Narrator 2: (Unidentified speaker) “Good day, sir. Costigan is expecting you. Right this way, please.” The butler holds the door and Spahr steps within, uncomfortably recognizing that he is wearing more Caenum than the butler.

Narrator 1: The fashionable townhouse of former Prime Consector Olga Costigan is a shrine to her many achievements.

Narrator 2: Trophies, commemorative plaques, framed newspaper articles, a formal painting of her in full Consector regalia and TWO eyes.

Narrator 3: Back when she still had two eyes.

Narrator 2: The butler leads Spahr through corridors and sitting rooms bedecked with countless articles of splendid, famous memorabilia, and then out through a back door, into a handsome, immaculate formal garden.

[Airy natural ambiance: chirping birds, tinkling wind chimes, a gentle breeze.]

Narrator 3: Enclosed, as everything in the Highest Light is, in sparkling greenhouse-like glass.

Narrator 2: The Un shines brightly, mica glimmers, white clouds waft and roll. The storm has at last blown through, and the weather today is beautiful.

Narrator 1: Costigan’s garden is not large, but it is vibrant and impeccable.

Narrator 3: Perfect beds of high maintenance flower varietals are flanked by sculptural hedges and potted trees.

Narrator 2: In the center, a shallow pond filled with ornamental fish, spanned by a little arched footbridge. Very cute.

Narrator 1: An extravagantly-plumed, astonishingly-colored peacock-ish bird is on a dainty parade across the bridge, taking a tour of the garden grounds.

Narrator 2: And there is Costigan, dressed casually, though Costigan’s version of casual still comes across as crisp, clean, and effortlessly chic.

Narrator 1: You can take the Consector out of the Company, but you can’t take the Company out of the…

Narrator 2: Et cetera, et cetera.

Narrator 1: You know how it goes.

Narrator 3: Since retiring from the Consectorship, she’s poured all that discipline and energy into her garden, and it shows. Also apparently into philanthropic projects as well.

Narrator 2: As Jonas approaches, he sees she is entertaining none other than Mr. Meshkala, executive manager of the Family. You may recall him — we met him back at the Loxlee Gala, and again later in an Upper Trust council meeting.

Narrator 1: Costigan and Meshkala sit at a garden table under an umbrella, drinking floral iced tea, chitchatting about some philanthropy business as Spahr and the butler approach.

[Ice clinks in a glass]

Narrator 2: Costigan sees them coming and waves, her non-eyepatched eye smilingly asquint in the bright unlight. Her white-streaked hair is pulled into a chic twist and she’s using a stylishly long hair pin to keep it all in place.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Ah, Jonas! Val and I completely lost track of time. Please come sit down. We’ll be done here shortly. Oh, and help yourself.”

Narrator 2: And she indicates a dewy pitcher of iced tea and a plate of heirloom rainbow lettuce wraps there on the table.

Narrator 1: (Meshkala) “How do you do, Jonas?”

Narrator 2: Meshkala raises his tea in salute.

Narrator 1: (Meshkala) “Delightful to see you! You look…well.”

Narrator 3: Was that just a little pause there?

Narrator 2: Meshkala smiles, perfectly polite and neutral, and begins to pack up some papers into his briefcase.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Anyway, Val, to make a long story short, I’d love to get together with the rest of the Family board and talk more details soon. I know we’ll see big improvements in Company-track Unlifts with a more streamlined curriculum.”

Narrator 1: (Meshkala) “Most assuredly, Olga, it will be my pleasure. I will present this to my partners and we’ll be back in touch with you soon to schedule a follow up.”

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Terrific. I so appreciate your attention to this, Val. You’re a pleasure to work with, as always.”

Narrator 1: (Meshkala) “The feeling is entirely mutual, Olga, I’m sure. Jonas.”

Narrator 2: Meshkala bids his adieus and takes his leave of the garden, pausing on his way to sniff a cultivated hedge rife with these beautiful dart-like flowers.

Narrator 1: With the exception of the glamorous peacock—

Narrator 2: —type thing—

Narrator 1: Jonas and Costigan are alone together in the garden.

Narrator 2: She examines him with her one good eye.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “So Jonas, what did you want to talk about?”

Narrator 2: It’s weirdly not phrased like a question.

Narrator 1: It’s been a while since Jonas spent any time alone with his old mentor, his old boss, his former Consector. He feels the weight of his Caenum exceptionally heavy upon him today, and it seems to get heavier the longer Costigan looks at it.

Narrator 2: So just to catch YOU up, since hardly anyone in the Trust ever comes out and says what they’re thinking right away, Jonas is here looking for advice from his former Consector, his mentor, his longtime boss, and in some ways, kind of his closest family. Costigan knows him better than his own parents do, that’s for sure. The only person who can really understand the unique pressures and challenges a Consector goes through… is another Consector.

