Narrator 1: Moc Weepe is in a bathrobe. He’s wearing very comfortable slippers. In one hand, he is holding a delicious cup of bizarre unidentifiable tea. It seems like tea. It’s pretty close to being like tea.

[Gently burbling water, wind chimes.]

Narrator 2: Very herbaceous.

Narrator 1: And in his other hand, he is holding a newspaper, unread. He’s not reading the newspaper right now because he’s too busy staring out the grand windows of his hotel penthouse solarium, looking past a menagerie of beautiful potted flowers and vines hanging from planters along the ceiling and walls, looking out at a city unlike any he has ever seen.

Narrator 2: “Un”-like? Ha ha.

Narrator 1: Hey, that was unintentional, but that’s very cool. Speaking of unlike,

Narrator 2: everything here is ‘unlike’ anything he’s ever seen, because everything here is Un-like. All right, that’s enough with that pun, let’s move on.

Narrator 3: It’s a good pun.

Narrator 2: The windows in front of him offer a grand view in spite of the fact that they are quite thick and slightly pitted with the mica that has collided with them over the years, scratches that build up.

Narrator 1: They’re thick because they’re armored windows, basically bulletproof glass.

Narrator 2: And the whole city that he’s looking at is similarly armored. It is built and designed with basically one main goal in mind: to protect the city and its inhabitants from sharp mica, which is everywhere up here.

Narrator 1: But in addition to being a highly secure city, it is also a highly artful and beauteous city. The Highest Light. That’s the name of the city.

Narrator 2: That’s what they actually named it.

Narrator 1: They don’t call it that, it’s a little cumbersome.

Narrator 3: Most people just call it the capital, but the Highest Light is official.

Narrator 2: Or the Light as a nice in-between.

Narrator 1: You get the picture. It is a spectacular city, huge, sprawling, crystalline, expansive, full of glittering glassy buildings interspersed with skyways, parkways, walkways, all enclosed and safe. Down below, from his high vantage point, Weepe can see people, thousands of people, moving about the city. Vehicles, delicate gunships cruising quietly overhead, popping off shots and taking out pieces of stray mica. Protecting the city.

[Distant gunship shots.]

Narrator 2: Weepe wiggles his toes inside his plush slippers.

Narrator 3: A large monogrammed ‘D’ glares up at him from the tops of his feet and beams forth from the lapel of his robe.

Narrator 1: The Delagney Hotel is splendid. This is one hell of a place. Weepe has never been accommodated so comfortably as this ever in his entire life.

Narrator 2: He and Saskia had plans at one point, vague plans, to expand the cabaret into maybe more of a hotel, open up some rooms for guests. He probably would have liked it to be something like this, eventually.

Narrator 1: It’s really something else. He strolls out of the solarium into the secondary or maybe even tertiary parlor that this penthouse has. There’s an entire — well, it’s not a piano. It’s kind of like a piano. It’s glassier than a piano, as you can probably guess.

Narrator 2: It makes music, if you know how to use it.

[Bell-like musical chimes.]

Narrator 1: He plinks at it absentmindedly as he walks through this chamber into yet another chamber, this one full of opulent couches and drapes and of course, even more greenery.

Narrator 2: It’s a good thing that this suite is so richly appointed, because Weepe has almost nothing of his own to put in here to make it feel lived-in. He has the clothes on his back and he has his medical case. And by “clothes on his back,” we don’t actually mean — he’s wearing the terrycloth robe right now, which belongs to the hotel. He doesn’t actually know what happened to HIS clothes.

[In the background, insistent chiming and a faint voice begin to be heard. The narration continues on top.]

Narrator 2: A new set of clothes has been provided for him, freshly folded, neatly laid out for him. He bats the hanging tendril of a plant out of his face, hanging from overhead just a bit too low for someone of his height.

Narrator 1: From somewhere in the penthouse, he’s been hearing a sound — a sort of chiming noise and a voice?

