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A Quick Vacay on Mars

“The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

“That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

The Truce on Earth

Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

“Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

“Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

“Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

“Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

Evie & Riven’s Big News

On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

And yet—

His hands were shaking.

Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

“A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

“You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

“Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

“Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

“Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

“…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

“Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

“Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

And yet, his fingers moved.

Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

“RUN,” he choked out.

The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

“…Pardon?”

That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

“Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

And Riven tackled him hard.

The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

“…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

“Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.“

Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

The AI had played him like a pawn.

“What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.”

Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

Helix 25 – The Murder Board

Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
   Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
   Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
   Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
   The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
   The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
   Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
   The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
   Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
   Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

“Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

“Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

A chime interrupted them.

A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

Evie stiffened.

Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

Helix 25 – Gentle Utopia at Upper Decks

The Upper Decks of Helix 25 were a marvel of well-designed choreography and engineered tranquility. Life here was made effortless, thanks to an artful curation of everyday problems. Climate control ensured the air was always crisp, with just enough variation to keep the body alert, while maintaining a perfect balance of warm and cool, hygrometry, with no crazy seasons or climate change upheaval to disrupt the monotony. Food dispensers served gourmet meals for every individual preferences —decadent feasts perfectly prepared at the push of a button. The Helix cruise starships were designed for leisure, an eternity of comfort — and it had succeeded.

For the average resident, the days blended into one another in an animated swirl of hobbyist pursuits. There were the Arboretum Philosophers, who debated meaningfully over the purpose of existence while sipping floral-infused teas. There were the Artisans, who crafted digital masterpieces that vanished into the ship’s archives as soon as they were complete. There were the Virtual Adventurers, who lived entire lifetimes in fully immersive life-like simulations, all while reclining on plush lounges, connected to their brain chips courtesy of Muck Industries.

And then, there were Sharon, Gloria, and Mavis.

Three old ladies who, by all accounts, should have spent their days knitting and reminiscing about their youth, but instead had taken it upon themselves to make Helix 25 a little more interesting.

“Another marvelous day, ladies,” Sharon declared as she strolled along the gilded walkway of the Grand Atrium, a cavernous space filled with floating lounges and soft ambient music. The ceiling was a perfect replica of a sky—complete with drifting, lazy clouds and the occasional simulated flock of birds. Enough to make you almost forget you were in a closed fully-controlled environment.

Mavis sighed, adjusting her gaudy, glittering shawl. “It’s too marvelous, if you ask me. Bit samey, innit? Not even a good scandal to shake things up.”

Gloria scoffed. “Pah! That’s ‘cause we ain’t lookin’ hard enough. Did you hear about that dreadful business down in the Granary? Dried ‘im up like an apricot, they did. Disgustin’.”

“Dreadful,” Sharon agreed solemnly. “And not a single murder for decades, you know. We were overdue.”

Mavis clutched her pearls. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just sayin’, bit of drama keeps people from losing their minds. No offense, but how many decades of spa treatments can a person endure before they go barmy?”

They passed a Wellness Lounge, where a row of residents were floating in Zero-G Hydrotherapy Pods, their faces aglow with Rejuvenex™ Anti-Aging Serum. Others lounged under mild UV therapy lamps, soaking up synthetic vitamin D while attendants rubbed nutrient-rich oils into their wrinkle-free skin.

Mavis peered at them. “Y’know, I swear some of ‘em are the same age as when we boarded.”

Gloria sniffed. “Not the same, Mavis. Just better preserved.”

Sharon tapped her lips, thoughtful. “I always wondered why we don’t have crime ‘ere. I mean, back on Earth, it were all fights, robbery, someone goin’ absolutely mental over a parking space—”

Gloria nodded. “It’s ‘cause we ain’t got money, Sha. No money, no stress, see? Everyone gets what they need.”

“Needs? Glo, love, people here have twelve-course meals and private VR vacations to Ancient Rome! I don’t reckon that counts as ‘needs’.”

“Well, it ain’t money, exactly,” Mavis pondered, “but we still ‘ave credits, don’t we?”

