Narrator 1: Phineas Thatch is explaining that Midst is fucked.

Narrator 3: Of course he’s being more professional than that, but that’s the gist, as he and Lark and Tzila stand before the Grandmother, who listens gravely from behind her incomprehensible-looking desk,

Narrator 2: a sort of weird black coral construction.

Narrator 1: The three of them are gathered here inside the inner sanctum of the Lazaretto of the Mothers Merciful.

Narrator 2: Lark is keeping Tzila close to her and is watching Phineas kind of out of the corner of her eye as he delivers this incredibly officious speech about why he’s been sent here.

Narrator 3: Lined up around the perimeter of this office there are other Mothers, but all are completely shrouded.

Narrator 2; Anonymous, indistinguishable from one another. The Grandmother, being the face of the order, is the only one who actually displays her face.

Narrator 3: Let’s take a look at that for a minute.

Narrator 1: It is a very distinctive and characterful face.

Narrator 2: Like the other Mothers, she is dressed in head-to-toe black with a strange double-horned headdress. Her only distinguishing accessory is a baroque sort of magnifying glass hung on a chain around her neck, looking equal parts medical instrument and occult talisman. Her startlingly unveiled face is struck through with cracks of opalescent while almost like repairs in broken pottery.

Narrator 3: Besides this, her eyes are arresting as all heck.

Narrator 2: Completely black. No whites, no irises. Just inky black, darkly glittering pools.

Narrator 3: And it is with these eyes that she gazes down on Phineas and company as Thatch tries his best to maintain some modicum of control.

Narrator 2: He tries his best to do the job that’s been given to him. The only job he has right now. He has been explaining the calamity that is ravaging Midst at this very moment somewhere above them.

Narrator 1: Describing the fall of the moon. Describing…

Narrator 2: …the damage already caused by the immense shockwave of the moon and the unpredictable damage still to come from the tearror itself.

Narrator 3: (as Phineas Thatch) “…recognizing the impossible danger that they were about to face, the residents of Midst tasked me with coming here to you to request aid.”

Narrator 2: (as the Grandmother) “Yes, yes, yes, I think I understand.” The Grandmother gently interrupts him, waving a hand. “I believe I grasp the situation and I thank you for bringing news of this all the way to us.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother, cont’d) “Your task is complete. Phineas Thatch. Well done. Rest easy. Mother Calamity, assemble your relief.”

Narrator 2: And a few of the other Mothers leave the room together,

Narrator 1: whispering silently out of the room in an orderly phalanx.

Narrator 2: Striding with purpose. Phineas looks about uncertainly.

Narrator 2: (Phineas) “I’d be glad to help! Mother Calamity, if you need any additional assistance—”

Narrator 2: (Grandmother) “That will not be necessary.” The Grandmother cuts Phineas off once again. “Your task is complete. We will take it from here. Now your only task is to avail yourself of the various restorative amenities to be found here at the Lazaretto. Please relax.”

Narrator 1: Relax!? After all this? Seriously?

Narrator 3: Before he can even mutter a word of protest, he is ushered forth by yet another Mother.

Narrator 2: The last thing Lark sees of him before the door is gently but firmly shut on him is his horrified, confused face. ‘Relax??’

Narrator 1: And then Phineas is gone.

Narrator 2: Hmm! [A small laugh.]

Narrator 1: And the Grandmother stands before Lark and Tzila, rising to her astonishing height behind her desk,

Narrator 2: before letting out a deep breath that she had been holding in. [Grandmother:] “That young man was giving me the creeps. And I can see that he was making the two of you uncomfortable as well. Now that he’s gone, we can discuss what YOU need.”

Narrator 1: Lark is taken aback by this. What SHE needs? This isn’t about her.

Narrator 2: Lark and Tzila look at each other for a moment. [As Lark]: “Uh… well… um…” Lark struggles to find the words. “It’s… we don’t actually need anything here. We just…”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Well, for one thing, this poor girl looks far too underslept, underfed, and unwashed for a girl of her age.”

Narrator 2: Oh! This strikes Lark as true, actually. Everything that’s been going on… it’s hard for a 12 year old girl (12-and-a-half-year-old girl) to put up with.

Narrator 1: And Tzila perks up ever-so-slightly.

Narrator 2: (as Tzila) “I AM hungry…”

Narrator 1: And at this, more shadowy figures emerge from the dark corners of the room — Mothers appearing as though from nowhere.

Narrator 2: A few of them come up to Tzila, gently placing their hands on her shoulders. [As an anonymous Mother}; “Come with us. We’ll take care of you, dear.”

Narrator 1: Tzila casts an uncertain glance at Lark. [Tzila:] “Well, I’m not sure I should…”

Narrator 2: Lark nods her head. [Lark:] “Tzila, it’s… it’s okay. Go with them. I’ll come check up on you later.”