Narrator 3: (as unidentified voice) “Hello, Mr. Weepe?”

Narrator 1: He turns, seeking its origins.

Narrator 3: (voice) “Mr. Weepe? Is there a Mr. Weepe? Hello, are you awake, Mr. Weepe? Message for you, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 2: Uh… Weepe, uh, winding his way through all the foliage in his hotel room, finds his way to sort of a intercom on his wall by the door, a little phone tube from which this tinny voice is emitting. He leans down and looks into it uncertainly.

Narrator 1: (as Weepe) “Uh, h-hello, is somebody in, down there?” He pokes at the speaking tube.

Narrator 3: (voice) “Message for Mr. Weepe. Uh, if you’re there and can respond, please press the button below the speaker, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yes? Oh, this button, uh, this, this one? Hello? Hello?”

[Button clicking repeatedly.]

Narrator 3: (voice) “Oh, uh, hello, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hello.”

Narrator 3: (voice) “You’ve got a visitor down here at the front desk, if you could please come down.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, yeah, yes, that would be most, ehhh, [splutters] nice!”

Narrator 3: (voice) “Great, that’s the end of the message, thank you, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hey, thanks for letting me know.” He has a visitor? Who’s visiting him? He doesn’t know what he — what is he doing here? He’s holding tea, he’s still got his newspaper. [Button clicks again.] “Ah, uh, well, yes, I’ll be right down—” The person’s gone.

Narrator 2: Weepe has a guest. There is precisely one person anywhere who would probably have any interest in seeing him right now.

Narrator 1: She’s here earlier than expected, that’s for sure. He scrambles over to the bedroom and divests himself of his robe and slippers and crawls into these, ooh, very ill-fitting… Well, they actually fit rather nicely, really. If you were to see him, you’d be impressed by the crisp fit.

Narrator 2: The pants aren’t long enough, though. Few pants are.

Narrator 1: Yes, they’re not to his taste. If he had his way, he would be dressed very differently. And here he is. Imagine him: Moc Weepe, dressed for success.

[Easy-listening muzak fades in as the scene changes.]

Narrator 2: He makes his way down to the hotel lobby, and there, standing by the concierge desk, is of course none other than Notary Imelda Goldfinch, and she looks quite refreshed. He realizes that the version of her he has gotten used to, the version of her that he had always seen on Midst, was the frontier version of Imelda.

Narrator 1: Here she looks very cosmopolitan. Where in previous encounters on the islet of Midst, Imelda looked ready for a life of adventure, comparatively, here she looks ready for a life of luxury. Her outfit is grand.

Narrator 2: She turns toward him with a sunny smile.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Imelda, I must say you’re looking really stylish today.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Good day, Mr. Weepe! You look very smart too!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, thank you. This is, um, never thought I’d catch myself in these threads, but uh, I think I could get used to this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, well, I hope you do!”

Narrator 1: He is reasonably sure he absolutely will NOT get used to this nor does he ever intend to wear this ever again if possible. But… she doesn’t need to know that.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well, Mr. Weepe, before we get into the day’s activities, first things first. I have a little something for you.” And, rummaging in her handbag, she withdraws and presents to Mr. Weepe, an abacus of a much more manageable size than she had provided him on Midst. “It’s just a simple necklace style. I figure you can always get something more to your tastes later on, but… I thought it was important that in your first day in the Light, you should have an abacus again.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Lookin’ very nice, Imelda. This is missing a few beads compared to the last iteration of this, I must note.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, Mr. Weepe, not at all. Actually, this is how your abacus should have looked from the very beginning. The one I gave you was completely infeasible, but we have all the denominations of beads available to us here in the Highest Light, so it is the same value, but simply…”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “More portable. I get it, that’s nice. Yes!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes! Less cumbersome.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, thank you, Imelda. That’s very thoughtful. You’ve always been very thoughtful and accommodating of my particular needs. Thank you for providing this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well, try it on!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “…Uh, gladly,” Weepe says not so gladly, but he makes a show of twisting the necklace around his shoulders and upon his neck.

