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T he city, ancient and shining, runs on magic and paperwork, serviced by an army of mages and clerks.

Built high against and into the cliff side, the upper cantons of San’t Marten live in the sun, constantly warm in the summer months and also the winter.

The lower parts of the city (a series of tenements, really, short and tall) are not so fortunate, breathing mostly in shadow and chill, with even the harbour bathed in deepest shade.

Sailors on a ship leaving the docks hold their breath until they reach the breach between the stone pillars that lead to the open sea; those on ships coming in do the very same thing until they are moored.

The black is so profound that anything might rise from the depths with no light to bother it.

The current (most recent) king and his family concern themselves only with the bright places.

Those who inhabit the space below the sunline are left very much to their own devices – as long as they do not interfere with the upper echelons.

Which is not to say the umbral city is unpoliced – quite the contrary – but the guardsmen who work this part of San’t Marten know their assignment for what it is: a punishment for wrongs, real or perceived.

They do their duty but are careful to look the other way when it seems safer.

Their presence is less about preventing crime than corralling it; less about stamping it out than keeping it from surging upward into something that might become a revolution.

Conditions are kept not bad enough, or sufficiently not awful, to avert such a thing from occurring.

Mindful of this, Millicent Broad, entrepreneur, tries to keep to herself.

She runs a small business of an honest if rather (according to some) deplorable nature.

Hers isn’t the only one of its kind, but it is one of the most reliable.

In fact, probably the most reliable and, if anyone were to be honest, similar services running in the sunshine levels cost more and deliver considerably less.

No. No one has ever accused Millie B of being a fraud.

Many other things, yes; a fraud, no. Had she been born under very different circumstances (well, she was , but circumstances are notoriously shifty) the young woman might have had a very different life.

But the things that happened, happened. Anyways, Millie keeps her head down in the interests of keeping it attached to her shoulders.

The Bureau takes up the top floor but one of a smallish building down in Tate’s Hollow – not the worst place, but certainly not the best; halfway up, halfway down in the dark places.

Robberies tend to be less violent, committed more by those who’ll make jests at one’s expense while stealing purses and jewellery, yet leaving coin enough for a commiseratory drink.

It’s been a while since Millie’s had to worry about such things – she’s lived here long enough to not work with cash nor wear any jewellery, and the knives at her belt aren’t for show (it only took two stabbings for word of that to go around).

No money’s kept on the premises (except a small purse hidden under her mattress, just in case).

Anyone who wishes to use The Bureau must appear with a note from Billings Bank, stating that a particular sum has been deposited into Millie Broad’s account there (the bulk of it thereafter disbursed to its branches in three different cities, just in case she’s ever required to quit San’t Marten in haste) before she’ll allow them access to the services. No fool, Millie B.

But the building: the first floor houses a workshop for six seamstresses, sisters and aunts of varied connection; the second, a small distillery of potent spirits, supplied to local inns at a fair price, and to those above sunline for an exorbitant one; the third is The Bureau, divided into four small rooms (two on the left, two on the right), one large locked one at the back (the necro-room, but no one’s allowed to call it that outside these walls, or at least not loudly), and a tiny reception area at the front.

The top floor is Millie’s home, comfortable and colourful, filled with books (those left behind by the Witches and those she’s gathered on her own).

It’s shared with no one now, not even the occasional lover, because that’s what joy-houses are for.

The reception area is where Millie sits during business hours behind an enormous wooden desk, balancing the accounts, darning socks, and occasionally reading truly terrible romances by Pirraleigh Portnoy (whose actual identity has remained a secret for twenty years); looking generally harmless in her full skirts and velvet corset tops and glossy brown curls.

The little space is painted a lurid purple, hung with lanterns and incense burners, the ceiling covered in a network of fairy-lights that come alive with a spell each morning.

There are bookshelves here, too, containing only the harmless tomes.

In each of the four small rooms used by the mediums (decorated identically, more purple with notes of scarlet – the rooms, not the mediums), the business of The Bureau is done and done well enough that those from above the sunline often risk the trip down through the winding streets to visit.

The city is large, someone always wants something, wants to talk to someone, specifically someone who’s no longer alive.

Loved ones, lost ones, rivals, those who died with their secrets intact, those whose knowledge is worth its weight in gold if only there’s a way to pry it from their cold, dead mouths and minds and hands.

The lonely and the loveless, rich and poor, come to The Bureau in the hope that their departed will speak with them one last time.

One time only . Millie Broad is insistent, because the dead deserve to rest, and the living should simply get on with things.

She’s got no interest in syphoning away fortunes from those with broken hearts, welcoming them back and back again until both client and ghost are thin and worn.

Others are not so scrupulous, but they never last as long as The Bureau has – too many summonings and a spirit might turn mean.

A careless ritual might let something nasty through.

Sometimes, the dead don’t want to leave and that can lead to all manner of problems. Gods know, Millie B and her mediums have been brought in to fix the mistakes of others (at great cost), and lay such wicked and weary phantoms to rest. The Witches began the business, passed it on to Millie when they decided they had somewhere else to be.

Custom did not suffer for the departure: Millie had been around since she was a child, she’s known and trusted.

And that large, locked room at the back? Seldom used, only at great cost, only for a very small clientele sworn to secrecy, and only by Millie Broad. She herself isn’t a medium. Millie is something else.

It’s late in the day when the unexpected client arrives.

The other mediums have already left – Ana, Harriet and Louisa, who’ve been with Millie for three years now, very reliable and swear they’ll never leave.

All have been offered more money by rival operations, but working here is the best job they’ve ever had so it’s not all about coin.

Millie looks out for them, pays well, never argues about time away for illness or caring for children or elders.

And Millie knows that finding true and skilled and wise mediums is a rare and wonderful thing – why wouldn’t she keep them happy?

The fourth and newest? Pandora? She may or may not be a problem; Millie hasn’t quite decided yet.

The young woman is sensitive in her task, correct in setting up and aligning her table, careful with ritual, makes connections quickly and effectively.

Tends to run over time, but Millie’s not so worried about that – it never hurts to let clients have a little generosity.

She has hopes for the girl, which lend themselves to fondness.

Pandora’s instinct for other people, however, isn’t so well-developed.

Millie can spot a bad ’un a mile off; Pandora will welcome one and all without thinking twice.

Doesn’t tend to interrogate their requests, doesn’t ask the whys and wherefores.

On two occasions when Millie’s been running errands, Pandora’s taken in clients who’ve not presented their proof of payment, one of whom had given a name for summoning which Millie very well knew to be that of a demon.

If the girl had done her study, she’d know the forbidden names, too.

It was pure luck that Harriet and Ana had overheard and sent the supplicant away with a flea in her ear.

Yet another had asked for a service only Millie could provide; when she’d refused, the girl had offered to do it, openly, right in front of her employer.

Both of them were fully aware that Pandora was not then and is not now qualified for necromancy.

She might be ambitious, but that doesn’t equate to ability or safety.

Millie senses the girl wants to impress her, so she’s given warnings instead of dismissal, but the rule is three strikes and Pandora’s only got one left.

This evening, she’s running over yet again. Millie’s about to call a gentle reprimand when the door of The Bureau opens and a shadow, broad and tall, darkens the doorstep.

“We’re closed, I’m afraid,” Millie says mildly. “Return tomorrow at half-ten.”