Narrator 1: A crowd has arrived at the port of Sequester to witness the arrival of Midst’s mail car… or what remains of it.

Narrator 3: As the mail car zooms down toward its destination, some automatic brakes attempt to engage, making a shrill SCREEEEEE as the engine compartment stops abruptly without its full payload (as usually it would), nearing the moor-mast — the tall tower here in Sequester — mirroring the one on Midst. And the mechanical elevator unhitches it from the line and begins to draw it down toward ground. Toward a crowd.

Narrator 2: This was an interesting enough spectacle for the people of Sequester on its own. They are even more surprised to see three people disembark from the ruined car.

[The crowd gasps.]

Narrator 2: Normally the mail car does not carry passengers, and for very good reason. Speaking of which, the crowd has also been drawn by the distant wail song heard not too long ago… and the violent twang in the cable that was felt shortly before the car’s arrival.

Narrator 1: Sequester’s harbormaster, a burly four-armed woman,

Narrator 3: approaches the smoking car and its three unusual passengers as if a representative (an envoy?) of Sequester.

Narrator 2: She holds out her hands — the many of them that she has — to assist them. Lark, of course, doesn’t need any help. “Uh…” says the harbormaster. “Are… are you okay? What, uh… what are you doing there? And what happened to the… rest of the car? Are you… there wasn’t more of you, was there? Did they get eaten? Oh, I’m sorry!”

Narrator 3: Phineas attempts to take charge of the situation, being sort of the de-facto… authority? Dot-dot-dot…

Narrator 2: He might as well be; Lark is just gripping Tzila’s shoulders and looking around for the fastest route out of the crowd, out of the center of attention.

Narrator 1: It is a pretty substantial crowd, too. There are a lot of people gathered here today watching their arrival — many people with many unique and varied forms.

Narrator 2: The four-armed harbormaster is by no means the most unusual person here today. In fact, it’s kind of hard to pin down what ‘unusual’ even means in a crowd so varied. They seem to think that the three arrivals from Midst are the weirdest ones here.

Narrator 3: And for a moment, standing in front of the crowd, being asked questions directly, Phineas feels that familiar pressure — that stress — steal over him. And he knows what to do. [As Phineas:] “We’ve just come from Midst.”

Narrator 2: (as the harbormaster) “Yeah… that’s, uh, that’s where the other end of this cable IS attached…”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “And something terrible has happened there. Um… the moon… exploded… and crashed into the Fold, uh, creating a… tremendous tearror.”

Narrator 2: Appropriately awed and shocked murmurs break out across the crowd.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “We’ve come… or at least,” he darts a glance at Lark and Tzila. “I’VE come to try and get help. To try and get some support. Um… I was referred to ‘The Mothers,’ I guess?”

Narrator 2: (harbormaster) “Ah, yes. Yes.”

Narrator 1: Another murmur in the crowd.

Narrator 2: Lots of nodding.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “It’s urgent that I make contact with them as quickly as possible.”

Narrator 1: Behind them, the harbormaster is investigating the damage to the mail car, her eyes wide. “Holy shit!” she’s overheard to say. “No kidding, this doesn’t look great!” Her body is scarred with dark inky markings as well as opalescent, reflective white patches. A fingertip. An elbow. The side of her neck.

Narrator 2: Well, not exactly ‘white.’ It’s more like light doesn’t interact with her properly. Just in those little spots. And she’s not the only one. Not by a long shot. All the people here have been touched by the Fold in some way or other.

Narrator 3: And presumably have also figured out a way to coexist with it.

Narrator 1: There are many opalescent markings upon many different people: an arm here, a nose there, glimmering in the darkness, surreal and incongruous.

Narrator 2: The crowd disperses a little as people start to converse energetically amongst themselves about the incoming tearror… this very interesting news about the events upcurrent.

Narrator 1: Phineas overhears a few comments.

Narrator 2: (as a resident of Sequester) “Oh, y’know, we’re probably deep enough. Most of the tearrors from upcurrent, they flow right over us but… probably gonna be a few offshoots. Best to be prepared.” The harbormaster points one of her fingers towards the center of town where a bustling night market glimmers distantly in the darkness of the Fold. [As the harbormaster:] “Just, uh, head right on through to the other side of town. There’s a ferry that comes through a few times a day. Should be due, uh, next in a few hours. And that’ll take you out to the Mothers’ Lazaretto.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “So… so it’s not on this islet? I… I think understand. Sort of.”