Narrator 2: This whole interaction observed inconspicuously by the hotel concierge, whose eyes go wide with a sudden newfound respect and desire to provide top-tier service.

Narrator 1: Behind the hotel desk across the lobby, a number of the Hotel Delagney employees exchange urgent whispered comments, glancing inconspicuously at Mr. Weepe.

Narrator 3: (hotel employee) “I’m sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to make sure that everything in your room is up to your standard, sir. I hope we’ve been able to provide all the services you require.”

Narrator 1: Weepe is taken a bit aback by this. [Weepe:] “Uh, yes! Really very comfortable, you’re doing a great job. Thanks for asking. I’ll let you know.”

Narrator 3: (hotel employee) “We’ll be sure to refill your tea station while you’re away.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, thanks. Yeah, if you got any other kind of tea as well, that would be good, uh…”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well don’t worry about that right now, Mr. Weepe. I am taking you to brunch.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “…Brunch?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, brunch. You don’t mean…”

[Weepe and Imelda talking over each other.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “What’s brunch.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, you poor dear! I’ll show you.”

Narrator 2: (Weepe) “What’s… what’s… what’s brunch.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I…”

Narrator 2: (Weepe) “What is brunch.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You know what, I will just show you. Come along, I’ve got a bocular horse waiting for us out front.”

Narrator 3: And they go.

[Exterior sounds of the city: traffic, footsteps, voices.]

Narrator 2: And to clarify, by “out,” we do not mean outside. That’s not an option this high up in the Un. Everything is enclosed, even the supposedly exterior spaces, the streets, the plazas. Imagine the most stupidly luxurious indoor mall that you’ve ever been to or heard of.

Narrator 1: Trees, fountains, water features,

Narrator 2: a gigantic golden statue of Jonas Spahr — Moc Weepe realizes he recognizes that face.

Narrator 3: The doorman outside the hotel approaches the bocular horse waiting out front for them,

Narrator 2: holding the door for them,

[Hydraulic hissing.]

Narrator 1: and Weepe and Imelda climb within.

[Awooga.]

Now, the bocular horse is an item worth describing for you —

Narrator 2: Is it really? It’s quite commonplace. Everyone knows what a bocular horse looks like,

Narrator 1: including you. You, you really know what it is.

Narrator 2: It really barely needs mentioning. You’ve seen science fiction.

Narrator 1: Yes, that picture you’ve got of the bocular horse in your mind right now, that’s it. That’s, we’ll go with that.

Narrator 2: Great job.

Narrator 3: They climb inside, and as the door closes behind them, it advances down sort of this hallway, this promenade dotted with doorways and ancillary hallways that lead into different arcades and lobbies, atriums.

[Bocular horse noises.]

Narrator 2: And Weepe gets really his first ground’s-eye view of daily life in the Highest Light. The other day, disembarking from the Consector’s flagship and being set up in the hotel, that was all a bit of a blur, compounded by the fact that he’s just exhausted and was exhausted then. It never really gets dark here, so his Fold-acclimated lizard brain doesn’t know when to go to sleep. But it seems to be “day.” It’s quite bustling, the streets of the city all around him. This clean, immaculate, well-run, beautifully decorated, artful city.

Narrator 1: Everywhere he looks outside of the bocular horse carriage, people moving to and fro, Trustees, all dressed in lavish glittering finery, bedecked in abacuses of high value, and, Weepe notices, in many cases, little to no value or even negative value.

Narrator 2: In any case, whatever is on their abacus, everyone’s abacus is clearly displayed in some form.

Narrator 1: And as the bocular horse rolls down one promenade after another, [Weepe:] “Why Imelda, are those all notaries?” Weepe indicating numerous robed individuals in distinctive attire, stationed at intersections, waiting outside the doors of businesses.

