As Bonnie lay settled into bed that night, her mind refused to slow enough for her to capture onto a single train of thought. Was this why they had been sent here? If they were successful, would the lives of the Mojrovians be released from this tyranny? Or was it completely unrelated? She desperately wanted to change what she had witnessed, if only for the sake of Irina and all those like her. And even though it seemed like a lifetime away, Bonnie swore to herself that, should she return unmolested from this mad venture, she would do all in her power to help Irina's homeland. It was aid long overdue.



Though she couldn't see the actual hustle and bustle of Khakov's train station, Bonnie heard plenty. The excited voices of farewells and greeting were tenfold what they had been in the last station. Their fellow passengers were noisily making their way to the platform, glad to be bidding farewell to the source of such stress. Bonnie's lips remained in a rather grim, determined line as she gathered up her belongings and prepared to disembark. She had spoken nary a word since the night before, and it wasn't until the last moment before they left the train that she murmured something about being eager to get to work.

With Edward clutching at Irina, Bonnie held tight to John's hand as they left the train behind. Her eyes swept the area briefly, as though hoping to catch sight of something. But the ghosts of the men who had perished were nowhere in sight. As if nothing had happened at all...

"Where is that delightful cousin of yours, my dear?" Edward asked of Irina, his eyes scanning the station for what was meant to be their ride. The last bit of assistance they would likely receive before being plunged into the frigid world of espionage, alone save for their three companions.

John glanced down at Bonnie in response to her comment about wanting to get to the purpose of their visit to Mojrovia. He, like her, had barely spoken a word since the previous night. He'd lain awake for an hour or two, listening to the sound of her breathing, deep and slow, clash with the quicker beat of the train's steam pistons. Sleep had come reluctantly and when he awoke early that morning, he felt as tired as when he'd laid down in the narrow bunk bed above Bonnie's. He'd wanted to talk to her, though he hadn't know what about; there was hardly anything either one of them could add as a commentary to the night's events. Instead, he'd kept his silence until breakfast.

Khakov station was not very different from the station from which they'd come. It was large and grey, with a severe-looking stone shell from which green-painted steel supports sprouted to meet each other in the glass-vaulted roof, like the ribs of a ribcage. Ornate decoration clustered around the upper-most reaches of the building along lintels and window-sills, but its intricacies were hard to make out as they were stained and blurred by years and years worth of pigeon droppings.

"I do not know," said Irina, her dark eyes darting around the station with some of the old guarded blankness that she'd been imbued with back at the Mission.

John too, was scanning the crowds. There were very few people of the same style and class of dress as them; most were working class, dressed in the clothes of manual labourers of the aprons of servants. A few were beggars; drawn and dirty, with pleading eyes and toothless mouths.

As they navigated this unfamiliar place, he was aware that Bonnie's hand had once again found his own. It was his injured one but, though he could not feel much of the shape and warmth of her hand through the leather of his glove with his remaining digits, he was glad of it.

"There!" said Irina, pointing. Across the way, near to the entrance of the station, there stood a man in a flat driver's cap holding a sign that said 'Wickham & Dunstan' written in a round awkward hand.

They approached the man, who was in his early twenties, tall and slim, looked at them with unexpectedly shrewd green eyes. His hair was dark and curling beneath his hat and a week or two's worth of scruffy beard darkened his chin and jaw.

"Eleanor and Lucas Dunstan? Alexa and Andrew Wickham? I am Feliks, I will take you to your hotel," he said in a thickly lilting accent, examining each of them in turn. Then, when it seemed he had decided what to do with them, he eventually turned to lead the way to the small steam-car that waited in the cobbled street beyond. "But first, you will need some Mojrovian marka. I will take you to an excellent bureau de change," he continued as the engine flared into life. Soon they were off, clattering down Khakov's narrow streets.

As the foursome piled into the car, Bonnie settled herself in with mute determination. Already her mind was racing with ideas; after the incident on the train, no minor action could go unsuspected. At the bank, would they meet with one of their secret allies? Would they receive information, a target? Would they be told in depth about what it was they were meant to discover? Or were they being taken there so that they could rub elbows with the very fiends they were seeking to unveil?

Or were they merely going to acquire money for their stay?

