask him:

"I suppose one of the game's last players might have been a woman with a red headwrap?"

"Not at all," the Bishop says. "That monkey, however, was one of them. Along with the Topsy King, the deviless Virginia, the Manager of the Royal Bethlehem Hotel, and Mr. Pages. And myself, of course."

Nod. Nod. Oakley has no clue who any of these people are*, but will get nowhere by admitting this. "Of course!" And of course the monkey plays cards. Why not. This is just what London is like.

...

*On reflection, Oakley does recognize a name or two. Virginia (what a funny name!) is... the Queen? No, the mayor? And, well, the Manager of the RBH presumably manages the RBH. And the priest is the priest, but it's there that the clues run dry.