Narrator 2: Imelda glances up from her compact mirror where she had been touching up her berry-colored lipstick. “Oh, what’s that? Oh yes, of course. Mr. Weepe, I’m so excited to finally show you the way things are supposed to be. I could barely manage things all by myself down there on Midst. Can you imagine — one notary in an entire community? Here, as you see,” she says, gesturing towards the window, “we’ve got at least a few assigned to every intersection, most businesses have their own dedicated staff of notaries…”

Narrator 1: Weepe blinks his wide alabaster eyes in astonishment and also exhaustion. He is very, very tired and delirious. This is all crazy. He had no idea. Reading the Trustee Handbook, well, that was all on paper. This is just wild.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “And this is how our society functions.”

Narrator 3: The living breathing city around them teems with activity.

Narrator 2: And it might just be the particular area of the city that they’re in, but Weepe notices a distinct lack of anything resembling poverty. The infrastructure is immaculate, everything is clean and well-maintained and well-run, and everyone seems to have a job to do, which they are performing cheerfully to the best of their ability.

Narrator 3: Weepe can’t help but notice that this doesn’t really seem like a society that has been dealt a massive economic blow. He remarks as offhandedly as he can manage to Imelda,

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Say, uh, things are looking quite a bit better up here than I was led to expect, what with all that panic as re: the value of Valor and what it means for everybody in the Trust. Are things really all that bad?”

Narrator 3: Imelda smiles at him fondly.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “All business, I see! There will be ample opportunity to put that entrepreneurial mind to work later on. But right now, you need to relax!”

Narrator 3: She bops him playfully on the knee.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You may technically be a member of the Upper Trust now, but you can hardly be expected to preserve and protect our great society if you’ve never even had brunch before, you poor thing! Let me show you what we’re fighting for first, then we’ll figure out how later.”

Narrator 3: The bocular horse pulls up in front of a particular facade.

[Bocular horse noise comes to a stop with a final awooga.]

Narrator 2: A grand-looking restaurant on the edge of this equally grand-looking plaza. [Imelda:] “I thought I’d take you to the Heights, Mr. Weepe. The girls and I are accustomed to having brunch here at least once a week. I’ll have to introduce you to Penny and the whole gang sometime!”

Narrator 1: Weepe is briefly consumed with terror, which he does not give away.

Narrator 2: He imagines an entire squad of Imeldas.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Will they be joining us today, Imelda, possibly? All of your friends.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh no no. This isn’t our day.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, that’s a shame. I hope to meet them at some point. We would all be fast friends in no time, I’m sure of this.” Hopefully he’ll be long gone before that becomes a possibility.

Narrator 3: As they enter the restaurant, the employees of the facility hold the doors open and direct both Imelda and Weepe grandly into a private dining room,

[The noise of the city fades away, replaced by gentle music and restaurant clatter.]

Narrator 1: encircled by glorious bay windows, bedecked yet more with even more fabulous greenery looking out over yet another incredible but this time different view of the capital city. Restaurant attendants pull out chairs for them most decorously, inviting them to be seated,

Narrator 2: furnish them with menus.

Narrator 1: Extremely deferential to Imelda, and… “extremely” is not even the right word — UNFATHOMABLY deferential to Weepe.

Narrator 2: Weepe takes note of this with some interest. They’re furnished with a basket of what seem to be dried crispy flower petals for an appetizer. [Imelda:] “Oh, these are just my favorite! If I’m not careful, I could fill up entirely on these!”

Narrator 1: (as maitre d’) “Would sir or madam care for any refreshment,” the maitre d’ asks. “Could we provide you perhaps with a hot towel, something to the sir’s liking, to the lady?” The maitre d’ is practically teary-eyed with exquisite servitude. [Weepe:] “Oh yeah, hot towel sound pretty nice. Imelda, you wanna have this?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh yes, I think so.” Imelda is already ravenously scanning the menu.

Narrator 1: The menu itself is a huge technical manual,

Narrator 2: completely unintelligible to Weepe’s eyes.