Narrator 2: (Harbormaster) “Nope, just offshore.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Well, thank you. Um…”

Narrator 1: A sturdy dockworker with one opalescent arm is attending to what remains of the mail car, noting the damage on a clipboard.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Sorry about the car, but, uh…”

Narrator 1: (as the dockworker) “You don’t have to apologize to us, it’s not our property. Sounds like you had a rough voyage!”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Thank you for understanding.”

Narrator 1: (dockworker) “Lucky break! We were about to sever the cable! We thought it would be torn loose and we were about to let you go. Good thing we didn’t…”

Narrator 2: Phineas looks around and spots Lark and Tzila who have made their way to the edge of the crowd.

Narrator 1: He rushes to catch up with them.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “So I think I know where to go…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Good for you,” says Lark.

Narrator 1: They stand there in the glimmering darkness of the outskirts of the town of Sequester regarding one another. This seems to be… the end of the road for their travels together.

Narrator 2: She doesn’t seem like she’s intending to come with. And why would she, actually, he realizes.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Where’re you guys… headed?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Look. It seems like you have this handled. I think it’s best if we part ways now. Especially in light of… recent events.”

Narrator 1: She stares daggers at him.

Narrator 2: She doesn’t want him anywhere near that girl.

Narrator 3: Phineas isn’t quite sure how to take this.

Narrator 2: He feels torn.

Narrator 3: On the one hand, he feels like questioning Tzila is still important to his assignment… if it IS even still his assignment. And having been now in the company of this girl who he’s meant to apologize to numerous times but prevented at every turn by this woman… now being told that ‘this is it’? [Phineas:] “I… I’ll be seeing you?” he says.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Probably not.” And Lark turns to go, shepherding Tzila with her,

Narrator 1: who glances one last time over her shoulder towards Phineas.

Narrator 2: Uncertain. Tzila gives him a hesitant little confused wave—

Narrator 1: —before they are swallowed into the darkness. Phineas is alone. Again.

[A pause.]

Narrator 2: He sets off through town, through the strange bustling verdant night market of Sequester.

Narrator 3: Let’s take a look here for a moment.

Narrator 2: Compared to Midst, Sequester feels lush and bursting with life.

Narrator 3: It’s like a rainforest. The air, heavy with fold, is also more humid.

Narrator 2: This is Phineas’s first time fully submerged on an islet in the Fold, where it is always dark. Where it is always enfolded.

Narrator 1: Here at this depth the Fold is dense and heavy against his skin, humid and ever so slightly alive. What feels like a breeze, he realizes, is moreso an organic movement of particles against him.

Narrator 2: It isn’t the pitch blackness that he was expecting, that he had grown accustomed to on the cable journey here. Sequester is full of light and life and activity.

Narrator 1: All around him strange glowing fungi, schools of glimmering creatures fluttering in the dark…

Narrator 2: Flora and fauna pulsing with all colors of natural bioluminescence, naturally and organically fold-safe.

Narrator 3: If unrise on Midst is like arriving in Oz, this is like the photo-negative of that picture: bright, vivid, bizarre colors glowing forth from the dark omnipresent background of the Fold.

Narrator 2: Every organism pulsing and flickering with its own unique rhythm and color.

Narrator 3: Among this lush tapestry exists a market: a hub of activity.

Narrator 2: Stalls clustered along a main street neighboring cultivated fields of glowing coral or seaweed-like fronds. Pens of livestock for sale, brought to market.

Narrator 1: Strange jellyfish-like creature wafting on the humid fog.

Narrator 3: There on a fish-monger’s counter: pieces of a small juvenile wail being cleft apart and sold by the pound.

Narrator 1: And all around him, strange and unusual people, their bodies reconfigured by fold.

Narrator 2: Though Phineas feels like the weird one, limping along in his armor, which is now barely holding together, missing a few of its key parts. He keeps having to hike the breastplate up now that he’s missing his mica pauldron. People keep giving him odd, curious, and sympathetic looks. Clearly, word is getting around quickly about the tragedy that has befallen Midst.

Narrator 1: He hears whispers exchanged between passing pedestrians. He hears the words ‘Trust’ and ‘Midst.’

Narrator 2: There is not an abacus to be seen anywhere, nor a notary, nor a mission. He feels so unseen.

Narrator 1: Midst felt like an otherworldly frontier. This… feels like an entirely alien world, further still beyond comprehension.

Narrator 3: But something he can comprehend is the gnawing hunger growing in his belly. He realizes suddenly: oh god, it’s been… days? What was the last thing he ate? Other than that dusty tin of canned bread they ate on the cable car? Phineas is hungry… and he immediately turns into the first little grocer / jerky-shop that he can find.