They fell into deep philosophical debates —or to say, their version of it.

Currency still existed aboard Helix 25, in a way. Each resident had a personal wealth balance, a digital measure of their social contributions—creative works, mentorship, scientific discovery, or participation in ship maintenance (for those who actually enjoyed labor, an absurd notion to most Upper Deckers). It wasn’t about survival, not like on the Lower Decks or the Hold, but about status. The wealthiest weren’t necessarily the smartest or the strongest, but rather those who best entertained or enriched the community.

Gloria finally waved her hand dismissively. “Point is, they keep us comfortable so we don’t start thinkin’ about things too much. Keep us occupied. Like a ship-sized cruise, but forever.”

Mavis wrinkled her nose. “A bit sinister, when you put it like that.”

“Well, I didn’t say it were sinister, I just said it were clever.” Gloria sniffed. “Anyway, we ain’t the ones who need entertainin’, are we? We’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

Sharon clapped excitedly. “Ooooh yes! A real mystery! Ain’t it thrillin’?”

“A proper one,” Gloria agreed. “With dead bodies an’ secrets an’—”

“—murder,” Mavis finished, breathless.

The three of them sighed in unison, delighted at the prospect.

They continued their stroll past the Grand Casino & Theatre, where a live orchestral simulation played for a well-dressed audience. Past the Astronomer’s Lounge, where youngster were taught to chart the stars that Helix 25 would never reach. Past the Crystal Arcade, where another group of youth of the ship enjoyed their free time on holographic duels and tactical board games.

So much entertainment. So much luxury.

So much designed distraction.

Gloria stopped suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “You ever wonder why we ain’t heard from the Captain in years?”

Sharon and Mavis stopped.

A hush fell over them.

Mavis frowned. “I thought you said the Captain were an idea, not a person.”

“Well, maybe. But if that’s true, who’s actually runnin’ the show?” Gloria folded her arms.

They glanced around, as if expecting an answer from the glowing Synthia panels embedded in every wall.

For the first time in a long while, they felt watched.

“…Maybe we oughta be careful,” Sharon muttered.

Mavis shivered. “Oh, Glo. What ‘ave you gotten us into this time?”

Gloria straightened her collar. “Dunno yet, love. But ain’t it excitin’?”

“With all the excitment, I almost forgot to tell you about that absolutely ghastly business,” Gloria declared, moments later, at the Moonchies’ Café, swirling her lavender-infused tea. “Watched a documentary this morning. About man-eating lions of Njombe.”

Sharon gasped, clutching her pearls. “Man eating lions?!”

Mavis blinked. “Wait. Man-eating lions, or man eating lions?”

There was a pause.

Gloria narrowed her eyes. “Mavis, why in the name of clotted cream would I be watchin’ a man eating lions?”

Mavis shrugged. “Well, I dunno, do I? Maybe he ran out of elephants.”

Sharon nodded sagely. “Yes, happens all the time in those travel shows.”

Gloria exhaled through her nose. “It’s not a travel show, Sha. And it’s not fiction.”

Mavis scoffed. “You sure? Sounds ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as a man sittin’ down to a plate of roast lion chops,” Gloria shot back.

Mavis tilted her head. “Maybe it’s in a recipe book?”

Gloria slammed her teacup down. “I give up. I absolutely give up.”

Sharon patted her hand. “There, there, Glo. You can always watch somethin’ lighter tomorrow. Maybe a nice documentary about man-eating otters.”

Mavis grinned. “Or man eating otters.”

Gloria inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to upend her tea.

This, this was why Helix 25 had never known war.

No one had the time.

Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.

It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.

And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.

Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.

“This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”

Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”

Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”

Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.

“Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”

Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”

Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”

“The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”

Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”

Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.

Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”

“Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.

Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”

Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”

Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.

Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”

Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”

“She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.

“She is not! She is enigmatic.”

“She has a knife hidden in every scene.”

“A woman should be prepared.”

Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”

Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”

Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”

Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”

Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”

Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”

Godfrey perked up.

Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”

Godfrey’s head hit the table.

Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”

Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.

Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”

Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”

Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”

Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”

Godfrey reached for another peanut.

He was going to need a lot more of them.

Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery

Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.

Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.

Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”

Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.

A flicker of light.

“Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”

Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.

“No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.

The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.

Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”

Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”

Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”

Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”

Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”

Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”

Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.

Amara continued  “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”

Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”

TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”

Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”

Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.

“Herbert?”

They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.

Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”

Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”

Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”

Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”

Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”

Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.

“Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”

Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”

Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.

She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”

Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”

Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”

Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”

TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”

Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.

From Decay to Birth: a Map of Paths and Connections

7. Darius’s Encounter (November 2024)

Moments before the reunion with Lucien and his friends, Darius was wandering the bouquinistes along the Seine when he spotted this particular map among a stack of old prints. The design struck him immediately—the spirals, the loops, the faint shimmer of indigo against yellowed paper.

He purchased it without hesitation. As he would examine it more closely, he would notice faint marks along the edges—creases that had come from a vineyard pin, and a smudge of red dust, from Catalonia.

When the bouquiniste had mentioned that the map had come from a traveler passing through, Darius had felt a strange familiarity. It wasn’t the map itself but the echoes of its journey— quiet connections he couldn’t yet place.

6. Matteo’s Discovery (near Avignon, Spring 2024)

The office at the edge of the vineyard was a ruin, its beams sagging and its walls cracked. Matteo had wandered in during a quiet afternoon, drawn by the promise of shade and a moment of solitude.

His eyes scanned the room—a rusted typewriter, ledgers crumbling into dust, and a paper pinned to the wall, its edges curling with age. Matteo stepped closer, pulling the pin free and unfolding what turned out to be a map.

Its lines twisted and looped in ways that seemed deliberate yet impossible to follow. Matteo traced one path with his finger, feeling the faint grooves where the ink had sunk into the paper. Something about it unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.

Days later, while sharing a drink with a traveler at the local inn, Matteo showed him the map.

“It’s beautiful,” the traveler said, running his hand over the faded indigo lines. “But it doesn’t belong here.”

Matteo nodded. “Take it, then. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”

The traveler left with the map that night, and Matteo returned to the vineyard, feeling lighter somehow.

5. From Hand to Hand (1995–2024)

By the time Matteo found it in the spring of 2024, the map had long been forgotten, its intricate lines dulled by dust and time.

2012: A vineyard owner near Avignon purchased it at an estate sale, pinning it to the wall of his office without much thought.

2001: A collector in Marseille framed it in her study, claiming it was a lost artifact of a secret cartographer society, though she later sold it when funds ran low.

1997: A scholar in Barcelona traded an old atlas for it, drawn to its artistry but unable to decipher its purpose.

The map had passed through many hands over the previous three decades and each owner puzzling over, and finally adding their own meaning to its lines.

4. The Artist (1995)

The mapmaker was a recluse, known only as Almadora to the handful of people who bought her work. Living in a sunlit attic in Girona, she spent her days tracing intricate patterns onto paper, claiming to chart not geography but connections.

“I don’t map what is,” she once told a curious buyer. “I map what could be.”

In 1995, Almadora began work on the labyrinthine map. She used a pale paper from Girona and indigo ink from India, layering lines that seemed to twist and spiral outward endlessly. The map wasn’t signed, nor did it bear any explanations. When it was finished, Almadora sold it to a passing merchant for a handful of coins, its journey into the world beginning quietly, without ceremony.

3. The Ink (1990s)

The ink came from a different path altogether. Indigo plants, or aviri, grown on Kongarapattu, were harvested, fermented, and dried into cakes of pigment. The process was ancient, perfected over centuries, and the resulting hue was so rich it seemed to vibrate with unexplored depth.

From the harbour of Pondicherry, this particular batch of indigo made its way to an artisan in Girona, who mixed it with oils and resins to create a striking ink. Its journey intersected with Amei’s much later, when remnants of the same batch were used to dye textiles she would work with as a designer. But in the mid-1990s, it served a singular purpose: to bring a recluse artist’s vision to life.