Narrator 1: The maitre d’ whisks off. Servants everywhere. The entire restaurant seems to be standing at attention for Weepe and Imelda.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I’ll order for you if you don’t mind, Mr. Weepe — unless you have a particular favorite?”

Narrator 1: No, no, of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what any of this is. [Weepe:] “What would you uh, recommend, Imelda? I don’t know, what is a, uh, mill, millie anthres foliums?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh yes, well, we do not want to miss the millefolium vulgaris salads!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “No, I would sooner die than miss this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “And a couple of starflower tonics? I know it is just the morning, but that’s the great thing about brunch!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Imelda, this is a real treat,” Weepe says, looking around, trying his very best to appear appreciative and deferential. He is so far out of his element right now.

Narrator 3: Every face that he tries to make eye contact with bows.

Narrator 2: He feels essentially jet lagged. His body is completely thrown out of its regular circadian rhythms. Plus, a bunch of extremely traumatic things have just happened to him in the not too distant past.

Narrator 1: Does Imelda not remember any of this? Why…? He’s… No one will talk about this. The newspapers haven’t been mentioning Midst.

Narrator 2: Imelda is delicately popping one of these crispy flower petals into her mouth. [Imelda, chewing:] “Mmm!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yes, these look very fine, Imelda. I don’t know what, uh, is this something you eat all the time up here in the city? These seem mighty nice.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh yes, I’m quite spoiled.”

Narrator 1: Weepe crunches a crispy flower petal of his own. [Weepe, chewing:] “Mmm, this tastes really good,” he says uncertainly, experiencing a bitter floral dirt flavor. “Hmm. Really nice. I can’t say that I’ve ever had anything quite like this, Imelda, really, sincerely. This is unique.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to get used to it now.” A fountain sparkles in the busy concourse outside the window as they are swiftly brought their food,

Narrator 1: lavish platings of flowers and extravagant, unusual, multicolored greens.

Narrator 3: Edible bouquets not dissimilar to what you might remember from the Loxlee Gala, the last time we were at a mega Un occasion.

Narrator 1: At the slightest sign of a pause, Weepe interrupts Imelda’s story about her notary friends,

Narrator 2: the wild things that Gertrude gets up to on the weekends,

Narrator 1: and turns the subject to something that’s of much greater personal interest to him, certainly. [Weepe:] “So how about Midst?” Weepe says, munching an unidentifiable herb. “How about that, Imelda? How is that situation going?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Quite exhausting, wasn’t it? I’m glad it’s all behind us now.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “The newspapers don’t seem to be covering this very much, there’s no further… information? I’m just curious. You know, Imelda, I’m a businessman, I own a business, and I am curious if it is still—”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “—owned, yes.”

Narrator 1: Weepe’s incomprehensible eyebrow raises at this. [Weepe:] “Yes, Imelda. Do you know, is the Black Candle Cabaret still… Is Midst still…?” She gazes back at him, implacable, unreadable.

Narrator 2: She shrugs, takes a sip of her floral, effervescent champagne. [Imelda:] “Last I heard, the tearror was, you know, doing its thing on the islet. I don’t think we’ll know exactly what the outcome of that is going to be for a while yet. But you know, Mr. Weepe, Valor is a delicate and mysterious thing, almost like a living being…”

Narrator 3: She holds up a delicate blue flower from her plate.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “…fluctuating and changing with each day, and it is really not served by too much fussing and worrying.”

Narrator 3: She pops the flower into her mouth and swallows it with obvious enjoyment.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I think you and I are similar in that we look forward to the future much more than we dwell upon the past, and that’s healthy.”