Narrator 1: Tzila seems profoundly uncertain, though it is clear that she would like nothing more than a good meal and a bit of rest.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It’ll be okay. Go on.”

Narrator 1: Tzila relaxes slightly. She nods to the Mothers at her arm. [Tzila:] “Okay…”

Narrator 2: (as a Mother) “Come along, little one.” And Tzila is led away.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “She seems like a charming girl. Is that your child?” the Grandmother inquires.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Huh. No. But… I’m all she has for the moment.”

Narrator 1: The Grandmother glides around from behind her desk and approaches Lark, towering over her, startlingly tall and gaunt, her unsettling face glowing down from on high in the gothic darkness of the chamber.

Narrator 2: A pale circle within its dark cowl.

Narrator 1: (Grandmother)”And you?” she asks in her ancient voice. “Why are YOU here? Come. Walk with me.” And the Grandmother glides forth from the office, the doors swinging open before her, untouched by any living hand…

Narrator 2: And Lark goes with her. The truth is she doesn’t know why she is here. She’s here because the bones, the rocks, the garbage in her divination bag told her that maybe it would be a good idea to come here.

Narrator 1: And this is certainly a different path than any she is accustomed to. And she is ill at ease.

Narrator 2: But she’s trying to approach this with an open mind since it was her own damn divination that told her to come here.

Narrator 1: The Grandmother and Lark proceed down the grand, dark, fold-filled corridors of the Lazaretto.

Narrator 2: It’s peaceful here… but surprisingly bustling. The Mothers have many patients and residents, it seems.

Narrator 3: Convalescents working through various forms of therapy: physical, mental, social…

Narrator 2: They pass a humid chamber filled with gently-heated bioluminescent water in which a group of patients are doing gentle therapeutic exercises guided by one of the many anonymous, interchangeable Mothers — this one clad in some kind of bizarre face-concealing swimwear.

Narrator 1: Escorted by an attendant, a group of patients in dressing gowns float weightlessly down the corridor, bouncing gently off the walls and ceiling.

Narrator 2: The colors here are dark, rich, jewel toned — interspersed here in there with cultivated glowing things. Lichens. Mushrooms. Climbing ivies. Window-boxes overflowing with translucent herbs and fleshy flowers.

Narrator 1: The entire Lazaretto has a grandiose, funeral elegance: a somber, lavish darkness… opulent and austere. It is a spectacular place, both awe-inspiring and eerie.

Narrator 3: And it is through these passageways that Lark and the Grandmother take their stride.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “So, you treat sick people here?”

Narrator 1: Lark asks quietly, watching patients doing gentle calisthenics through an open doorway. The view is fleeting, but she sees things she can barely even begin to describe.

Narrator 2: Things she can never un-see.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “It is interesting that you should choose the word ‘sick’, my dear,”

Narrator 1: the Grandmother says.

Narrator 2: (Grandmother) “We do treat some people who consider themselves sick, yes.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother, cont’d) “Tell me about yourself,” the Grandmother asks, gesturing to Lark’s darkly-scarred left arm. “Would you consider yourself… ‘sick’?”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother, cont’d) “There are many in Un and in the Fold Shallows who would consider this sort of appearance to be… an ailment. An affliction. But it is not necessarily so. Do you find your visions beneficial, for example?”

Narrator 2: Lark nearly stops dead in her tracks. She whips her head around to stare at the Grandmother,

Narrator 1: who does not stare back at Lark in return, gliding along placidly, undeterred.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “How did you know… about that?”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “It is readily apparent,” the Grandmother says, turning her glittering ink-black fathomless eyes to Lark, “to those who can see.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Okay… um…”

Narrator 1: Wow. Fascinating.

Narrator 3: Now, dear listener, you’ve been with us for a while and you’ve gotten a sense of Lark’s personality. How she… really doesn’t let much show through. This remark that the Grandmother has just levied against her… is like a scalpel.

Narrator 2: An unexpected attack, almost. And Lark is immediately ready to go on the defensive.

Narrator 3: Lark is tired. And she is now in this situation where someone else is taking charge. Is providing care,

Narrator 2: seemingly asking nothing in return, getting nothing out of it.

Narrator 3: And she lets her guard down a little bit.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Um… y-yes, the visions… are… beneficial… I, uh… d’you know… d’you know how that works?

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “Yes,” the Grandmother says matter-of-factly. “I do. Would you like to know as well?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Well, y-yes, I mean, all I’ve been able to figure out is… I have these, um… this bag of stuff that I cast on a table and I have to read for someone else or I don’t get anything about my own future. It’s… it’s really frustrating, actually. I have to go through this… performance… of reading someone else’s future even though it’s all bullshit. I just make it up. But then… I get glimpses. It’s always worked that way, but it’s gotten stronger lately. Like my readings are in clearer focus now.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “You read… the stones?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Uh, some of them are stones, yeah.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “Have you ever tried… to glean insight without reading anything at all?”

