You would forget me? he asked. Abandon me in favor of mediocrity? Respectability?

“Leave me alone!” she shouted.

“Are you all right?” the Elect man asked.

She looked at him, shocked, and then at the reflection. Herself, the man, and no Abraxas.

“I’m sorry, I…” What could she say when he was looking at her like that? She settled for “I’m fine,” and gestured for him to lead on.

Soon enough, they arrived at their destination. The Excelsior Hotel was the finest hotel in town and perhaps the finest building, too. Unlike the Eden, the structure had not been made with divinity cement but rather with white marble. Six massive Doric columns ran across the front of the building, as imposing and perfect as a Grecian temple, and a small pediment graced the front entrance, with a larger one along the rooftop in replica that bore the hotel’s name. Inside, the floors were marble and the walls rare pink ivory, all imported from places far away and impossible to reach without the aid of divinity-driven technology. It was a cathedral built to worship the wealth that flowed from the mine and the wealthy men who claimed it as their own.

They entered through the main door and turned right into the dining room. The cream of Goetia’s Elect society was gathered for luncheon: mine owners, judges, politicians. There at a table in the far corner sat Ibrahim. He wore a fine suit, and his silver hair was oiled and trimmed. He looked the part of a distinguished town father, and she wondered what his profession was. In the excitement of yesterday’s meeting, she had failed to ask.

The Virtue who had led her this far pointed to a seat across from Ibrahim. She sat, her back to the room, and folded her hands in her lap. The Virtue pulled a privacy curtain closed before joining them at the table. The curtain would keep out casual prying eyes, and if someone were to catch a glimpse, they would only see a young woman and her male companion seated across from Mr. Ibrahim, no doubt his guests for lunch.

Ibrahim was already well into his meal. His plate consisted of a bloody bit of red meat accompanied by fried eggs, potatoes, and, at his elbow, a bowl-sized cup of coffee. He spoke without looking up from his plate, his knife, fork, and mouth working without rest.

“Would you care to join me for luncheon, Miss Anant?”

“It’s Anant today?” she asked, feeling sour and still smarting from her revelation about her own hypocrisy.

“We’re in mixed company. Surely you understand the delicate nature of our acquaintance.”

She glanced over at the Virtue next to her. He had walked with her through the street, made small talk of a sort. If he knew she was Fallen, would he have spoken to her so civilly? Or would he have dragged her to Ibrahim in chains instead?