Narrator 2: The smells of grilled fish and fruit assault his nostrils and his stomach gives an audible growl… which the vendor hears and chuckles at knowingly. [As the vendor:] “Shall I carve you off a slice?”

Narrator 1: …the vendor says, a pulsating blue parrot-like creature perched on their shoulder.

Narrator 2: Or maybe it’s PART of their shoulder, actually?

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Yes, please, absolutely, I’ll take one.”

Narrator 2: (Vendor) “Comin’ right up.” And cordially tells him the price. And Phineas feels like an idiot as he’s hit with a sinking realization. He doesn’t, y’know, have… money… per se.

Narrator 3: How could he forget something so basic? Sequester isn’t part of the Trust. There’s no notary to document his purchase and just add the equivalent Caenum to his account like normal. How do people manage down here with all their random little scraps of currency? It’s so confusing!

Narrator 2: The vendor hesitates, takes a closer look at his armor, glancing up and down. [Vendor:] “Ah. You know what, kid? This one’s on me. Don’t tell anyone I’m givin’ out freebies, okay? Just tell them how good it tastes.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Uh… you got it,” Phineas says and immediately devours the morsel of fish,

Narrator 1: escaping rapidly, embarrassed.

Narrator 2: In this moment it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

Narrator 3: The gravy greasy and running down his throat.

Narrator 1: Ugh!

[Narrators laugh.]

Narrator 1: On the other side of the night market, the town of Sequester thins out into the night.

Narrator 2: Rural pastureland on either side.

Narrator 1: The undeveloped terrain of the islet of Sequester curving toward the horizon.

Narrator 2: Cushiony luminescent moss underfoot. And Phineas comes to a pier jutting out off the edge of a sheer cliff. And he sees clearly for the first time:

Narrator 3: A building.

Narrator 1: A castle.

Narrator 2: Seemingly floating in the air.

Narrator 1: High above the ground on a craggy rock of its own.

Narrator 2: Sort of like a dark imitation of what Midst’s moon used to look like. The Lazaretto where the Mothers dwell is a strange, organic,

Narrator 1: bent and weathered edifice.

Narrator 2: A truly bizarre piece of architecture.

Narrator 1: Jutting forth from this hovering shard of earth, high in the sky above,

Narrator 2: gnarled, dirt-matted roots protruding from its base, hanging down and drifting in the Fold.

Narrator 1: Distant lights glimmer in windows, pulsing gently.

Narrator 2: A black satellite just off Sequester.

Narrator 3: No ferry in sight. As Phineas settles in to his uneasy wait for the ferry, his thoughts begin pinging around in his mind, racing, chasing one another. And we’ll just just leave him with those terrible thoughts.

[A beat.]

Narrator 2: Meanwhile, Lark has her own problems to contend with. This is the longest Lark has been with a child. Ever.

Narrator 3: And while she likes Tzila fine…

Narrator 2: …it’s been DAYS. And she feels completely out of her depth.

Narrator 1: Lark pulls Tzila aside beyond the night market where they have, much like Phineas, gathered some food to eat. And they find a secluded spot beyond the stalls on a mossy outcropping — a rock — to sit and talk and recuperate. And plan their next move.

Narrator 3: Tzila slurps down her noodles voraciously.

Narrator 2: Lark seems distant — lost in her own thoughts — and Tzila is getting increasingly frantic and demanding with her questions.

Narrator 3: (as Tzila) “What are we gonna do, Lark? Are… can we… do we just wait here until the tearror goes by and then make our way back to Midst somehow?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “No. We can’t go back to Midst. I… can’t go back to Midst.”

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “Well, wh— are… do we find a place to stay here? For now?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Ehhh… D’you have any other family I could take you to? What about your mom?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Well… I don’t exactly have… a m—”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Okay, okay, I get it. That’s not an option.”

Narrator 1: Tzila is beginning to regain her sense of self. Without time to properly process her grief, she has been in a fugue state of sorts for several days. But now it’s all beginning to come back to her. The trauma of her experience on Midst, the realization now that her dad is… gone? It… it didn’t really register with her until now. She’s been… there has been a numbness.

Narrator 3: And she feels hot tears form on her face.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Well, then if we’re not going to go anywhere, then what… what…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Okay, okay.” Lark places her hand on the moss-covered surface of the stone table between them. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna give you a reading.”

Narrator 1: Tzila blinks rapidly. “A… fortune?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Right.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “For… me?

