“Hmph! Try this on for size!” Uberta pointed at Wentsworth. His clothes faded away into swirling mists, which—mercifully—were opaque.

  “How dare you disrobe me!” the man complained.

  When the mists cleared, Wentsworth was wearing a snug orange turtleneck sweater with thick-rimmed 1960s glasses and bellbottoms.

  He eyed himself grimly. “How dare you,” he repeated.

  Uberta giggled. “Oh, that is groovy! Tubular, even!”

  Yes! thought Proto. It’s spreading!

  “Sorry, is my 1960s flower-child showing?” she went on, tittering at the disgruntled man.

  Wentsworth tugged the bellbottoms’ fabric with a curled lip. “I’m all for uncovering dark and forgotten things from the distant past. But some things really ought to stay buried beneath the sands of time.”

  “You’re telling me?” she said. “Mister I-Smoke-a-Pipe-and-Wear-a-Pocketwatch-and-Suspenders?”

  “Braces are far superior to the belt, and always have been,” he stoutly declared. “Belts—like girdles for men!” He shuddered.

  Uberta rolled her eyes again. “You misogynistic Edwardian dandy!”

  “You beatnik flora-maiden Yank!” he replied.

  Uberta smoothed her snug sweater. “And proud of it!”

  “Well, now I’m one too,” grumbled Wentsworth, looking himself over.

  She snickered. “Flora maiden.”

  Wentsworth peered at her in thought, then snapped his fingers. Mists swirled briefly about the woman. Then, he smiled widely. “Ah. Much better.”

  Uberta looked down. She was wearing a Gothic dress in black, green and purple. It had curvy frippery that was reminiscent of squid tentacles, as well as a daring neckline.

  She gasped and widened her eyes behind her glasses—which now had curvy rims resembling tentacles.

  Wentsworth threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, lovely! Devastatingly lovely! Is this the dress that sank a thousand ships? Sure looks like it, with those tentacles!”

  Her lips curved up. “Joke’s on you, Wentsy. I actually kind of like this.”

  “Oh, aren’t we just right for each other, Birdie?” he mused.

  “How right?” she coyly asked.

  He clasped her fingers. “Shall I count the ways?”

  She clutched his hand to her breast. “Show, don’t tell!” she breathed.

  “You two thirsty?” Proto held up the two drinks.

  He hadn’t wanted to spoil the moment. But at this point, he felt this was his last chance to avoid crossing the line from politeness into voyeurism.

  “Ah!” Wentsworth withdrew his hands from Uberta’s bodice. “Yes. I certainly was. Am. Ahem. I hope that’s whisky.” He took his Scotch.

  Uberta sighed and eyed Proto balefully.

  Proto winced out an unspoken sorry, as Wentsworth tipped his glass back.

  “Mmm.” Wentsworth nodded in approval. “The Scotch do have their uses, don’t they?” He sipped again. “Mm! Who would’ve thought spending a lifetime sitting in rustic dankness would make for such fine spirits? Well, fine spirits in casks, rather prickly spirits in kilts.”

  Proto wasn’t British enough to follow all this. Instead, he gestured at Wentsworth’s snug orange sweater. “I like the digs.”

  “Hmph. Pardon, I don’t speak 21st century American,” replied the mustachioed man. “Would you try again in the Queen’s English?”

  “The King’s English, you mean?” asked Proto.

  “Ah. Yes, I do, don’t I?” Wentsworth beamed. “The pendulum had to swing back, didn’t it!”

  “Ignore him. He’s a prewar British gent,” said Uberta.

  “Aren’t we all, deep down?” said Proto.

  “Ah-ha-ha!” Wentsworth wagged a finger happily. “Isn’t that what I always say, Birdie? They’re all like us. We just don’t bury it like others do now!”

  Uberta sighed, as Proto’s lips quirked up. He decided he liked this guy. He was like Fyrir’s British uncle.

  “As long as we’re getting all dressed up.” Proto waved a hand and was enswathed in mist. Moments later, he was wearing a morning suit, complete with waistcoat and tail.

  “Ah, now there’s a Chaos Progeny!” admired Wentsworth. “There’s a man who knows what’s what.”