Narrator 3: Lark is about to say ‘no, of course not, how would that even work?’ But the Grandmother goes on.

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “For example, do you find that you have unusually strong intuition most of the time? Gut feelings — hunches — that usually turn out… to be right?”

Narrator 2: Lark pauses, thrown off by the question. “Yeah, I… I guess so…”

Narrator 3: Now THIS is a classic Lark understatement. Her whole life, her gut feelings have steered her out of harm’s way, often in the face of nearly impossible odds. (That wail, for example.) She’s always thought of it as her survival instinct: the paranoia of an old woman honed by a long, tough, rough life. Nothing mystical about it. Nothing related to the Fold or to her readings. She continues:

Narrator 2: (Lark) “That doesn’t have anything to do with it. I mean, I wasn’t even born in the Fold. I grew up in the Un. I didn’t even see the Fold for the first time until I was… grown up.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “You don’t necessarily have to be born in the Fold for the Fold to be born in you. Perhaps something was passed on to you by your parents. Something that has always been present, but which has perhaps now been enhanced and amplified by the substance comprising your… scar.”

Narrator 3: Once again, Lark is completely blindsided by the Grandmother’s freaky observational powers. The Grandmother is reaching towards Lark’s arm…

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “May I?”

Narrator 3: …asking if she can examine the scar. Without knowing why, Lark acquiesces. Let’s just call it a ‘gut feeling’.

Narrator 2: Lark isn’t exactly showing it, but she is hanging on the Grandmother’s every word. She’s never been able to talk to anyone about this… or about anything, really.

Narrator 1: The Grandmother has an openness about her. She is an attentive listener. She seems caring and kind, benign, calm,

Narrator 3: and matter-of-fact. For how utterly bizarre she looks — and for how strange and ornate these surroundings — she has a great bedside manner. She lifts the magnifying glass hanging around her neck and peers at Lark’s markings, tracing them carefully with black-gloved fingers.

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “How did you come by this relationship with the Fold?”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother, cont’d) “Where did your connection begin? What was the source?”

Narrator 2: Oh, boy. Lark isn’t sure she wants to get into all that, and the Grandmother can see her hesitation writ plain on her face.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Rest assured that we have a very strict Mother/patient confidentiality agreement here at the Lazaretto. Anything you share with me will be kept in the strictest of confidence.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I’m a hunter. And I was working on making something. A tool. A weapon… to help me hunt.” Lark pulls the red glove out of a pouch.

Narrator 1: Carefully.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Oh, I see. And it… it uses fold as a sort of fuel source, is that right?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I put a vial here and it spreads to the fingers. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work, but… I wasn’t expecting it to get into ME. It was supposed to be restricted to the glove, but…”

Narrator 1: Lark looks between the glove and the dark dendritic scar twisting up her arm.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “This started slowly at first. It was… eh… about six or seven years ago, something like that. It was just a little dark spot on my palm then. And now? Well, you can see for yourself.”

Narrator 1: The Mother takes an inky, impenetrable look at the glove, assessing it.

Narrator 2: “I mean, I… I thought I was gonna die, I mean… this stuff is…”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) :”Yes, you WOULD have to be VERY careful with that, wouldn’t you?”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother, cont’d) “May I?” the Grandmother asks, extending a hand, beckoning for the glove. Lark hesitantly hands it over.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It’s empty right now, but be careful.”

Narrator 1: The Grandmother turns the red glove gingerly, inspecting it. [Grandmother]: “This is a very unique item you have here. It appears you’ve designed this apparatus to administer a very… specific… ‘tearror,’ I believe, is the term used in the Shallows for such things. And where do you procure the… doses… of this that you… fuel this device with?

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I got them back on Midst. I don’t know if… that’s gonna work anymore.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “You collect the substance yourself?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Uhh, no, I buy it.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “You… BUY… it…?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I don’t know exactly where it comes from. To be honest, I just know where to get it. There was a business that… sort of acted as a front. I was able to get this pre-bottled from a dealer, but… where he got it from — where it ultimately was coming from — I have no idea.”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Hmm! Interesting.”

Narrator 1: The Grandmother returns the glove to Lark. Lark places it back inside of her bag. [Grandmother]: “This is a very interesting strain to have growing throughout your body. Very unique and… potentially… dangerous.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah, I mean, it’s really bad stuff straight out of the bottle. It took a lot of trial and error to get it to work the way I wanted with the glove. I like to put my prey down quiet, you know? Not obliterate it.”