Narrator 1: That’s a good point. And reasonably accurate, though also completely unhelpful in answering or reacting to any of Weepe’s concerns. He toys with a small pot of pollen on his plate before leveling his gaze at Imelda. [Weepe:] “What about the welfare and whereabouts of Sherman Guthrie, Imelda? My bartender, my employee. I know he was in Breach to the Trust, but presumably he is… safe? Is he in a prison now for his crimes against the institution?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Prison? Crimes? Mr. Weepe. [laughs] First of all, I believe that Sherman Guthrie has received all the medical attention that he needed. And we don’t have prisons, Mr. Weepe, in the Un. We don’t have crime. The reason that we determinedly seek Breached individuals is not to punish them for some wrongdoing. It’s because we need them, Mr. Weepe. We need what they can give to society, the Valor that only they have to offer, that lies untapped within their very souls.”

Narrator 3: The restaurant staff emerge again to clear a course away from the table and refill glasses of beverage,

Narrator 2: and Mr. Weepe’s eyes fall upon a decorative Caenum lapel pin,

Narrator 3: worn by each of these staff,

Narrator 1: indicating their high degree of debt to the Trust.

Narrator 3: Imelda even gestures at them,

Narrator 3: proudly, not trying to hide this gesture or this comment in any way or shape or form.

Narrator 1: And in fact, the staff themselves seem to be in no way embarrassed by their obvious Caenum.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Caenum is nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Weepe. It, in and of itself, is not a crime. It is simply… the potential to repay.”

Narrator 3: A waiter, leaning over their table to refill their drinks. nods in agreement. [As waiter:] “If I may, indeed, it is an honor to be in service to one’s community, sir.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “There, you see? I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Narrator 3: (waiter) “Is there anything else that we can get for you?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh yes, I think I’m going to need some of the sugared dianthus.”

Narrator 3: (waiter) “Right away, ma’am.”

Narrator 2: Observing him from across the table, Imelda still clearly sees that Mr. Weepe has not been set entirely at ease by her explanations, or lack thereof. And she gives a little sigh and little smile. [Imelda:] “All right, Mr. Weepe. I won’t sugarcoat things for you.”

[Restaurant ambience fades away, leaving only wind chimes. The chimes grow into an echoing drone.]

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “The situation IS a serious one. It’s the most severe imbalance the Trust has suffered in a long time. And it’s good that you’re asking these questions. This kind of solution-oriented inquiry is exactly what the Upper Trust needs. But it’s still early days, and the officers of the Trust are all working together to redirect troubling information only where it is needed, where it will do the most good. People don’t need every sordid detail of what happened on Midst, they need assurance that it won’t ruin their lives. The goal is for society to continue to function as normal. Yes, Valor has taken a hit, and we have yet to calculate the full impact of losing Midst. Daily life may change for some people, for a while. But panic and negativity only exacerbates Caenum inflation. I’m not being blithe with you, Mr. Weepe, I’m acting in accordance with procedure. The best thing we can do for the general public is to demonstrate our confidence, to show them we’re not concerned for the future. It’s the Upper Trust’s responsibility to find a permanent solution to this problem before it gets out of control, so you’ll have ample opportunity to spin your gears on this. But today, you deserve to enjoy yourself. This is your home now. Let yourself fall in love with it, and everything else will fall into place.”

Narrator 1: Weepe is still very discomfited by this, but he does not betray that to Imelda . He nods thoughtfully, at least projecting some semblance of agreement and comprehension. [Weepe:] “That’s true, Imelda. Positivity is what gets me up in the morning every day. I get out of the bed and I think to myself, ‘What am I gonna do to make everything better? How will I improve the community of Midst? How can I put on the best show today and make my people feel the best that they can feel?’ So I understand what you’re getting at. I think we see, I think we see eye to eye. But I still gotta ask you, Imelda,” he says, observing how she sprinkles pollen over her flowers and does the same with his own, “the Black Candle Cabaret is not the only thing on Midst, Imelda. There were hundreds and hundreds of businesses and thousands of people there. What about them.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Mr. Weepe, you sound tense. I know where we’re going after this.”

[Awooga. City and bocular ambience returns.]