  “You are all the same, deep down,” lamented Uberta. “You only want one thing, and it’s disgusting!”

  “A noble title?” suggested Wentsworth.

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  “A milk bread sandwich?” suggested Proto.

  “To know what’s what!” Uberta answered. “I don’t know what it means, but it’s always bad!”

  “It’s just how we are, Birdie,” Wentsworth placated. “You still fancy me, yes?”

  “ . . . yes,” she sighed. “Just don’t wear a tailcoat.” She waved toward Proto.

  “Of course, Birdie,” the orange-turtlenecked man assured her, then leaned and elbowed Proto. “Save it for the other birds, eh? Eh?”

  Proto wagged a finger in agreeable reproof. “Eh!”

  “All the same, deep down!” cried Uberta. But she clutched Wentsworth’s arm and held him close.

  Proto was on the verge of asking Wentsworth for some men’s fashion tips, when he remembered: Deus ex machina! Fate!

  Against all odds, he finally had a plan. He finally knew what’s what. And he’d almost forgotten it!

  “Well, Wentsworth, Uberta,” said Proto. “The time has come.”

  Their eyes widened, then narrowed. They exchanged a glance, then peered at him.

  “We’re not sure what you mean,” Uberta cautiously said.

  “No? Aitvaras would be disappointed,” replied Proto.

  The words of the squid-faced Daemon echoed through Proto’s memory: You will have a chance to entrust something to my two servants here. You will not want to do so. You will have good reason not to do so.

  Well, the squidman had been right. Proto would rather not entrust anything to these two, let alone this. But, when your only tool’s a screwdriver and you don’t have screws, sometimes you gotta work with screwballs. Or something.

  Wentsworth glanced again at Uberta, eyes alight. “We remember! Of course we remember.”

  “What must we do?” Uberta leaned forth eagerly in her squid-motif dress.

  “It’s simple. A dream visit. Not so different from what Somnus has you do.” Proto proceeded to give them detailed directions.

  “That’s . . . hm.” Uberta’s lips pressed nervously. “Giving explicit directives to dreamers about what to do in the real world—it’s a dangerous business. Half the time, they end up thinking they’re prophets!”

  “Well, maybe they are, in this case,” waved Wentsworth. “This came from Aitvaras, after all.”

  “You’re always dismissing my professional experience!” chastised Uberta, planting her hands on her hips. “You’re not even a provisional visitor!”

  “I’m a man of Aitvaras. Who cares about empty titles?” said Wentsworth.

  “You, as of two minutes ago, Mister Nobility!” she retorted. “What if something goes wrong? What if I end up Lost in the space between dreams? All alone! Would you come rescue me, Man of Aitvaras?”

  “My dear, I would chase you to the ends of the unbreathing realm to bring you home again,” Wentsworth responded evenly.

  “Oh?” Uberta looked doubtful but not displeased. “Would you really, Wentsy?

  “A gentleman doesn’t repeat himself.” Wentsworth turned to Proto, as she scoffed and rolled her eyes. “That leaves just one question, Sir: Whom? Whom should we visit?”

  Good use of “whom.” Helen would approve, mused Proto.

  “The answer is,” he said—then paused.

  This was it, wasn’t it? This was a Big Deal. This choice would affect everything.

  Not so big compared to saving the future, of course. Next to that, this was just a little thing, affecting a few people’s personal circumstances.

  But that’s the only way to be happy in a topsy-turvy world, supposed Proto. Make a Big Deal of some little things and belittle some big things.

  He smirked at himself, wondering if he’d seen that on a bumper sticker.

  Focus, Proto. Wentsworth and Uberta now were staring at him in anticipation.

  “Yes? Go on!” urged the turtlenecked mustachioed man.

  Proto pondered his future, and all his possible futures. He couldn’t remember them all right now. He saw only the faintest outline of those Possibilities, looming beyond the mists of memory.

  But that was as it should be. That was enough. His heart supplied the rest.

  “The answer is,” began Proto.

  “Yes?” Uberta eagerly entreated.

  And he told them. He gave a name, a description, and a short biography. “That’s enough for the Shadowcaster, right?”

