"What's the Orphanage," she sighs. 

"An establishment... not entirely unlike our own," the Manager says, not gritting his teeth but looking as though he would very much like to. "They care for persons with certain specific obsessions. The accommodations are less generous than ours, of course, and I can't say I like the décor, but their security is paramount. And they are unlikely to give her up. Once someone has been consigned to the Orphanage, they stay in the Orphanage."

"We'll see. Where is it?"

He gives her an address in Spite. "I wish I could do more to help you," he says, smiling sadly, "but with the Masters involved... I must think of my guests."

"I understand." 

She heads for Spite, and the Orphanage. What does this dreadful building look like?

It's a squat red-brick number. No guards out front.

A throat clears behind her. "Good evening," says a sepulchral voice. "I thought that you and I should, perhaps, have a little chat before you make any mistakes."

She turns around and smiles. "Good idea. Shall we go somewhere private?"

The man behind her is wearing a scarlet mask, frowning in the Greek tragedian style, made of some kind of dyed leather.

"Yes, that would likely be best," he says, his voice shifting to a higher pitch. "There's an eatery just around the corner where we can speak without being observed." He turns and walks off, either trusting her to follow or trusting his senses to tell him if she doesn't.

Still more public than she would prefer, but she can burn that bridge if she comes to it. She follows. 

He brings her to a crowded but dimly-lit restaurant and takes a seat at a corner table, gesturing for her to sit opposite.

"You are close to making a number of unpleasant discoveries. My employers would prefer that you didn't. If we were on the surface, I would simply kill you. But as I'm sure you're aware, death is no guarantee of anything around here, and I dislike butchery. I have a more civilized proposal." He pushes a small paper packet across the table. "These are Lethean tea leaves. Very expensive. One brew of these, and you will forget all you have ever learned about a certain subject, and enough else to make it never come up again. You could forget the Orphanage. It is not a place you would enjoy. I certainly didn't."

Edward leans back in his chair. Casual movement does not suit him. He looks like a scorpion settling into a slipper. "You don't have to use them," he says. "If you choose not to, I shall arrange instead for you to be buried alive. Take a few moments to consider what that means, down here."

She picks up the packet and toys with it, attempting to collect her thoughts. 

She wants desperately to denounce him, to rail against the obvious evil in which he is complicit, to spit in his face and close a diamond pincer around his throat, to announce just how much more difficult to deal with she is than he thinks. 

But that would be stupid, so she does not. 

"I will," she murmurs, making the very expensive slip of paper and plant matter disappear inside her clothes, "consider your generous offer."

"That is all I can ask," he says, his voice coming through in a clear, pleasant tenor.

A waitress comes by to ask their orders, not seeming to mind Poor Edward's mask. "A plate of garlic moss-balls," he requests. "Would you care for anything, Wastelander? I'll pay."

"Chanterelles au jus," she orders.  

The waitress leaves.

Poor Edward doesn't seem to mind the silence between them. His blue eyes, behind the mask, focus on the flame of their table's candle.

She studies him intently, as though a sufficiently thorough inspection of his visible traits would yield weaknesses she could use against him. 

His visible traits: a cotton longcoat, a red leather tragedian's mask, black leather gloves. He's showing about as much skin as a Tomb-Colonist. His eyes, as mentioned, are blue, and the hair cascading around his shoulders is dishwater-blonde. She can see the gleam of his perfectly white teeth behind the mouth-hole of his mask when he speaks, but nothing else.

The food arrives. They eat in silence. 

Lucy gets up and leaves with the barest murmur of pleasantries. 

Hmm. What to do now. 

Well, regardless of whether Hephaesta can help, she probably deserves an update. She heads for Mahogany Hall. 

Hephaesta's in her dressing-room, apparently debating what to wear to visit her friend.

"It'd have to be in black, because I'm supposed to be mourning," she frets, "but I look awful in black, it washes me out..."

"Bad news. The Singer's sister's been transferred someplace called the Orphanage. Some goon of the Masters tried to threaten me into leaving the whole thing alone. Do you know where I can find some Revolutionaries who might be up for blowing the place up a little bit?"

"Shit!" Hephaesta explains. "Pardon my French, but- shit. I don't have any Revolutionary connections m'self, but I know they like to hang around where there's not a lot of people - the Flit, the Forgotten Quarter, that kind of place."

"Hmm. Alright. Do you know where I could discreetly acquire some very concealing garments?"

Hephaesta eyes her. "Hmm. You're about the size of a chorus girl... we talking concealing like 'hooded greatcoat' or concealing like 'tomb-colonist bandages'?"

"Either'll do."

"The Chipper Chorus Girl owes me a favor, let me pop over to her dressing-room and see if she's got anything like that."

Hephaesta leaves the room for a few minutes and comes back with a hooded coat in approximately the Wastelander's size, along with a black scarf. "Would this do? Got her to throw in a scarf so's you can cover half your face too."

"Perfect, thanks." 

She dons the concealing clothing, slips out of the Hall, and makes her way as inconspicuously as possible back to Spite.

Now. To watch the Orphanage and see what she can find out.