Narrator 1: The Mother is eyeing Lark’s scar. [Grandmother]: “It IS growing.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Um… is that bad?”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “Not necessarily. It depends entirely on your expectations, my dear.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Well, I’m a pretty pessimistic person, so that doesn’t bode well.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “There could be any number of outcomes. As the substance grows throughout your body and eventually reaches your brain — as it will, inevitably — you will experience significant changes to your perception. To your personality. To your biological functions. And much, much more…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “So is that… bad?”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “Things merely are what they are. It depends entirely on what you make of it. Would you describe your relationship with the symbiosis now as ‘bad,’ Lark?”

Narrator 2: They have exited now onto the grounds of the Lazaretto islet,

Narrator 1: a lavish and dimly-pulsating garden of bioluminescent flora of all shapes and colors,

Narrator 2: tall and waving in the Fold’s current, almost like blue corn stalks.

Narrator 1: Patients of the Lazaretto amble upon the grounds, quietly conversing, taking their ease here and there, strolling upon the lawns, accompanied by the odd Mother, going about their daily leisures.

Narrator 2: Lark stretches her hand, looking down at the inky black latticework etched into her skin.

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “You’ve said yourself that your readings have gotten stronger lately. As your own personal Fold ecosystem grows and thrives, your ability is bound to grow and change with it. It seems as though it has benefited you, Lark, for did it not…” the dark eyes blink slowly, “…bring you here?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It IS useful, I guess, now that you mention it. It’s helped me survive more than once.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “And it may help you time and time again should you choose to sustain your relationship with it, though that, of course, is your choice alone.”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother, cont’d) “I think the reason why you might have this intuition is because the scar — this connection — gives you access to the Fold’s consciousness. Your clairvoyance, as it were, has a simple medical explanation.”

Narrator 1: Lark isn’t sure if she feels better with this knowledge.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “So the Fold is telling me the future?”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Oh, no, it’s not telling the future. It is simply enabling you to receive sophisticated probability predictions. Think about it this way: a spider knows everything about its web simply by being in contact with one thread. To a spider with no web, it certainly seems like the web-having spider can tell the future. But to the spider with the web, that’s just how the world is.”

Narrator 1: The Grandmother takes a deep, comfortable breath of the dark, enfolded air.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “The Fold is always speaking to you. I don’t think you would need the crutch of reading for others — or even the use of your divination set at all — if you could learn to hear the Fold’s voice. The vibrations traveling down the spider web, if you will.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “But… how am I supposed to tell apart these ‘vibrations’ or whatever from my own thoughts?”

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “I’m afraid the answer isn’t very interesting. You simply need to practice, and remember that the Fold is impressionable by nature. It is pure potentiality! The Fold is not only speaking TO you, but listening to you as well. So don’t discount your own thoughts so easily.”

Narrator 1: So Lark is like a spider? Yeah, this… this doesn’t necessarily make her feel any better about things.

Narrator 2: But she is inclined to believe the Grandmother here. It explains some things that she has long known to be true even if she couldn’t articulate them — even if she couldn’t explain them or talk about them with anyone.

Narrator 1: The Mother takes a seat on a stone bench overlooking the gardens and pats the space beside her.

Narrator 2: Lark sits down. Her bones are aching.

Narrator 1: They watch together as a group of children run and play in the grass — their bodies, in several cases, displaying opalescent markings,

Narrator 2: and inky black, almost an equal measure.

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “So your relationship with that web, Lark, will continue to evolve and change as your relationship… grows.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “As the fold spreads… in my body… you mean?”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “Yes. That is correct. Should you wish to HALT its growth, we do have the ability to treat it… so that it will not… progress.” The Grandmother gently touches the veins of opalescent white in her face as she says this. “It will be rendered… inert. And you will have some very beautiful shining markings. I must say, they would be very fetching.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Hah.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “They often are.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Thanks. Well, thank you for the offer. I guess I’ll think about it if it ever becomes a problem.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “The Fold does wondrous things for those of us who exist with it in harmony. However,” the Mother says, brushing her skirt, “if you wish, there is a middle ground. If you would like us to assist you in monitoring your condition, we can equip you with a useful set of tools. A convenient case for you to take with you. And if you would like, you might submit weekly samples of your blood to us, which we could monitor. And we could notify you, should you wish to take action in the future.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Ah, that’s… that’s all right. I’ll think about it, but… I’m good for now.”

Narrator 1: (Grandmother) “The offer always stands. You need only visit or write.” The Grandmother stands again, towering up once more above Lark.

Narrator 3: (Grandmother) “Well, I’ve just been prattling on and on! I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to talk your ear off. I imagine Tzila’s just about done with her bath, and you did mention wanting to check in on her. But before we go, do you have any questions that I haven’t answered?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah, just one,” Lark says, staring out hard across the lawn, speculatively watching the children play with narrowed eyes. “Do you, uh… take orphans?”