  “Plenty,” assured Wentsworth. “I daresay, I’m rather a whiz with the Shadowcaster, second only to a certain lass in a chiton. And the Lord of Dreams himself.”

  Uberta thumbed at her colleague. “He knows what’s what.”

  “Why, Birdie, that’s high praise. Smashing praise!” Wentsworth beamed. “That’s what the lads say now, yes? Smashing praise from a smashing lass.”

  “Congratulations, you’ve reached 1950,” replied Uberta, then turned to Proto. “We should go, before he reaches 1965 and starts calling me gnarly. Or mondo.”

  “I’d suggest tubular,” Proto urged the prewar English gent.

  “Duly noted!” Wentsworth sipped his Scotch. “But yes, we should be off. Can’t have Somnus wondering where we are. Cheerio, Proto.”

  Proto started to wave farewell, then paused as the word “cheerio” stirred up a forgotten memory:

  Wentsworth had inclined his head knowingly, leaning in close and murmuring, “Ahh, yes, of course. Can’t say those things here. Ears in all places, eh? My lips are sealed! But good comes of ill sometimes, eh? By the grace of . . . well, you know. Life is good. Cheerio, Proto. . . . Oh, by the way, that ginger lass you visited is doing well! Says to say hi.”

  “Actually, one more thing.” Proto felt the words rushing out before he’d fully formed the underlying thought—before he’d fully grasped the implications of what he’d just remembered. “There’s one more person I need you to visit.”

  “Oh?” Wentsworth tilted his head curiously.

  “Um, you don’t want us giving real-world directives to this person too, do you?” asked Uberta. “Because it’s one thing if Aitvaras wants us to. But I mean, it’s dangerous, and if this isn’t for him . . . ”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Proto assured her. “It’s a girl named Mercune. Red hair, late teens. Adoptive daughter of the famous scientist Fyrir. Moving to Dubai soon. Uberta, I think you’ll be assigned to visit her sometime. And, Wentsworth, you’ll be joining her.”

  “Your knowledge of things at the Palace never ceases to amaze me,” marveled Wentsworth.

  “Yeah. So, this Mercune.” Proto pondered what to say, then shrugged. “Visit her from time to time, okay? Try to help her have a happy life. Like, really go out of your way, okay? She has a lot on her shoulders. Be good to her.”

  Wentsworth and Uberta looked at each other. Then, they both nodded—him solemnly, her with a kindly smile.

  “I’ll do my best!” declared Wentsworth. “I confess, I’ve never gotten on well with gingers. I’m from the southeast, it’s in the blood! But I’ll do my best.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense!” chided Uberta. “Lost Spirits don’t have blood and can’t be from the southeast.”

  “Home is where the heart lies!” the man retorted indignantly. “Anyhow, we’re off. Be well, lad.” He turned and, taking Uberta’s hand, strolled out of the room toward the grey mirk waiting outside the house.

  Proto couldn’t help smiling, despite everything. “Remember, keep this secret! No one can know we met here.”

  “Worry not, my good man,” replied Wentsworth. “I serve the Father of Mystery! The Lord of Secrets! I keep unknown the unknown as a matter of professional—”

  “Stop bloviating and just say gotcha!” scolded Uberta. “Sheesh!”

  “Gotcha? Sheesh?” repeated Wentsworth. “I’m a prewar English gent! From the southeast!”

  And that was the last Proto heard from them for some time—at least, as far as he would remember.

  Well, that’s that. He’d done what he’d meant to do, and a bit more too. Now, it was time to wake from this dream and go to the realm of dreams.

  With slumped shoulders and a wistful smile, he stared at nothing for a moment.

  Then, leaving Illusion of Gaia playing itself on the CRT T.V., he departed his bedroom and approached his house’s front door. It was ajar, and mists of whitish grey were swirling just a few yards past the doorstep. He faced the cloudy welter.

  With the adventurous notes of Awakening the Wind still sounding faintly in his ears—facing prospects known and unknown, fated for aeons and changing by the day—he stepped into the mirk. And he was swept away at once, headlong and topsy-turvy, his tailcoat flapping in his wake.