Narrator 3: And in Jonas’s case, he’s particularly looking for the perspective of another Consector, who, shall we say, stepped down under unusual circumstances.

Narrator 2: So he just comes out and says it, abandoning pretense.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “How did you do it? How did you get through this?”

Narrator 2: Even this — this vague, weak admission that he is struggling with something — sends ripples of shame through him. He tries to sit very upright, keep his gaze steady and even, regulate his breathing. Dignity, Jonas. Dignity.

Narrator 3: Costigan finishes a sip of tea and holds up a hand. (Costigan) “Let me stop you right there for a moment, Jonas. Our situations are nothing alike. It’s not helpful to compare them.”

Narrator 1: Jonas waves a hand dismissively. (Spahr) “Oh, of course, no. I didn’t mean to draw any false equivalencies. It’s just that you’re one of the few people who can understand what this is like, and whose advice I respect very much.”

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Ah…”

Narrator 2: Costigan exhibits a wan smile.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “It’s a tough spot you’re in. It must be hard for you to go from being the media darling on the cover of every teen magazine and gossip rag, to being the disgraced subject of opinion pieces below the fold on page eight.”

Narrator 2: Costigan picks up a pair of clippers and begins trimming some woody plant in the pot on the table between them.

[The scrape of a handle, a satisfying snip. Clipping sounds carry on.]

Narrator 1: She trims it so delicately, with such care. Jonas swallows. (Spahr) “Obviously I was your subordinate at the time and I clearly couldn’t really ask you about it, but…”

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Oh, you’re still my subordinate.” She nods at his Caenum abacus. “But go on.”

Narrator 2: Jonas does not betray how this stings him. He replies, levelly,

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “What was it like? For you. To go through that. How did you… how did you accept it?”

Narrator 2: How did you recover? How did you become happy again? Find purpose again? He wants to ask all these things but can’t quite get there.

Narrator 3: Costigan snips a leaf. (Costigan) “Quite easily. My retirement was for the good of the Trust. It’s really not that complicated, Jonas. The Fleit scandal was nothing like this Midst business. Mine was a small, contained situation that was neatly resolved and professionally handled, not a bungled, Valor-tanking disaster that the Trust may never recover from. And MY Adsecla…”

Narrator 2: She looks pointedly at him.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “…wasn’t a mismanaged, weak-willed liability. At least, I didn’t think he was at the time. I don’t know about now.”

Narrator 2: She snips an errant twig off the plant, restoring its silhouette to geometric perfection.

Narrator 1: Spahr takes a slow, deep breath.

Narrator 2: This is just an honest conversation. Tough love is good.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “And anyway, the failure wasn’t anything to do with how the Company handled it. Magdalyne Fleit’s breach stemmed from her own bad choices. There was nothing I or anyone else could have done about it. Senior Notary Fleit’s daughter was ungrateful, spoiled. Milton is a great man and provided every advantage to his daughter, but while he was dedicating his life to the service of the Trust, she allowed her discipline to waver, and her brain filled up with Breach lies. She dragged her husband into it, too.”

Narrator 2: She decisively trims another stem.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Young Milton Junior, though, seems to be turning out nicely, however. A competent Trustee. There is yet hope for the next generation of the Fleit family.”

Narrator 2: In the humid warmth of the greenhouse-like garden, Costigan gently reaches up under her eye patch to wipe away a drop of sweat, momentarily revealing the scarred socket, long healed over, gouged out by Magdalyne Fleit as she struggled for her life.

[A high, keening note emerges from the wind chimes for just a moment.]

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “It’s all for the good of the Trust.”

Narrator 2: Spahr shudders at the sudden intrusive memory. Magdalyne’s screams. Costigan’s fury.

Narrator 1: Spahr has to summon all of his courage to say what he knows he must say next. (Spahr) “I failed… to control the situation on Midst. Families were destroyed. Lives were lost. Didn’t you struggle in the aftermath? How you dealt with the Fleits, orphaning little Milton—”

[Sudden scraping. A crash.]

Narrator 2: Costigan abruptly sweeps the potted plant off the table and it crashes, shattering to the ground as she stands up, leaning across the table at Spahr.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Don’t try to spin it into some pity thing for those people. I was doing my job. It was self-defense. You SAW it happen. You were THERE. We ALL know how it went down. Magdalyne and her husband were violent, refused to listen to reason, and responded to all our de-escalation attempts with defiance. I did the right thing. The ONLY thing.”

Narrator 2: She breathes deeply… before standing up straight again.

Narrator 1: Costigan examines the smashed plant on the ground.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Now, look what you made me do.”