Bonnie's thought occupied her right up to the point that the car hissed to a halt outside of the bureau. There were a few souls wandering the streets there--none who appeared to have any real direction or needs. They simply seemed lost...perhaps looking for one of the towns Irina had told her about. But with their trails, Bonnie could see in relative detail the street on which they'd stopped. A few swaggering shadows suggested living strangers occupied the street as well, but she couldn't understand a word any of them were saying.

"Shall we all go in together, Feliks?" She asked slowly, her doubts about the nature of their visit lingering.

John, however, was close to voicing his suspicions.

"That will not be necessary; we have sufficient marka for our visit," he said, as they trundled through the streets.

When Feliks replied, his voice and the expression on his face did match.

"Inflation is unfortunately very high in my country," he said, shaking his head slowly. Bringing the steam car to a crawl along the curb, he reached into the pocket set into the cab door and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to John as he went on. "I'm afraid you may need a little more, Captain Dunstan."

John frowned, his straight brows knitting together and he deftly unfolded the piece of paper. It said simply: 'They are listening.' His frown deepened. Recording devices existed; they were expensive, of course, but they certainly existed. But none that John had ever encountered were small enough to be concealed within a car without the occupant's knowledge and he had some idea that the Metropolitan police had indeed investigated such a possibility to help them with their work. And here, of all places! In a country that seemed barely able to feed and clothe its own citizens...

Then the logo of North Star (which he would not forever associate with a pentagram) loomed into his imagination. Of course, if North Star were here, then their technology must be too. He decided to give Feliks the benefit of the doubt.

"Very well," he said, finally, sitting back to see where the driver would take them.

As it was, they were taken to a bureau de change. It was a small building tucked away between a hotel and a cafe in what must the most up-market part of the capital. The people that walked the streets here were well-dressed or else obviously foreigners. The de change itself was fronted with a brass filigree over frosted glass and, as Feliks took them inside, they walked over marble-tiled floors past the front desk. The clerk barely looked up at them.

They passed through a dark-stained wooden door, through a larger steel door into what must have once been a walk-in safe. All that it protected now was a few empty crates and paper packages strewn across the stone floor. It was cool there, and the smell of damp permeated the white-washed walls. Feliks laboriously pushed the steel door shut and the clang echoed through the space. Only the dim light of an electric lamp illuminated the scene.

"Thank you," he said, gesturing for them to take a seat on a crate. "For believing me when I told you we were being listened. The authorities here will 'inspect' every government steamcab due to pick up a foreigner. They say it is to maintain standards of tourism when in reality it is to plan listening devices." He half-smiled; the most emotion John had seen him express since they'd first met him.

"Now, please, you must be full of questions. Ask me what you will and I will do my best to give you an answer. Anything else I think you should know, I will tell you afterwards," he said evenly. "Varga said that you would not be afraid of asking questions. Especially not you, Irina," he added with a look of admiration. "I have heard about what you have done for us."

Bonnie of course could not see the note that was passed to John, and so was greatly relieved when her internal questions were answered. All of the cloak-and-dagger business was even more stressful than she had anticipated...But she was glad to have the opportunity to throw some light on their work to be done.

"In truth, we've been told very little of what is to be expected of us," Edward spoke up. His eyes lingered briefly on Irina, as he no doubt pondered the full meaning of Feliks' praise. "Other than that we are to find proof of the corruption that destroyed Irina's home...among other things. But have you any idea who we might track to find this? Or where they might be?"

Being disguised as the upper-class, it would be easier for them to move about. And presumably, any man or woman who they might come across who would be of use in unveiling the wickedness would be more easily reached. But it would do little good for them to simply enter a room and ask who inside it had their hands in North Star's pockets. Subtlety would be likely achieved if they knew who it was they were after. A face, or even a name...

"And once we have proof, how do we get it back to Varga?" Bonnie added. "Through you? Or will there be some other messenger nearby? I presume any probably means of sending a message ourselves would be owned by North Star..."

"I will," said Feliks beneath the unsteady fluorescent light of the electric lamp. "Explain everything that is required of you..."



They left the vault of the bureau de change ten minutes later. The rest of the cab journey was spent in silence as the four inwardly pondered their immediate future.