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Can I… can I read your fortune?”

Narrator 1: Tzila’s heart races. “Okay…”

Narrator 3: (Tzila, cont’d) “Is this for real?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila, cont’d) “Will it tell us what we need to do?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah. We need… some information right now.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Okay.” [Sniffling.]

Narrator 2: Lark turns and pulls her divination pouch out from a pocket.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “You keep that with you?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It’s always on me. It’s a good tool.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Where did you get that anyway?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It was my mom’s,” Lark says as she rummages her fingers around in the bag’s contents.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “You had a mom?” Tzila never really thought about it before.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “She could read, too. Actually, compared to what I do… could hardly even call this ‘reading’… she was way better. But, um… when I read for other people I sometimes get some insights about my own future.”

Narrator 1: This, of course, is somewhat untrue… the reality being that Lark gets little to no insight about anyone OTHER than herself, but Tzila doesn’t need to know that right now.

Narrator 2: The whole reason Lark bothers to read for anyone else is only to get information about her own future.

Narrator 3: And as we’ve established, Tzila is a smart girl. Like, she’s wiser than her years would suggest.

Narrator 2: She was always naturally suspicious of Fuze’s little magic tricks.

Narrator 3: And having seen Lark read for Ellie and Ettie, for example, has always kind of pondered the veracity of this activity.

Narrator 2: But right now Tzila is willing to suspend her disbelief, desperate as she is for any kind of reassurance, supernatural or not.

Narrator 1: Lark casts her stones, her bones, her baubles and crystals,

Narrator 2: her pieces of trash,

Narrator 1: upon the surface of the rock.

Narrator 3: And the bird skull goes skittering across the table and is about to fall off on Tzila’s side before… Tzila catches it.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Oh! I… sorry!”

Narrator 2: She looks up, her eyes guilty.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I shouldn’t have done that, should I?” Holding the bird skull gently in her hand.

Narrator 2: Lark shrugs dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. What they do is all part of it.”

Narrator 1: Tzila gingerly holds the skull, examining it.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Put it down wherever you want.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Okay…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Don’t think about it.”

Narrator 1: Tzila places it into the middle of the array. “Wh… what does it mean?”

Narrator 2: Lark looks up at Tzila and has a moment to observe her while the girl is looking at all the pieces on the stone tabletop between them. She shouldn’t be taking care of this kid. Tzila needs something — someone — someone that Lark can’t be. And she’s frustrated beyond belief by being saddled with this responsibility.

Narrator 3: Lark exhales a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding before clearing her thoughts and casting her eyes down to the table of trinkets between them.

Narrator 1: Lark reads the signs, glancing from item to item.

Narrator 2: A tiny piece of metal.

Narrator 1: The ‘Burden.’

Narrator 2: Its tiny size belying its surprisingly heavy weight.

Narrator 1: Situated near to an inverted quartz point, the ‘Zenith.’ “What does this part mean?” Tzila asks, looking between the objects.

Narrator 2: And Lark goes through the routine that she is accustomed to, picking out clues about her own future while trying to come up with something convincing to tell her ‘client.’

Narrator 1: Lark gazes significantly at the Burden and over to Tzila herself.

Narrator 2: What to tell Tzila about her own future? Lark has no fucking clue what’s going to happen to this girl. But she knows what she needs to hear. What she needs to keep her going. (As Lark) “Your life has never been easy… but it’s prepared you. It’s made you strong. It’s made you capable of handling… whatever happens.”

Narrator 1: Tzila’s eyes glimmer again as she hears this, watching Lark, hanging on every word.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I wish I could tell you that it is going to be easy, but… what I can tell you is that you… can handle it. And you’re gonna be okay.”

Narrator 1: Tzila’s lip trembles.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I’m… I’m sorry, it’s not really very… heavy on the details this time, but, um…”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “But it’s going to be okay?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Yeah, you’re… you’re going to be fine.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Does it say anything about my dad?”

Narrator 2: Oh, god, what is she supposed to say to that? (As Lark) “He… he would be… no. I’m… I’m sorry. It doesn’t.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Oh… okay…”

Narrator 2: Lark can’t bring herself to make up some bullshit about that.

Narrator 3: Sherman is too close to both of them. WAS… so close…

[A beat.]

Narrator 1: Now, from this reading Lark is in fact receiving two essential messages:

Narrator 2: She can continue to run as she always has, on her own, looking out for only herself. She could leave Tzila here. She could find a ship. She could take off… and it would work. Her life would continue on as it has, unchanged. And it’s a comfort, but an empty one: a kind of dull routine one.