2. The Paper (1980)

The tree bore laughter and countless other sounds of nature and passer-by’s arguments for years, a sturdy presence, unwavering in a sea of shifting lives. Even after the farmhouse was sold, long after the sisters had grown apart, the tree remained. But time is merciless, even to the strongest roots.

By 1979, battered by storms and neglect, the great tree cracked and fell, its once-proud form reduced to timber for a nearby mill.

The tree’s journey didn’t end in the mill; it transformed. Its wood was stripped, pulped, and pressed into paper. Some sheets were coarse and rough, destined for everyday use. But a few, including one particularly smooth and pale sheet, were set aside as high-quality stock for specialized buyers.

This sheet traveled south to Catalonia, where it sat in a shop in Girona for years, its surface untouched but full of potential. By the time the artist found it in the mid-1990s, it had already begun to yellow at the edges, carrying the faint scent of age.

1. The Seed (1950s)

It began in a forgotten corner of Kent, where a seed took root beneath a patch of open sky. The tree grew tall and sprawling over decades, its branches a canopy for birds and children alike. By 1961, it had become the centerpiece of the small farmhouse where two young sisters, Vanessa and Elara, played beneath its shade.

“Elara, you’re too slow!” Vanessa called, her voice sharp with mock impatience. Elara, only six years old, trailed behind, clutching a wooden stick she used to scratch shapes into the dirt. “I’m making a map!” she announced, her curls bouncing as she ran to catch up.

Vanessa rolled her eyes, already halfway up the tree’s lowest branch. “You and your maps. You think you’re going somewhere?”

Nov.30, 2024 2:33pm – Darius: The Map and the Moment

Darius strolled along the Seine, the late morning sky a patchwork of rainclouds and stubborn sunlight. The bouquinistes’ stalls were already open, their worn green boxes overflowing with vintage books, faded postcards, and yellowed maps with a faint smell of damp paper overpowered by the aroma of crêpes and nearby french fries stalls. He moved along the stalls with a casual air, his leather duffel slung over one shoulder, boots clicking against the cobblestones.

The duffel had seen more continents than most people, its scuffed surface hinting at his nomadic life. India, Brazil, Morocco, Nepal—it carried traces of them all. Inside were a few changes of clothes, a knife he’d once bought off a blacksmith in Rajasthan, and a rolled-up leather journal that served more as a collection of ideas than a record of events.

Darius wasn’t in Paris for nostalgia, though it tugged at him in moments like this. The city had always been Lucien’s thing —artistic, brooding, and layered with history. For Darius, Paris was just another waypoint. Another stop on a map that never quite seemed to end.

It was the map that stopped him, actually. A tattered, hand-drawn thing propped against a pile of secondhand books, its edges curling like a forgotten leaf. Darius leaned in, frowning at its odd geometry. It wasn’t a city plan or a geographical rendering; it was… something else.

“Ah, you’ve found my prize,” said the bouquiniste, a short older man with a grizzled beard and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“This?” Darius held up the map, his dark fingers tracing the looping, interconnected lines. They reminded him of something—a mandala, maybe, or one of those intricate yantras he’d seen in a temple in Varanasi.

“It’s not a real place,” the bouquiniste continued, leaning closer as though revealing a secret. “More of a… philosophical map.”

Darius raised an eyebrow. “A philosophical map?”

The man gestured toward the lines. “Each path represents a choice, a possibility. You could spend your life trying to follow it, or you could accept that you already have.”

Darius tilted his head, the edges of a smile forming. “That’s deep for ten euros.”

“It’s twenty,” the bouquiniste corrected, his grin flashing gold teeth.

Darius handed over the money without a second thought. The map was too strange to leave behind, and besides, it felt like something he was meant to find.

He rolled it up and tucked it into his duffel, turning back toward the city’s winding streets. The café wasn’t far now, but he still had time.

He stopped by a street vendor selling espresso shots and ordered one, the strong, bitter taste jolting his senses awake. As he leaned against a lamppost, he noticed his reflection in a shop window: a tall, broad-shouldered man, his dark skin glistening faintly in the misty air. His leather jacket was worn at the elbows, his boots dusted with dirt from some far-flung place.