From what John had understood, their instructions were thus. They were to infiltrate the highest echelons of Khakovian society; a close-knit circle of Mojrovian nobles, industrialists and Russian-Mojrovian military figures and politicians. Under their guise as upper class British tourists, they would install themselves in the penthouse of the most expensive hotel in Khakov (nothing compared to London's standards but of untold luxury to most of Mojrovia's inhabitants) and, fascinated as the more frivolous nobles were by the lavish lifestyles of the West, wait for them to be invited into their fold. There were supporters of the resistance movement, Feliks had told them, within the Mojrovian nobility but for the safety of both parties, their identities would remain a secret for now.

Whilst attending social events and forming contacts, they should attempt to find out as much about the involvement of North Star with the Russian military activity in Mojrovia as possible. By any means necessary, so long as it would not reveal their true selves. Of particular interest was their influence over Russian foreign policy, especially in Mojrovia which acted as the frontier-land between Russia and the rest of a suspicious Western Europe.

They were to meet with Feliks every day at a pre-determined meeting place that would be told to one of the bell-boys- a resistance member- who would in turn deliver a note to them with their breakfast at the hotel. In addition to this, Feliks would act as their cab-driver wherever possible though it was inevitable that some of their new-found noble friends should offer the services of their own steam carriages for their convenience. A sign that would signal danger to their lives, that they had been unmasked and would need to flee the city immediately, would be in the form of a blue lamp lit in the window of their suite. John had been instructed to carry his steam pistol with him at all times, but to pass it off as a military eccentricity if questioned.

All of this subterfuge made John uneasy. He had lived in a world where the policeman and the criminal had been easy to separate. He'd had a uniform. But now... The waters had suddenly become murky and he did not know what he was about to tread on next.



When they arrived at the hotel- a large gothic building in grey stone with florid brass decoration designed to soften its overbearing features- Feliks wordlessly accompanied them up to their suite on the pretext of carrying their bags. Once there, he set them down and spoke, whilst extracting another piece of paper from his jacket.

"I hope this room is satisfaction," he said, passing the note to John, who held it out for all to read. "You have my card, ask the reception to ring if you want a cab."

The note read: 'Find a reason to complain about the suite tonight- these rooms have listening devices in them. We have made sure the suite next door is empty and you will be moved tomorrow. Until then, stay in character.'

"It is custom for a tip," Feliks went on, as John nodded and threw the note in the fire.

"Here," said John, handing him a note, though he knew the other man was not really asking for a tip. "And be here tomorrow at ten o'clock sharp. I'm sure we'll wish to see the city in the morning."

Feliks shot the foursome a brief smile then let himself out.

Bonnie was oddly at ease, now that she knew their goals. Going blindly forward was, coincidentally, especially difficult for her. How could she pretend to be someone she wasn't when she didn't even know who it was she was supposed to be mimicking? And gauging from the voices of her companions (being unable to read the notes herself) when it was or wasn't safe to speak normally was difficult at the best of times.

The evening passed more or less uneventfully. Polite, slightly dull conversation was made by the assumed identities. A feeling was vocally passed around about the rooms being terribly drafty. The evening meal was had, and by the next morning their belongings (or rather, their borrowed belongings) were being transferred to the next room over. Bonnie surprised herself by sleeping well. A sense of surety and direction had always done wonders for her personal sense of peace, she supposed.

But as they dined on a breakfast of simple elegance, Bonnie began to see new troubles arising. She knew common courtesies, and had been raised to be a lady. But many years had passed since then. Lately, she had made numerous friends throughout society, but not through any traditional means. She certainly couldn't count on governmental deviants being drawn to her casual claims to see the dead.

Whatever kind spirit was with the group was watching over them on that first morning, however. After breakfast, and as they were moving out towards the vehicle, Bonnie's skirt caught onto a gentleman's cane.

Her pale face quickly grew hot, hiding every last freckle from view. The man lost his grip on the cane and it clattered to the floor. He began to curse, then realized what had happen and quickly regained his composure. Together they quickly undid the tangle, mumbling apologies or chuckling at happenstance in turn.

In Bonnie's eyes, even at first meeting, there was sometimes a particular light about certain individuals. Their personalities were at times so powerful, so defined, that their spirits shone through even their mortal forms. And without even a full glance, Bonnie immediately distrusted this gentleman.

His accent was broad, but difficult to place. With his cane retrieved, and the attention of the pretty young woman still on him, he attempted to make conversation. "Forgive me, Madam, I was not watching my path as clearly as I should have been."

