Another breath. She’d been struck by the thought, one night in the Birdcage, that if it wasn’t her biological father or the Dallons that she’d gotten this anxiety and quiet nature from, it had to be her biological mother. It had been a relief, a piece falling into place, and in one fell swoop, the anxiety had seemed… easier?

She had brought it up with her father, not excited, but calm, a bit assured in a way she usually wasn’t. And he had smiled. Just a smile, no words, careful and arranged. She’d known him well enough to know that it was because words would betray and a smile let her keep believing. From that smile onward, she hadn’t kept believing. She took the details she knew and the things he had told her already and picked apart the notion. Her mother had been a cape groupie, with more of a sense of adventure than common sense. Bold and brave enough to raise her for the five or so years before returning to face Marquis, show him the ropes, and get them used to each other. Hardly someone who hesitated before walking into a room with one person in it.

This wasn’t quite like usual, she told herself. The stakes were higher.

She pushed on the door, stepping out onto the pathway that looked out over the lobby.

The space always looked like it was the twilight of earliest morning or cusp of evening. The dark statues were lit by soft floodlights and similar lights shone down from the ceiling, though the catwalks above blocked the direct glare. The windows that did exist were partially shuttered, as a defensive precaution, and didn’t account for how big, imposing, and conservatively lit the space was.

One person was on the second floor, that she could see, leaning over the railing, nursing a cup of coffee. Shorter than average, Asian, with a simple haircut, and clothing choices that were as conservative as could be, while still being very summer-appropriate. Khaki skirt that extended to the knees with a pleat at each side, a white, short-sleeved blouse with a high collar and no adornments. The fact she wore a watch suggested she was old fashioned. Studs for earrings.

The woman—Jessica—straightened, leaving the coffee perched on the railing, workbag on the floor below it.

“Thank you for coming. I’m Jessica Yamada, in case you didn’t read the email closely,” Jessica said. “I should ask before we get underway, do you have a name you prefer going by?”

Amy shook her head unconsciously before realizing she was doing it.

People kept asking that.

What was she supposed to even say?

She had her guess as to why she’d been contacted, and if she went by that, then wasn’t ‘Amy’ the best name for the occasion? “Amy.”