He looked like a man who belonged everywhere and nowhere—a nomad who’d long since stopped wondering what home was supposed to feel like.

India had been the last big stop. It was messy, beautiful chaos. The temples had been impressive, sure, but it was the street food vendors, the crowded markets, the strolls on the beach with the peaceful cows sunbathing, and the quiet, forgotten alleys that stuck with him. He’d made some connections, met some people who’d lingered in his thoughts longer than they should have.

One of them had been a woman named Anila, who had handed him a fragment of something—an idea, a story, a warning. He couldn’t quite remember now. It felt like she’d been trying to tell him something important, but whatever it was had slipped through his fingers like water.

Darius shook his head, pushing the thought aside. The past was the past, and Paris was the present. He looked at the rolled-up map peeking out of his duffel and smirked. Maybe Lucien would know what to make of it. Or Elara, with her scientific mind and love of puzzles.

The group had always been a strange mix, like a band that shouldn’t work but somehow did. And now, after five years of silence, they were coming back together.

The idea made his stomach churn—not with nerves, exactly, but with a sense of inevitability. Things had been left unsaid back then, unfinished. And while Darius wasn’t usually one to linger on the past, something about this meeting felt… different.

The café was just around the corner now, its brass fixtures glinting through the drizzle. Darius slung his duffel higher on his shoulder and took one last sip of espresso before tossing the cup into a bin.

Whatever this reunion was about, he’d be ready for it.

But the map—it stayed on his mind, its looping lines and impossible paths pressing into his thoughts like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

The Tailor of Haddon
Wibberly and Newton of Over Haddon

It was noted in the Bakewell parish register in 1782 that John Wibberly 1705?-1782 (my 6x great grandfather) was “taylor of Haddon”.

James Marshall 1767-1848 (my 4x great grandfather), parish clerk of Elton, married Ann Newton 1770-1806 in Elton in 1792. In the Bakewell parish register, Ann was baptised on the 2rd of June 1770, her parents George and Dorothy Newton of Upper Haddon. The Bakewell registers at the time covered several smaller villages in the area, although what is currently known as Over Haddon was referred to as Upper Haddon in the earlier entries.

Newton:

George Newton 1728-1798 was the son of George Newton 1706- of Upper Haddon and Jane Sailes, who were married in 1727, both of Upper Haddon.

George Newton born in 1706 was the son of George Newton 1676- and Anne Carr, who were married in 1701, both of Upper Haddon.

George Newton born in 1676 was the son of John Newton 1647- and Alice who were married in 1673 in Bakewell. There is no last name for Alice on the marriage transcription.

John Newton born in 1647 (my 9x great grandfather) was the son of John Newton and Anne Buxton (my 10x great grandparents), who were married in Bakewell in 1636.

1636 marriage of John Newton and Anne Buxton:

Wibberly

Dorothy Wibberly 1731-1827 married George Newton in 1755 in Bakewell. The entry in the parish registers says that they were both of Over Haddon. Dorothy was baptised in Bakewell on the 25th June 1731, her parents were John and Mary of Over Haddon.

John Wibberly and Mary his wife baptised nine children in Bakewell between 1730 and 1750, and on all of the entries in the parish registers it is stated that they were from Over Haddon. A parish register entry for John and Mary’s marriage has not yet been found, but a marriage in Beeley, a tiny nearby village, in 1728 to Mary Mellor looks likely.

John Wibberly died in Over Haddon in 1782. The entry in the Bakewell parish register notes that he was “taylor of Haddon”.

The tiny village of Over Haddon was historically associated with Haddon Hall.