Narrator 1: Run some more.

Narrator 2: She’s getting tired. She’s getting old. But she is also seeing another possibility pointed out to her.

Narrator 1: As she gazes upon the quartz point — the Zenith — a glimmering mica-like piece, reminiscent of an entity she is not pleased to see represented in the spread.

Narrator 2: It reminds her of Phineas. She takes it to mean Phineas. She has learned not to second-guess her gut hunches too much.

Narrator 1: He is part of her equation.

Narrator 2: If she sticks with him a while longer, something new will happen. Something different. But it’s not entirely bad. It is not the unequivocal threat she would have expected. And for Tzila, it is possibly the best and safest option. She does think to herself that what Tzila really needs right now is some kind of a mother. Lark continues to sit there, brow furrowed, chewing slightly on a lip.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Is it… working?” Tzila asks. “Is your future in there too?”

Narrator 3: And Lark doesn’t answer.

Narrator 1: Because Lark… really isn’t sure.

[A beat.]

Narrator 2: The ferry is now approaching the pier. Phineas can see a strange creature with flapping, undulating, glowing wings drifting towards him.

Narrator 1: And it is like no ferry Phineas has ever seen or could even have imagined,

Narrator 2: a sort of saddle strapped to its back.

Narrator 3: A manta-ray-like creature fans its way down to hover just there off the jetty, and Phineas approaches.

Narrator 2: A wizened old ferry driver on its back.

Narrator 3: You know the type.

Narrator 1: One of those. The ferry driver looks upon Phineas. [As the ferry driver:] “Just you… apparently?”

Narrator 2: (ferry driver, cont’d) “Well, hop on up!” the ferry driver invites him. “Take a seat.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Uh, I don’t have to… pay you… do I?”

Narrator 2: (ferry driver) “I’m in the Mothers’ employ. This is a public health service.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Oh! Great.” And Phineas sits down.

Narrator 2: What a strange unbalancing feeling to walk across the fleshy warm wing of this ray creature up onto the seats on its back. It seems quite docile and well-tamed.

Narrator 1: Its body gently flowing and flapping, blinking with dim bioluminescence.

Narrator 2: Strange rippling patterns of lights on the underside of its wings.

Narrator 1: As Phineas situates himself in a seat astride the harness on the ferry-creature’s back, the driver begins to hoist the reins…

Narrator 2: Urging the creature back towards the Mothers’ Lazaretto…

Narrator 3: And in a final flurry of panic, Phineas knows now that by taking this course, he will never get the absolution he seeks from Tzila. And he’s also abandoning the last solid lead he had: the remotest chance of succeeding at the assignment given to him by Spahr. Is he making a huge mistake? What good is helping Midst off the books like this compared to pursuing something of incalculable value to the Trust? All his years of diligent work, about to be conclusively wasted.

Narrator 2: “Hold up!” comes a voice from the shore. And Phineas turns to see the last thing he was expecting.

Narrator 3: His head whips around,

Narrator 2: an almost comically relieved expression on his face just for a moment.

Narrator 1: Coming along the pier…

Narrator 2: …Lark and Tzila hurrying to catch up with the ferry before it departs.

Narrator 1: (ferry driver) “All aboard!”

Narrator 3: And Phineas almost says something, but before he can—

Narrator 1: —Lark tersely shakes her head at him.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “We just happen to be going to the Mothers also. We’re not going with YOU. We’re going in the same DIRECTION as you.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Got it.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Just to be clear.”

Narrator 1: And clarity very much established for all parties involved…

Narrator 2: (ferry driver) “Well, alrighty then!” says the ferry driver awkwardly.

Narrator 1: The ferry, fanning its wings, embarks for the Mothers’ Lazaretto.

Narrator 2: It is a short, ethereal journey, schools of tiny glittering fish flickering in the air around them.

Narrator 3: And as they disembark on the equivalent but opposite jetty,

Narrator 2: the massive, ornate double doors of the castle creak open.

Narrator 3: And emerging from them… a figure. Alien. Ambiguous.

Narrator 2: What they can only assume is a ‘Mother.” A tall, elegant figure clad from head to toe in velvety matte black fabric, face completely obscured by a tight-fitting veil, hands gloved and upturned in welcome, head adorned with a tall mantis-like wimple. A strange headdress, almost horned in appearance, producing a striking silhouette.

Narrator 3: (as the Mother) “Welcome to the Lazaretto of the Mothers Merciful. How can we help you?”