Believe it or not, you know me already, at least as well as you know Prospero Saneer, or Felix Faust. I have already appeared six times in Mycroft’s history, but Mycroft never named me, or let you realize I was the same person. You first met me when I held back the other Servicers who would have defended Mycroft from being carried off by Vivien, the first time Mycroft showed you Romanova. I also sat with them in the Pantheon on Renunciation Day. I was with Mycroft when we first stumbled on their Enemy, Tully Mojave, on their soapbox, and, in the moments before the dragons quelled the mob, I dove to place myself between my mentor and the crowd, a moment which verified empirically that I am indeed ready to give my life for Mycroft Canner. I also oversaw the relocation of Bridger’s toy collection after Dominic discovered it. It was I who saved Carlyle Foster-Kraye from curious Humanists, and then failed to stop Foster-Kraye from flying into Dominic’s trap at Madame’s. I set up Bridger’s safe house, and kept the kid company there, so to me too goes some of the blame for failing to keep Bridger away from Sniper at the end. More recently, Mycroft described the Servicers who watched the Senate chaos with Achilles, when Achilles told me my uniform designs were stupid. For that scene, while Mycroft gave the others the names of Myrmidon captains from the Iliad, they gave me the playful title Outis, ‘No-one’ in our native Greek; in other words, Anonymous. I am the Ninth Anonymous, Mycroft’s successor. It was my name sealed in the Sanctum Sanctorum, though happily those who stole the MASONS’ Oath don’t seem to care about exposing me. Still, I have no intention of redoubling their violation by revealing my name to you. I will answer to Anonymous, to Ninth or 9A, at Madame’s to the Compte Déguisé, and even to chiot (puppy, or Hundchen from Faust), but I will not answer, as my predecessor did, to slave, or wretch, or monster. You know my voice because I have been Mycroft’s editor, in the last books and this. I patched together their fragments, made bearable what was too passionate, and in the history I used to edit out the signs of Mycroft’s madness, though I’ve decided to leave them in this more recent chronicle. It is some consolation to me to remember how broken Mycroft was toward the end, how ready for release. Perhaps it will console you, too.