"Great talking to you." Oscar is also retreating.

Meanwhile--

Last time Inaaya asked to talk to Valentine Donovan for weird reasons, it went fine, in fact it went better than fine, and nothing bad happened. So it's an easier pitch the second time around.

And Aarons says "yes."

"You came back."

She's in a straightjacket.

"....yeah. I did." Feelings are for later. They are not for right now.

Switching to Polari. "I... have some more weird questions. If there's anything you want to talk about first, though, they're not terribly urgent."

"Go ahead. Nothing interesting happens to me."

"...okay."

Last time she felt like this she was telling a lion about the savannah.

You can't actually make the world the way you want it to be by wishing it already was.

"What can you tell me about Shub-niggurath?"

"Not much, only what Roby told me."

"He used to... worship her."

"Did he tell you anything more detailed than that?"

"She is a goddess of life in the broadest sense-- agriculture and fertility and sex and children and growth."

"Growth like a field in springtime... or like cancer."

"He thinks the devil was Shub-Niggurath because the King in Yellow wouldn't have done that."

Tomatoes, sweet and bloated.

"...got it. Okay. Do you have a sense of... things he thinks the King in Yellow would do?"

"Bring us to Carcosa. Break boundaries, break limits, break down definitions, break down what separates one from the other."

"He is an idea, as much as a god."

Murder. Hijack people's personalities.

"I ask because Roby thinks the King in Yellow does order horrible, bloody deaths. I've seen some of them. And I guess I'm not sure where the line is."

"I'm not a scholar."

"Lots of people are accused of horrible, bloody deaths we didn't commit."

.......yeah okay you know what Inaaya deserved that one.

"Fair. I'm sorry. I know you're not a scholar, just-- you're the only person who both knows anything and will give me a straight answer about it."

She only has one more question in mind and it isn't.... relevant, really, not in the way that it would need to be to feel like it's worth it for how much it's likely to be painful for Valentine to talk about. But it's been bugging Inaaya.

"...you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to, but what happened with Portia?"

"A lover's quarrel. She got angry. I got angry. I was drunk. I shot her."

"It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't the way the papers said. I wasn't some licentious pervert luring her into a decadent life."

"I was a sad, broken drunk who killed the woman I love."

"I know it wasn't. I - have a girl, back home, it's not like the papers say at all."

It's reassuringly mundane. It's also blunt and awful in a way that strange gods and magic rituals just aren't.

But then, she knew when she asked that the answer would be painful no matter what.

"Thank you."

"It... means a lot."

It would, wouldn't it. She-- isn't, she isn't thinking about having to grieve Joan alone, surrounded by people who called them both disgusting perverts who deserved to be put down, because then she'd start crying and there's a time and a place for that but it isn't here and it isn't now.

"If you know where her grave is, I could. Maybe leave violets."

"Thank you. I don't, but-- I think there are records. In the newspaper."

"I'll look."

Glance at the nurse. The nurse is almost definitely not going to let her actually approach Valentine.

"Goodbye, I think."

"Goodbye."

That night, Sal dreams.

You sit at the bow of the boat. It’s a bright little vessel of polished wood with a white sail, and it moves gently across the lake in front of the breeze. You look down into the water past where your trailing hand disturbs the surface; it’s spirit-thick and gray.

Is that movement? You pull up your hand and a mottled shape balloons past you not far below, then another — huge marine creatures. Up ahead the water slaps. The white and yellow back of one of the things clears the surface for a moment then dives. You see it still. It’s coming right at you — bigger and bigger — and it rears out of the water fully now, looming above the boat like a cliff.

You won’t wait for this. You stand and you step off into the water. Falling. Falling. Eyes closed.

Sal's night is restless and filled with dreams, snippets of earlier visions mixing together. But it is the last one that lodges itself in her mind.

She's drowning -- she's dying -- there is something massive coming for her and she can't move can't move can't move --

She spends an eternity in that half-waking half-sleeping nightmare, trapped in her bed, which is a boat which is the ocean which is not going to protect her from the behemoth.

Meanwhile, the night after returning from the asylum, Terrence makes himself a cup of coffee and sits down at his typewriter, in the privacy of his room.

Dear Dr. Aarons,

Thank you again for the opportunity to consult on Mr. Roby’s case. While I stand by what we said to you, there were, of course, a number of unanswered questions involved. For your own interest and perhaps Mr. Roby’s further care, the object of his interest is The King in Yellow. I have also read this book and find it an excellent work with numerous insights into the human condition – particularly the second act, although the whole thing is required for context. Roby has clearly found other lessons from it. Either way, if you were to read it, I expect you would find something informative to his condition.

In the interest of full disclosure, the book is currently banned within Britain. It is hard to locate but copies still make their way about. I believe that book bannings are an antiquated tool of governance and control over the minds of free people, and that ideas are meant to be shared. I just mention this fact in passing.

His own writing is probably also of interest and is called Der Wanderer, although as my colleague mentioned, much of it is in German, which I tragically do not speak (yet). If you do, that may also be worth seeking out. Let me know if I can help in any other way.

Best,
Terrence.

The second; the return address on this one is to his PO box and not signed with his name:

Dear Mr. Estus,

There is a wealthy art dealer in London by the name of Ichiro Sano making threats on the life of those trying to spread the good word of the king. Stay safe.

Your friend,
T.

He drops both of these in the mail and reads the King in Yellow into the night.