A man and a woman emerged from a doorway, deep in conversation. They seemed to recognise Clarabelle, and she asked them for directions and then they continued on, with Clarabelle singing ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard’. She led them through swinging doors into an Operating Room, where a spider-like being was dissecting a corpse.

“Doctor Nye,” Clarabelle said.

The spider-like being turned to them. “Zombies,” it said, mildly surprised. “And a blue-haired girl.”

“My name is Clarabelle. I’m here looking for a job.”

“A job?”

“Yes. I have no medical or scientific training to speak of, and no inclination to learn, and I pick things up fairly slowly because of my short attention span.”

Nye blinked its yellow eyes. “But…?”

“But what?”

“I’m waiting for you to list your good qualities now.”

Clarabelle blinked back at him. “Those were my good qualities.”

“Clarabelle… Clarabelle… You worked as Kenspeckle Grouse’s assistant, did you not?”

“One of them. He fired all the others.”

“But not you?”

“He fired me on the second day, but I kept coming in. I had nowhere else to go.”

“And then you killed him.”

“Yes.”

“A Remnant squirmed inside you, and you killed Kenspeckle Grouse.”

“Yes.”

Nye grinned. “You’re hired. But I have to warn you, if you try to kill me, I will dissect you and sing along to your screams.”

“Can I have Mondays off ?”

“You may. Who are your friends?”

Scapegrace cleared his throat. “My name is Vaurien Scapegrace, Doctor. I have sought you out to cure me.”

“To cure you of what?”

“Of this accursed affliction.”

“I cannot cure stupidity.”

Scapegrace frowned. “I meant being a zombie.”

“And why should I do this?”

“Because… it’s a challenge worthy of your skills?”

“I don’t like challenges,” Nye said dismissively. “Do you have money? I like money.”

“I don’t have an awful lot.”

“Do you have any?”

Scapegrace hesitated. “No.”

“Do you have any skills, then? Could you be of use to me?”

“I honestly don’t see how.”

“Me neither. It looks like you’re destined to remain a zombie until your brain rots in your skull. Which, judging by the rate of your decomposition, should be in a year or so.”

Scapegrace stared. “A year? I only have a year left?”

“If you stay out of the sun.”

“But… but that’s terrible!”

Nye shrugged. “It’s not so bad for me.”

Scapegrace stumbled out of the Sanctuary, aghast, and Thrasher ran out after him, an idiot. Clarabelle was staying because Clarabelle had a job now, and details needed to be ironed out and suchlike. But Scapegrace had just been handed a death sentence for the already dead. He stopped by the water’s edge and looked out across the dark lake.

“What does it all mean?” he asked aloud.

Thrasher looked up at him, and didn’t answer.