Bonnie cleared her throat and cast her sightless eyes to the sight. "Quite alright, sir. My husband is waiting, however, I really should--"

"Off to see the sights, are you?" The man flashed a wolfish grin, and waved for his companion to join him. "Perhaps you would like a guide."

Bonnie hesitated. Every fiber of her being wanted to be as far away from this man, and the smudge of darkness she could see of his friend, as was possible. But surely this was these were the types of people they were meant to get into contact with...She swallowed, and folded her hands tightly before herself. "Darling?"

John, realising that Bonnie's footsteps did not follow his own as closely as they had been, had already turned around. His brow dipped in concern as he saw that she'd been approached by a stranger, another guest at the hotel perhaps, but he resisted the urge to gruffly take her away. After all, this was why they were here; to associate with Mojrovian nobles. It certainly did not come naturally to him but he knew he must try to act the part of the gentleman abroad.

"You're making friends already, my dear?" he said, moving to stand next to Bonnie with what he imagined to be the protectiveness of a possessive husband. "Captain Lucas Dunstan. This is my wife, Lady Eleanor Dunstan."

"Ah- English, yes?" said the man's companion. He was older, perhaps in his early forties, with wide-set green eyes and a thin nose that gave him the look of a bird of prey. His accent was thick, thicker than that of the other man, with the clipped consonants and exaggerated 'y's of a native Russian speaker. "Colonel Konstantin Artemyev. This is my associate Mr Marat Samokhin. We are both military men, Captain Dunstan."

"Indeed," said John. "Perhaps of a different sort however."

Artemyev smiled. "Yes. Will you take up Samokhin's offer? I assure you, he is very knowledgeable about the city."

A little way along the pavement outside the hotel, Irina squeezed Edward's arm.

"Look," she said, in a low voice, indicating where John and Bonnie stood, conversing with the newcomers. "Those men are Russian, I know."

Although she held her head high, in the manner of the aristocrat she was supposed to be, there was just a slight stiffening to Irina's stance that betrayed the reflexive fear she felt when she saw them. It was people like them that had killed her family. They might even have been there, how could she know? Tightening her grip on Edward's arm, she folded away the fear as she would have done with one of the blankets back at the Mission in Mile End and began to walk back towards the little group.

Bonnie gladly slipped her arm through John's, looking for all the world like the devoted, shy wife as she inclined her head to touch his shoulder. She allowed a demure smile to grace her features, though the something off about the two men made her want to yank on John's arm and steer the both of them far away. "We really should, Darling. Weren't you just saying how much better it would be if we had a real guide? And one who speaks English, no less."

Edward looked where Irina indicated, and felt his entire body go rigid on him. It felt odd, entrusting someone else to look after Miss Gray when they were in this strange land, and knowing he would not only have to talk to the strangers there, but not interfere in how they talked to her, was uncomfortable to say the least. But he did have a ward of his own to look after. And Irina was more in need of support than Bonnie was, at least in this situation. He forced himself to relax, and try to lead rather than follow her back towards their supposed relations.

"Steady on," He murmured to her before their entered hearing range of the other four. He patted her hand, and smiled at the two Russians. "Good morning, gentlemen. Lucas, is something the matter?"

"These gentlemen have offered to guide us, Andrew," Bonnie said around John's shoulder. She offered the men another smile. "It really is too kind of you, sirs." Then she lapsed back into subservient silence, while Edward took his cue to speak up.

"Too kind indeed," He said, raising his brows just the slightest bit. He looked to John, then back to the men. "Are you from the city originally? Or do you simply holiday here often?"

"No," said Artemyev. "We are both Russian, but I have been in Khakov for six months on business. Mr Samokhin arrived yesterday afternoon and I was about to show him various historical sites across the city. You will join us?"

John didn't have to pretend to look reluctant. "Alright," he said. "As long as we do not inconvenience you, Mr Artemyev."

"Not at all. And these are..." he said, waiting to be introduced to Irina and Edward.

"My brother-in-law, Dr Andrew Wickham and his wife Alexa, who is a native of his country," said John, looking over to where the other two had joined them. Although they had only met four days ago, Irina and Edward seemed to having little trouble looking exactly like husband and wife.

"Really? I admit I suspected as much. There are not many English tourists in Mojrovia," said Artemyev, with a short laugh. "Здравствуйте, миссис Уикхем, вы откуда Хаков?"