Narrator 2: Meal concluded and accounts balanced on all sides,

Narrator 3: the pair adjourn across the arcade and reenter the waiting bocular horse. On the second leg of his trip, Weepe starts to see a few new details in the city around him, little things he hadn’t noticed right away. There ARE actually signs of unrest and uncertainty in the Highest Light, if you start looking for them. A strangely high number of shuttered storefronts, long lines of anxious-looking people in front of notary’s offices. And in fact, as they leave, the door to the restaurant is locked behind them. Come to think of it, Weepe hadn’t actually seen any other customers in there, only staff. Had the restaurant been closed? Had they made a special exception just for him and Imelda to eat brunch? Huh. Well, maybe Imelda isn’t wrong. Maybe he IS just a little bit tense.

Narrator 1: One short ride in the bocular horse later [awooga], Imelda and Weepe stand before the glittering doors to the most horrible institution Weepe has ever seen in his life.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Welcome to my favorite day spa!” Imelda proclaims, throwing the doors wide. “You aren’t going to recognize yourself once they’re done with you here! All your tension is just going to melt away!”

[Bubbling water and relaxing music.]

Narrator 1: In short order, Weepe finds himself in a reclining chair beside Imelda, dressed in his second-most comfortable robe of the day, his feet immersed in a bubbling hot bath,

Narrator 2: some kind of nourishing cream being applied to his face.

Narrator 1: Imelda sighs gratefully.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, it is SO good to be back in the Light.”

Narrator 1: This is the most unusual day Weepe has had in quite some time. It feels absolutely surreal and dreamlike.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I won’t lie to you, of course, we’ve got our work cut out for us. But I believe that with a smile on our faces and faith in our hearts, we’re only going to make things better than they were before.”

Narrator 1: The attendants of the spa seem to agree with this, overhearing snippets of the conversation as they come and go about the spa, providing Weepe and Imelda with fine nourishments and soothing balms. Why, they look upon Imelda — and Weepe in particular — with tremendous, almost spiritual, reverence. As uneasy as Weepe has been all day, he’s starting to get used to this. Everyone is being very, very nice to him.

Narrator 2: The foot bath does feel good. And the shoulder massage has relieved some tension that he didn’t quite realize was there. [Imelda:] “It’s just these little bumps in the road that keep things interesting and give us something ever-greater to aspire to.”

Narrator 1: Midst seems like a dream, the tearror a half-forgotten nightmare. Did it really happen? Is it still happening even now? The lack of information, Imelda’s exuberance, her optimism and forward-looking perspective, are doing something to him that he doesn’t really know how to compute. He feels… better? That can’t be right. That’s not, he, that’s not allowed.

Narrator 3: But he has had a good day.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Mr. Weepe, you should really be treating yourself to whatever you feel like. You can afford it after all, now. Welcome to the Upper Trust! I think I’M going to spring for a mani pedi. Just do as you feel, they’ll take care of everything.” There’s nothing really at a spa that he would normally treat himself to, but it’s good knowing that here, in this place and this new life, he can apparently have whatever he wants or needs or asks for.

Narrator 1: Immediately, without question, brought to him by a doting public who worship the very ground he treads on.

Narrator 2: Not a bad feeling after losing everything.

Narrator 3: He’s had a magical day, and as much as he sort of dislikes Imelda Goldfinch and is deeply aware of her having something going on the back burner here, this was good. He could kind of get used to this.

Narrator 2: This was always kind of what he was angling for. Well, maybe not this exactly with the spa and the bubbling foot bath and everything, but this kind of… power.

Narrator 1: Is this what it feels like… to win? Huh.

Narrator 2: All the things that he’s done wrong, all the people he’s hurt, all the things he’s lost and the mistakes he’s made… It all feels so far away right now.

[Music swells.]

Narrator 3: So completely removed from this moment.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Now that you mention it, Imelda,” Weepe says, turning to his compatriot beside him in her spa chair, “I’ll have a mani pedi as well. What does that taste like?”