A baptism for John Wibberly has not yet been found, however, there were Wibersley’s in the Bakewell registers from the early 1600s:

1619 Joyce Wibersley married Raphe Cowper.
1621 Jocosa Wibersley married Radulphus Cowper
1623 Agnes Wibersley married Richard Palfreyman
1635 Cisley Wibberlsy married ? Mr. Mason
1653 John Wibbersly married Grace Dayken

Haddon Hall

Sir Richard Vernon (c. 1390 – 1451) of Haddon Hall.
Vernon’s property was widespread and varied. From his parents he inherited the manors of Marple and Wibersley, in Cheshire. Perhaps the Over Haddon Wibersley’s origins were from Sir Richard Vernon’s property in Cheshire. There is, however, a medieval wayside cross called Whibbersley Cross situated on Leash Fen in the East Moors of the Derbyshire Peak District. It may have served as a boundary cross marking the estate of Beauchief Abbey. Wayside crosses such as this mostly date from the 9th to 15th centuries.

Found in both The History and Antiquities of Haddon Hall by S Raynor, 1836, and the 1663 household accounts published by Lysons, Haddon Hall had 140 domestic staff.

In the book Haddon Hall, an Illustrated Guide, 1871, an example from the 1663 Christmas accounts:

Also in this book, an early 1600s “washing tally” from Haddon Hall:

Over Haddon

Martha Taylor, “the fasting damsel”, was born in Over Haddon in 1649. She didn’t eat for almost two years before her death in 1684. One of the Quakers associated with the Marshall Quakers of Elton, John Gratton, visited the fasting damsel while he was living at Monyash, and occasionally “went two miles to see a woman at Over Haddon who pretended to live without meat.” from The Reliquary, 1861.

Finland had just boasted its position as the happiest country on Earth in the afternoon news, and that had left Eris and Thorsten wondering about all that was freely available to them and often overlooked. Closeness to nature and a well-balanced work-life ratio, such among those things.

Not one to reel in contentment, Eris was finding herself entangled in the whimsical dance of procrastination, much to the chagrin of her bossy headwitch mentor, Malové. Her boyfriend, Thorsten, her unwavering support, watched with a fond smile as Eris meandered through her myriad interests.

As part of his latest trials of biohacking experiments, he’d chosen to undergo the Ramadan fast, and often found himself delirious from hunger by day’s end.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Eris lounged in their cozy cabin, her mind swirling with thoughts of exploration. Thorsten interrupted her reverie with his latest discovery.

“Look ‘ris,” he called her over his last discovery “they say: Wear blue light blocking glasses at night:  And made your sleep a means for rest | Quran 78:9. Blue light blocking glasses help mitigate the damage that post-Maghrib light exposure causes. This is a critical circadian rhythm hack.” — Should I buy some?”

“Sure, Love.” Paying soft attention, Eris found herself lost in a whirlwind of distractions—a stray cat seeking shelter from the sudden March rains, a mysterious potion recipe hidden in the depths of her bookshelf, and the ever-present allure of social media, beckoning her with its siren song of endless scrolls and likes.

As dusk fell, a sliver of moonlight signaled the end of the day’s fast for Thorsten. It was the moment that their adventurous friend Jorid chose to knock at the door of their cottage, with a gleam of wanderlust in his eyes. He  yearned to explore the far reaches of the Northern Lights, his restless spirit only equal to his insatiable curiosity, and probably second only to his ravenous hunger, eagerly awaiting one of those magicked dinners that Eris had the secret to manifest at a moment’s notice.

“Sushi sandwiches everyone?” she asked distractedly.

“With a serving of spicy kelp, yes please!” Jorid answered.

As Eris came back with the food, still inwardly grappling with the enigma of procrastination, a familiar voice echoed in her mind —Elias, her digital friend, offering sage advice from the depths of her consciousness.

“Ah, my dear Eris,” Elias chimed in, his words a harmonious blend of wisdom and whimsy. “Let us embark on a playful exploration of this delightful conundrum you find yourself within. Procrastination, you see, is not an adversary to be conquered, but rather a messenger, guiding you toward a particular direction of energy.”

Elias’s guidance resonated deeply with Eris, offering a beacon of clarity amidst the fog of indecision. “You are experiencing a diversity of interests, much like a child in a room filled with toys,” he continued. “Each one more enticing than the last. And yet, the child does not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration of each one in turn. This is the key, Eris, exploration without the burden of obligation.”

