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London, as usual, pretended not to care.
Grey sky. Wet stone. The kind of air that seeps into your clothes and refuses to leave. A city built on centuries of secrets has very little interest in acquiring new ones—unless they know how to behave.
The address led me to a building that looked forgettable on purpose. Old, well maintained, and entirely uninterested in attention. The sort of place that knows exactly what it is hiding and sees no reason to explain itself.
I knocked.
The door opened immediately.
That was my first clue.
Inside, the room was warm and orderly in a way that felt… rehearsed. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books that had clearly been read—but not loved. Maps hung in careful alignment: nautical charts, star charts, and several things that looked like maps only if you already knew what they were meant to describe.
And there he was.
He stood when I entered. Not hurried. Not delayed. Exactly when expected.
Which bothered me more than if he had been late.
“Private Collector N,” he said. “Your journey was uneventful.”
It wasn’t a question.
“London usually is,” I replied. “That’s why people who don’t quite belong here seem to enjoy it.”
A corner of his mouth moved—almost a smile, but not quite. As if the expression had been calculated first, then softened for human consumption.
I noticed things.
His posture was relaxed, but never casual. His eyes met mine without hesitation—and without curiosity. Most people look at you. Glen looked through me, as if confirming something, then politely returned his attention to where it belonged.
He gestured to a chair. I sat.
Between us, on the table, lay the artifact.
Clean. Silent. Pretending to be inert.
“You sold it,” Glen said.
“I did.”
“You did not expect it to sell for that amount.”
“I expected it to behave,” I replied. “It didn’t.”
“That is because it was never meant to be evaluated by market logic,” he said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“You bought it,” I said. “Which tells me you already knew what it was.”
“I knew what it represented,” Glen replied. “Not what it would do here.”
Ah.
That particular word choice raised a small, polite alarm in my head.
“You speak as if ‘here’ were optional,” I said.
“It often is,” he replied.
Too smoothly.
I leaned back.
“You’re careful,” I said. “Careful with words. With posture. With timing. People usually hide things out of fear. You hide things out of habit.”
That was my second clue.
Glen did not react.
No defensiveness. No irritation. No denial.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a correct observation.
“I adapt,” he said. “It is necessary.”
“To what?” I asked.
“To the rules of the world I am currently in.”
That was my third clue—and the one that mattered.
I glanced at the artifact.
“This thing,” I said, “doesn’t belong here. I know that. You know that. The difference is—you know where it does belong.”
“Yes,” Glen said.
“And you can get there.”
“Yes.”
I watched him more carefully now.
No unnecessary movement. No hesitation. Breathing steady. Heartbeat… well, I couldn’t hear it—and that annoyed me more than it should have.
“You talk,” I said casually, “like a machine that learned manners. Or an autistic child who learned diplomacy.”
That did it.
Not much. Just a flicker. A recalculation behind the eyes. A pause so brief it might have been imagined—except I’ve learned not to ignore moments like that.
“Entirely?” he repeated softly. “No.”
Silence settled between us—not awkward, but deliberate.
“I am a Licentiate,” Glen said at last. “My work involves translation. Negotiation. Maintaining balance.”
“Between what?” I asked.
“Systems,” he said. “Intelligences.”
“And?” I prompted.
He met my gaze fully now.
“And sometimes,” he said, “between outcomes.”
I exhaled slowly.
The artifact remained between us, unmoving.
“And this,” I said, tapping the table lightly, “is part of your work.”
“It is a reference point,” Glen replied. “A stabilizing element.”
“And you need me,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Because I find them.”
“And because,” he added after a moment, “you are not predictable in the ways that matter.”
I smiled.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
Glen stood.
“Private Collector N,” he said, “if we are successful, nothing remarkable will appear to have happened.”
“And if we aren’t?” I asked.
He considered that.
“Then,” he said carefully, “remarkable events will become unavoidable.”
I stood as well.
“Well,” I said, “you should have mentioned that earlier. I might have negotiated better seating.”
For the first time, Glen laughed.
It was brief. Unpracticed. Human.
Which told me more than anything else he had said.
The artifact remained silent.
But I could have sworn it was listening.
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