A Dangerous Game (H 1.6)

"For her, the cake is a lie," a Whisper answers without hesitation. "She knows she'll never get the fine treatments you will. She's unworthy."

The elevator is golden inside as well, with mirrors that make you look even more beautiful while pointing out every bruise and blemish on Nuport's naked arms. Truist hits the number four and the doors close. Music plays on hidden speakers as you slowly move from the first floor up.

I don't see how the Whispers can call Nuport unworthy when she's obeyed them over and over again. Apparently they made her shoot Kiwi, rescue me from Karo, and probably drown Condor too. But maybe they aren't talking about their meter of worthiness this time. Maybe they're talking about Wells', and that is hard to argue with.

Inside the elevator, I can't help but study my reflection before worrying about anything else. It's mesmerizing, being surrounded by so much shine, and the marks left from Lucky throwing me to the floor in the Belly and Karo hitting me are so insignificant compared to Nuport's tapestry of pain that they're almost inconsequential. It reassures me that I made the right call in bringing her along.

I can't help but reach up to fix a little lipstick at the corner of my mouth, making it just-so before I tear my gaze from the mirror and look at Truist. "Does Wells get many guests here?"

The elevator stops and pulls her from her reverie. Truist leads you down another cavernous hallway to a gigantic meeting room, where he leaves you, assuring you Wells will be here soon.

This is the room:


What do you do?

I catch that moment of vulnerability in Nuport's visage, but even the indirect view in the mirror is hard to look at for long. I can't take that on my shoulders. Her problems aren't mine. Or, at least, everything before her getting beat down by Karo isn't mine. That last one weighs on me. For a moment, though, it seemed there was something deeper than that showing in her eye, as if the wounds and the missing finger are only as much the surface of her pain as they appear to be.

The room Truist brings us to is far bigger than I expected. The height of the ceilings alone makes me more insect than woman. In the quiet, I can almost hear the echoes of dealings past made here - the words of people far smarter and far more important than me.

I look at Nuport. "You're on my side here, right? I'm trusting you not to do anything that would ruin this. You trust me, too, right?"

I find no mirth in her calling me Keybert, but I don't reprimand her either. I know when a battle is not worth fighting.

I frown as she moves to the corner and wonder if I should sit at the huge table, but that seems awfully lonely. Instead, I go over to the window to pull back the curtain and peer out. Maybe it's the Ivy in me, but I always find myself looking for windows that open and sizing up the potential climb outside.

The view from the windows here look over what was once the mighty Mississippi River, now the deepest waters in the Downtown Archipelago. Three concrete spires stand above the water near you. Like proud triplets, they survey the Vault. One of the big guns is mounted on the middle triplet, with a rope ladder and a small motorboat bobbing below. Only an Ivy would feel comfortable that high up - all alone. You peer for a moment and recognize them. An Ivy who tried to get Tuscan killed. Who are they?

Manning one of those towers might be almost peaceful for an Ivy, apart from the fact that you would be sharing the space with a weapon and may be called on to rain death down on those below at any moment. Of course, if it really is Vox I see up there, then I'm sure he is loving the whole experience. Vox tried to set up Tuscan more than once to get gone. People said it was because he was jealous of Tuscan's finds out there in the tallest towers, others said it was because Tuscan stole Vox's finds to bring to the Gardeners as his own. I know who I believe, but I've never asked Tuscan about it directly. Now, though, I'm worried Vox might take one final shot at Tuscan. I've gotten turned around in the building, and I search the water below Vox's nest to see if the Sipp's boat is within his sightline.

The doors are opened and you see an older woman in a servant's attire. She doesn't lift her head to meet your eyes. She pushes in a wheeled to-level cart covered in a pristine white sheet. On top of the cart is a lovely silver cloche. The doors remain open and she steadily pushes the cart deeper into the room until she reaches the end of the table. She "parks" the cart and reaches forward to the handle on top of the cloche to reveal this wonderful-looking creation:


"Your cake, Miss Helix," the woman says clearly, your name has an extra lilt to it. Nuport gasps and sits up, staring at the cart.

What do you do?

I turn away from the window to watch the woman making her journey into the room, my eyes tracking her every move. It isn't until she actually reveals the cake and calls it mine that I actually believe this is happening. Even from near the window, the scent of sugar and chocolate reaches me, all of it swirling in butter and fat that hasn't been used and re-used a hundred times to fry a hundred batches of fries and walleye. Without even tasting it, I already know it is worlds away from the packaged cakes I've had before. My mouth waters as another wave of aroma washes over me bringing the richness of dark berries and the impossible softness of a kind of sugar that doesn't even know what granularity is.

I take a step toward the table without even realizing it, wanting nothing more than to swipe my finger through the frosting and lick it off like I did with the yellow cream-filled cake left at my door, but I stop myself and look back at the woman.

"Did you...make this?" I'm a little embarrassed at the awe in my tone, but I don't try to correct it, knowing that would only draw more attention to my inferiority in this place.

"I did," she answers without looking up. "It's a Chocolate Layer Cake With Blackberry Italian Buttercream. Mr. Wells told me you had a sweet tooth." She reaches for the knife lying by the side and offers to cut it. "May I cut a slice for you?"

Even her description of the cake is decadent. I find myself walking closer, the beauty of the cake coming into ever-fuller glory.

"It’s beautiful," I tell her. "Yes. That would be wonderful. But are we dining alone?" I drop the "we" in casually, hoping she might offer some of "my" cake to Nuport as well.

With careful and precise movements, the woman cuts through each layer of cake and deftly lifts a slice onto a small plate.


She scoots the plate and a fork closer to you as she answers your question, "Mr. Wells will be along presently. But the cake is yours, ma'am." She dutifully slices the cake into several more slices before she takes the knife and starts to leave.

The cake is not a lie.

The cake is calling to you.

What do you do?