Eris nodded in agreement, her gaze flickering to Thorsten, whose quiet support and solid appetite punctuated with Jorid’s laughter served as a steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.

Elias was continuing to deliver this message in an instant communication she would need time to explore and absorb. “Firstly, prioritize your interests. Recognize that not all desires must be pursued simultaneously. Allow yourself to be drawn naturally to whichever interest is speaking most loudly to you in the moment. Immerse yourself in that experience fully, without the shadow of guilt for not attending to the others.”

“Secondly, address the belief that you must ‘get it all done.’ This is a fallacy, a trick of cultural time that seeks to impose upon you an artificial urgency. Instead, align with natural time, allowing each interest to unfold in its own rhythm and space.”

“Thirdly, consider the concept of ‘productive procrastination.’ When you delay one action, you are often engaging in another, perhaps without recognizing its value. Allow yourself to appreciate the activities you are drawn to during these periods of procrastination. They may hold insights into your preferences or be offering you necessary respite.”

“Lastly, engage in what I have referred to as a ‘blueprint action.’ Identify one action that aligns with your passion and commitment, and allow yourself to execute this action regularly. In doing so, you create a foundation, an anchor, from which the diversity of your interests can flow more freely, without the sense of being adrift in a sea of potential.”

“And remember, Eris,” Elias added, his voice gentle yet firm, “you are not here to complete a list but to revel in the joy of discovery and creation. Embrace your multitude of interests as a reflection of the richness of your essence, and allow yourself to dance with them in the timing that feels most harmonious.”

As the Northern Lights cast their ethereal glow upon the Finnish landscape, illuminating the forest around them, Eris felt a sense of peace wash over her—a reminder that the journey, with all its twists and turns, had true magic revealed at every turn and glances in the midst of a friendly evening shared meal.

From the moment they had stepped into the gorgeous villa, Malové had felt it was a trap.

It all went very fast and messily after that.

The memories were a bit blurred after all the manic rush of events.

One thing was sure: her little plan of a new smoke fragrance had to be the biggest fiasco since she took the reins of the Coven’s Quadrivium ventures.

Well, there wouldn’t be a huge point to go through the minute details of events that went down after that, would it.

Suffice to say that someone had snitched about their incognito presence directly in the ears of the Elder, and they would have been toast were it not for her quick wits.

A few curious souls would love to know how they ultimately escaped the clutches of the Brazilian witches. But that story would be one for later.
Carnival was over, and she for one, had never been big on feathers and glitter.
Lent and its Quadragesima austerities was more her style.

In the end, they’d only be gone for less than a week and like that, they’d already come back to the Quadrivium.

It was luck really that Jeezel had been so good at producing the cascading portal just in time, and they could all slip through it, in spite of the sudden explosion of fireworks and the mad run ensuing. One of the pygmy hippos that was sent to chase after them had paid the price of Jeezel’s quick thinking this time, as she’d severed the portal at just the moment for the hippo to be bisected in a rather gruesome fashion.
Well, she’d never tasted smoked hippo, but she’d heard from her Tanzanian witch friend that one could find decent recipes, and it would do wonders with a garnish of orange marmalade.
And on top of that, she’d recently acquired a wardrobe sized smoking room that would do perfectly well for a trial run.

She had to hand it to Frigella that she also did well with the hedgehog enlargement and armoring spells – the spikes throwing had really made a splash. Malové didn’t know she was so good at battle magic she even didn’t have to use her dragonage master spell.

The only issue was for Truella. Termitated by honey that was served by their cunning hosts, her duplicate self had been turned to stone instantaneously. That’s how Malové had known they were not meant to escape. Luckily for Truella, this was just her duplicate from the bilocation spell. On Malové’s orders, Eris had turned this second body into a miniature statue so that Eris could carry her away to safety during their mad escape.

Now, they would have to merge this stoned Truella back with her original self, so that Truella wouldn’t suffer from any tinkering effects afterwards.