She looks again at the building. "I suppose it is, when you look at it that way. It's... been a while since I've been anywhere that wasn't, when I was awake, I guess you get used to it."

"All the places where the earth is thin are, you know, mountains. Cliffs. That sort of thing. Not that I'd know personally but you hear stories. --Ocean. The earth is thin all over the place in the ocean."

"...giant fish monsters from another world," she says, very softly. "Um. Do you know the name Carcosa? It's fine if you don't, just, someone mentioned and I have a hunch."

"Never heard of it, ma'am."

"Right." This doesn't actually change much, the Dreamlands is big and has a lot of cities in it, but weak evidence is still evidence. "Good to know. Thank you anyway."

"Can I have some milk?"

Smile. "Sure, I can get you milk. Want to walk with me to get it?"

"Of course." The cat presents itself for scritches.

Scritches can be had. And then they can walk to a grocer together, and get milk for the cat and dinner for Inaaya, and she sits crosslegged on the ground outside so they can eat together too.

Terrence, in turn, peels off to talk to Dr. Aarons.

"Hello?" Dr. Aarons says.

"Ah! Good evening, Dr. Aarons. I just wanted to let you know that the session was rather informative, though of course we'd like to ask around in our circles further before making any conclusive judgments. Also, Mr. Roby asked for a pencil."

"He can't have one. This is an institution for the criminally insane. I know it seems harsh-- I'm not fond of it either-- but you could gouge someone's eye out."

"It sounds like he just wants to write. Maybe a grease crayon or something would serve?"

"Perhaps." Thoughtfully: "You know, he got a pencil before. Nurse Edwards gave it to him. He was reprimanded, of course."

Edwards! Hmm. "Ah, I see. Did he use it, ah, injuriously? If it's the principle of the thing, I certainly understand, of course."

"It's the principle of the thing. Roby is not a violent man."

"Of course, of course, I got that impression from him. Perhaps a hunk of artist's charcoal, or something - it'd be awkward, but rather difficult to use harmfully - well, just a suggestion."

"It is a good one. I hope we can free him, but he can certainly have charcoal until then."

"Agreed! Anyhow, thank you again for the opportunity to help. I shall leave you to your evening."

That night--

Oscar's brought along a draft to read, of a book Spring Tide Press's considering. He's very excited about the author-- one Jack Haynes-- an Irishman who's still basically unknown, working-class, and frankly unpublishable by most standards. They've exchanged a few letters-- he's perceptive and funny-- but it's not what you'd consider light reading (in terms of style or subject matter), and remembering his promise to Jack makes him not want to look at it (even before the Roby business started, he was frankly too busy to take this on). And there's always a small grim chance that someone who presents as a charming personality in letters somehow loses that quality in prose fiction. But sure enough, there are glimmers of Jack from the first line, and if he seemed clever in his letters, the effect's intensified here. He's not going to say it's brilliant, but he's read widely enough to know a good first draft. And of course, none of the main publishers will take a chance on it. He is very lucky.

Jing Yi is walking along a busy street in a city. It’s night. He's in a hurry, but there are many other pedestrians about who slow his progress. Also, despite his haste, every twenty yards or so he feels compelled to stop and check that he has his key with him. He pulls it out of an inside pocket of his jacket — it is a large corroded old-fashioned key on a very long loop of string — then thrusts it back in. Once he hangs it over his arm like a bag, a satchel, but he decides it’s safer in the pocket and puts it back in there. Then, as he takes it out one more time, instead of the key he's looking at a small human-like figure, a fetish, lying there in his hand. It’s grotesque, and now there’s something else — a sweet, fetid smell on the air, like rotting fruit.

He looks up, disturbed, and the city is gone, to be replaced by a flat landscape punctuated by mounds and hillocks and a few stunted trees. He stands with others. There’s a pressure building as though a storm is in the air. He senses water nearby and the wind blows the smell to him. It’s still dark but he can just make out and count nine shapes, pagan standing stones, placed around him. The quality of the air changes then the ground beneath him, his heart feels too big for his chest. Something is coming. There are cut-off screams and one then another the people near him wink out like stars. He is alone, looking for the thing. He senses it at the last moment as it reaches out for him, takes him and lifts him up, lying there tiny under its inspection. He can’t help but look up into its eyes...

Jing Yi wakes up in bed. He is sitting bolt upright and his heart is racing. The nightmare can be recalled in every detail, and the faint smell of rancid fruit permeates the room.

He stares and trembles violently for fifteen minutes, unable to leave the bed. The smell is so strong and repugnant that he feels physically ill.

Jing Yi spends most of those fifteen minutes staring at the ceiling, and trying very hard to focus on the ceiling and not that dream. ...he gets very acquainted with the ceiling, but it does not really help.

Torn between getting up and trying to do something distracting, and just going back to sleep, and the awful smell and the sharpness of the nightmare, he spends the rest of the night staring at that damned ceiling.

The next morning, the investigators are in the dining room of the Red Lion, having a nice breakfast and preparing to interrogate Terrence.

Terrence is reading the paper, blissfully unaware that he is about to be interrogated.

"I think we should try to find and chat with that nurse Edwards, while we're here," he mentions, as an aside. "Apparently he's been somewhat sympathetic towards Roby in the past. He might know something."

"Is there some English legend about a Red Lion?" asks Oscar. He's putting a lot of marmalade on a muffin. "You guys seem to love to give places that name." (Or maybe the pub is supposed to evoke the street? But there is nothing particularly bohemian about it.)