Irina smiled. "No, Mr Artemyev. I am from Beograd. You know it?" Any hint of fear or nervousness that had been evident in her grip on Edward's arm was now gone and she addressed the Russian with all the smooth self-entitlement of an noble.

"Yes, but I have never been," said Artemyev lapsing back into English. "Please, join us in our carriage. We were on our way to see the castle at the centre of the Stari Grad, allow us to take you."

Against his instinct, John nodded and held out his hand to help Bonnie into the waiting carriage Artemyev had indicated. No doubt Feliks would be around somewhere, waiting for them but he had said that they would be obliged to accept the offers of lifts from the Mojrovian upper classes. John resolved to find an excuse to go somewhere in the city that evening so he could relay the days happenings to Feliks.

Once everyone was inside, the driver drove them away through the busy morning streets accompanied by the rush and hiss of steam. Unlike back in London, there were far fewer steam carriages here and most people still seemed to use old-fashioned horse and carriages as their means of transport. Rather that drink in the sights and sounds of the homeland she had not seen for two years as she longed to, Irina forced herself to sit back in her seat, feigning idle disinterest and fixed languid eyes on their companions.

Bonnie couldn't decide whether she was relieved of anxious. They weren't going to have to run around pretending to be a family on holiday...that was almost a relief. They could maybe make some headway right off...that was definitely a relief. But there was nothing desirable about being placed in confinement with the two men who were so dark in her eyes. The thought was so uncomfortable, she almost wanted to feign illness so that she could stay behind. It was a foolish and selfish thought, and she pushed it from her mind almost immediately. But what to do? Could she pretend to be charmed by these people, who made her skin crawl every time she felt their eyes on her?

She listened to Irina's voice, exchanging a smiling few words with the one called Artemyev. Irina had faced terrible things and overcome them. Now she was facing them again, and there was not even a tremor in her voice. If Irina could do it, then Bonnie could, too. It would have made her a coward otherwise.

And Bonnie Gray was no coward.

"Oh, Darling, remember? The gentlemen you met with on the ship went on for hours about the castle. How wonderful that we should see it so soon," Bonnie said. She spoke half into John's shoulder once he was next to her, playing every bit of the shy wife.

"Yes, quite," Edward agreed, after having helped Irina into the carriage as well. The city that passed by the windows was an interesting sight...gray, yet somehow colorful. Crowded, yet somehow not. He wondered what it meant to the native in their group; had she ever been to this place before? Or was it just as vaguely familiar to her as the English cities Edward was hoping to see again? To be outside of his homeland was difficult, as it had been in the past. But he couldn't imagine how his temporary spouse was feeling, having it all laid out before her and being unable to act as if that mattered. He cleared his throat. "May I inquire as to what business brings you gentlemen here? Khakov isn't the sort of sprawling metropolis I've grown accustomed to, but surely there is something of interest that has kept you so long?"

"As I said to your husband, Mrs Dustan, I am a military man. I am stationed here, along with my division of the Imperial Army," said Artemyev. "My companion is here for a similar reason, of course."

His long pale fingers twitched back the curtain of the carriage and looked out onto the stone streets before turning his green eyes to first Edward then Irina.

"Might I enquire as to how you and your wife met, Dr Wickham?" he said smoothly.

The tension in John's arms increased slightly and somehow he was glad for Bonnie's closeness. They had, of course, thoroughly discussed their story before even stepping foot off the train but even so, this would be the first time it was truly tested. Falsehoods did not come easily to John but he doubted that they came more easily to Edward. In any case, it was Irina who answered for her faux-husband.

"Andrew was in Khakov on meeting," she said, pausing to smile at Edward. She had put a little rouge on her lips that morning and it made her teeth appear whiter than usual. How different she looked, John noted, from the morning they had met her at the Mission. "This how we met."

John fancied that the slightest disdain for Irina's imperfect English flickered over Artemyev's features but he smiled all the same. John himself feigned disinterest and turned to the window. Beyond the thick glass, they were passing a market place and it buzzed with people; women in long heavily-embroidered traditional skirts with baskets covered in heavy shawls, men in waistcoats with scarves tucked high against the autumn chill.

"You are a scientist then, Dr Wickham? Or perhaps a member of the medical profession?" said Artemyev.