Narrator 1: Spahr feels an almost overpowering urge to get down on his hands and knees, to start picking up the pieces of the pot, to sweep up the dirt and the twigs. But he stops himself. There is a heavy pause as the two regard the mess. Costigan steps in.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Never mind. I made this mess. I’ll clean it up.”

Narrator 2: She does so, decisively, in a matter of moments.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Narrator 2: Costigan looks around the garden breezily — HER garden, her domain — then back at Spahr.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “It’s not that complicated, Jonas. My handling of the Fleit situation was good for the Trust, obviously. Without the loss of his beloved employers, that unstable manservant Ginsberg wouldn’t have cracked. Wouldn’t have breached. Wouldn’t have kidnapped Junior after failing to kidnap Senior. Wouldn’t have been caught mid-escape. Wouldn’t have confessed in interrogation. Wouldn’t have led the Trust straight to Midst. Wouldn’t have given us the chance to acquire the islet in order to gain access to the centerpoint of the entire Breach route, and corner every single one of those pathetic deserters. It was ALL good for us… or it would’ve been, if it hadn’t been mismanaged.”

Narrator 2: She looks pointedly at Spahr.

Narrator 1: She retrieves her shears and walks over to another bush.

Narrator 2: It already looks perfect to Jonas, but apparently it’s in need of some maintenance.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Like I said, our situations are different. If you had acted with a little more foresight, your situation could have also been avoided.”

[A long period of silence. Just the snipping of the shears and the drone of insects.]

Narrator 2: Spahr breaks the terse silence.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “My Adsecla, Phineas, lost control. He believed he was doing the right thing because of what I TOLD him to do. The way I was pressuring him, telling him to be more decisive, more assertive, more sure of himself. I don’t know, I feel like I made him into something he would never have been otherwise. And I feel like all of this, with Sherman Guthrie and his missing daughter Tzila, the mess on Midst… I feel like it’s all my fault.”

Narrator 2: Costigan nods in agreement.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “The moon falling was a bit of bad luck, but you’re right to take responsibility for the rest of it. A Consector is responsible for everything they preside over during their term of service. Your due is deserved. Nonetheless disappointing for ME. Before you arrived, Val was asking how I felt. And I’ll tell you, too: I am disappointed. I thought I trained you to better manage things, but that’s clearly not the case. Do you know how it feels to see your former Adsecla walking around decked in Caenum? Oh, well, of course you do. Yours never had anything else.”

Narrator 2: Spahr feels suddenly protective.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Phineas was a good Adsecla. Most of the time. He tried to be. There was a reason I hand-selected him from all the candidates.”

Narrator 2: Costigan waves her hand dismissively.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Jonas, you’re needlessly hung up on this kid. Your Adsecla is dead. Move on.”

Narrator 1: Spahr’s throat seizes up.

Narrator 2: His gaze lingers on the condensation on his iced tea glass. Tiny droplets rushing down the side, glinting in the unlight.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “So what do you think I should do?”

Narrator 2: This also is weirdly not phrased like a question. It’s not something he really needs her to answer.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “There’s only one thing TO do. The same thing as always: pursue Valor.”

Narrator 1: She gestures at his Caenumous abacus.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “You’ve got your work cut out for you. Don’t be weak, don’t be lazy, and you won’t have any more problems.”

Narrator 1: She puts down her pruning shears.

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Take me, for example. Did I let MY retirement stop me? No. In many ways, I’ve only got MORE going on now. This, here?” She holds aloft a fistful of thorny stems. (Costigan) “This garden? This is just a hobby. I’m deeply involved in philanthropic endeavors. In fact, I was just talking to Val about ways we can restructure the Family’s Company track, since that’s also clearly in need of work. It’s going to be called the Costigan Program. I sit on the Upper Trust council. I’ve been asked to advise on the selection of a new Prime Consector after this Tripotentiary thing runs its course, hopefully quickly. And I don’t even have a balance to pay off. What are YOU doing?”

Narrator 1: Spahr has heard all he needs to. (Spahr) “Well, clearly I’m leaving,” he says firmly, standing from the table. “I have debts to pay.”

Narrator 3: (Costigan) “Thattaboy. Happy to help.”

Narrator 2: Spahr strides off, leaving his iced tea untouched, passing the hedge with the dart-like flowers as he goes. His heart is racing. And well, let’s maybe just check in with him. He’s flushed, feeling embarrassed for thinking he could get anything useful out of Costigan, only receiving the same belligerent lines he’s heard time and time again. Why did he think it would be any different this time, when he’s at his lowest? Costigan was never happy with anything less than perfection from him.

Narrator 1: And he was never happy with anything less than perfection from Phineas.

Narrator 2: But he came here for clarity. And you know what? He fucking got some.

Narrator 1: Yes. As a matter of fact, he did.