Edward met the other man's eyes with a slightly disdainful smile of his own. Just enough to fit his close-to-home character of the proud medical man. "I have found that the two are very much alike, sir. But I am of the latter profession, yes. The meeting I attended was meant to be regarding a breakthrough in surgery, but I left disappointed. Although," he patted Irina's hand and smiled more naturally, "I daresay I did not go away empty handed."

Bonnie allowed herself a moment of relief; Edward and Irina were doing well. As for her, it didn't take much effort to play the shy, timid wife of a military man. And even if it had been more difficult to quietly rest her cheek against his arm, fiddling with the edge of her glove, she was aided by the persistent dark feeling around the two strangers.

But what was it? That was the difficulty. Was it a foul deed? Or just a vile nature? Bonnie couldn't tell just by being near them. Living spirits were so much sneakier than the dead...often times the trouble with the dead was that they wouldn't keep quiet about their grievances. That was how Bonnie had made her living, for the most part...quieting them down for the peace of mind of her clients and friends. She couldn't just inquire after the two men what it was they had done--or were going to do--that made them so abhorrent to her senses, though. It was a slight, strange relief to feel John's tension through his coat. Maybe he was made uneasy by the other men in a similar fashion to Bonnie herself.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, Bonnie raised her eyes with feigned surprise. The ride had seemed to last ages to her. "Oh, have we arrived already?"

"It seems we have," Edward answered for her, craning his neck outside the window for a look. He exited the carriage after their guides, holding a hand out for Irina after him. "Remarkable structure, isn't it?"

"Is it how you remember, Andrew?" Bonnie called after him. Edward was meant to have been here before, after all. "You spoke so highly of it in the past."

John said nothing but helped Bonnie out of the cab and looked up at the building they had come to see. Like so much of the town it protected, the castle was grey; harsh weather-battered granite and beaten copper roofing tarnished to a drab green. It clung to a hill overlooking Khakov, a backdrop of craggy mountains rising behind it like broken teeth in a punched-out mouth. The few trees planted at its gate and on the banks of its dried-out moat were bare, skeletons of their leaves lying in drifts and scattered on the walkway across to its entrance. They crackled and hushed under John's feet as the unlikely party made their way to the stone archway. A elderly man wearing a vaguely official uniform refused his offer of coins when given a nod from Artemyev then waved them in. John frowned but stepped through into an open courtyard that was empty but for a few rusting cannons and weeds growing through the cracks in the cobbles.

"And how did you meet your wife, Captain Dunstan?" said Artemyev, who was keeping pace with John and Bonnie. His companion was with Irina and Edward.

"I was injured several years ago. Dr Wickham was involved in my recovery and the reconstruction of my hand," said John guardedly. "I met Eleanor through him."

"Injured, really? On active duty?" he said, his shoes clicking on the cobbles smartly. He went over to one of the arrow slots and bent down to cast a shrewd eye over the view.

"In the Crimea."

"By one of my countrymen, then! Well, I would apologise on their behalf, Captain, but I'm sure you returned the favour they bestowed on you," he said, with a laughter in his voice that John despised. "And our countries have all of that behind us now. Do they not?"

"Of course," said John shortly before turning around on the pretence of looking up at a tower on the furthest-most edge of the courtyard. "How do you feel about a climb, my love?" he added to Bonnie, hoping Artemyev would let them go alone. He felt a sudden need to be out of his company, if only for a minute or two. How he was going to manage to keep this facade up for the next few weeks, he didn't know. What on Earth had made Varga think otherwise?

"That sounds delightful, darling," Bonnie agreed, allowing John to take her hand and lead her along the stone walk. She sensed his desire to get away from their guide--it was mirrored in her chest and the relief she felt when Artemyev wandered off to stand with the others showed in her grip on John's hand. She exhaled quietly, trying to let the tension seep out of her shoulders.

The darkness that surrounded the two Crimeans was like a wet shroud. The longer they were near them, the more smothered Bonnie felt. It was getting difficult to act as if she felt nothing. Thankfully, her discomfort could be mistaken as the acts of a shy wife. For all her eagerness in helping Irina's people, she wasn't doing much to actually push the cause forward. Hiding behind John and fluttering her hands when the time called for it.

"You're doing very well," She whispered, once she was certain they were alone. The castle didn't have very many visitors, and the small group far below couldn't possibly hear them. "But what is it exactly we are supposed to learn from these men? I hardly think they have souls, much less any information we could use...if they even had reason to let it slip."