Book 02 - Chapter Three:

By mid-afternoon, the lobby was finally getting the attention it deserved.

Greb stood on the step stool, carefully adjusting one of the framed movie posters while Clockett hovered nearby, polishing chrome fixtures with almost devotional focus. The large trash can on wheels sat open and waiting.

Olivia was on the floor near the desk, flipping through a stack of ancient magazines—yellowed pages, hairstyles that should have been classified as public hazards, ads promising miracles no one should trust.

“Nope.” Flip.

“Nope.” Flip.

Oh gods, this again.

She handed the magazine to Grint without looking. Grint dutifully dropped it into the trash, took another bite of his cookie, and nodded along happily.

“Pane’s chipped,” Greb muttered from above. “Left window. We’ll get around to it.”

Olivia made a note on her pad. “Don’t let it become a decade thing.”

Greb grunted, which meant it absolutely might.

The lobby doors slid open.

A cool rush of air swept through the space—not dramatic, not loud, just precise. Olivia straightened automatically, professional smile already forming as she turned.

The woman who entered did not hesitate.

She was tall, pale-skinned, her long hair so dark it looked almost midnight blue beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights. She wore a sharply tailored dress in blue and silver—elegant, severe, and unmistakably deliberate. She moved with the certainty of someone who had never needed permission.

Greb and Clockett saw her at the same moment.

“Eeep,” Greb said.

They were gone—vanishing down separate hallways with impressive speed.

Grint froze.

His cookie slipped from his hand.

He toppled sideways and hit the floor with a soft thump, landing flat on his back, eyes squeezed shut.

He did not move again.

Olivia closed her eyes for half a second, then stepped forward, nudging Grint lightly with her foot.

“Afternoon,” she said evenly, as if nothing at all were wrong. “Welcome to OtherWorlds Media.”

The woman’s gaze settled on her—cool, assessing, utterly unhurried.

“I have arrived,” she said, her voice chillingly beautiful, “to speak with… Charles Winthrop. If you wouldn’t mind.”

A prickle ran down Olivia’s spine.

“Of course,” Olivia replied, reaching across the desk to press the call button. “He’ll be right with—”

The woman reached out.

Two fingers caught Olivia’s chin.

Just like that.

She tilted Olivia’s face this way and that, examining her with the detached interest one might give a rare artifact. Her stare missed nothing—fur, posture, breath, balance, being.

Olivia forgot words.

Forgot, briefly, how to breathe properly.

“Acceptable,” the woman said.

She released Olivia at the exact moment Charles emerged from the hallway.

He stopped.

Not abruptly—but unmistakably.

Then he inclined his head slightly and spoke to the woman in a language Olivia did not recognize—low, fluid, and old enough to make her ears ache just hearing it.

The woman smiled faintly and replied in the same tongue.

Together, they turned and walked down one of the side hallways, voices continuing softly, familiarly, casually, as if nothing of consequence had just happened.

The corner swallowed them.

“What the FUCK was that?” Olivia snapped.

Grint did not move.

Greb and Clockett cautiously re-emerged from their hiding places, pale and reverent.

“That,” Greb said in awe, “was Queen Mab.”

“Forever may she reign in ice and snow,” Clockett added hurriedly.

“And she said you was Acceptable,” Greb finished. “That’s a great honor.”

Olivia’s hands curled into fists.

“She grabbed my face,” Olivia growled. “Like I was furniture.”

“That’s—” Clockett began, then faltered.

Olivia took a step toward the hallway.

Greb and Clockett reacted instantly, one on each arm.

“No,” Greb said firmly.

“Absolutely not,” Clockett agreed.

“Do not chase Winter,” Greb added.

“I just want to teach her some manners,” Olivia snarled, tail lashing hard enough to rattle the desk. “Queen or not.”

“That’s how you die,” Greb said gently.

Olivia stopped, chest heaving, fury crackling through her.

Grint lay on the floor, still perfectly motionless.

After a long moment, Olivia wrenched her arms free and stalked back behind the desk, slamming her notepad down.

“Next time,” she said tightly, “someone touches my face without asking, I bite.”

The goblins exchanged glances.

“…Fair,” Greb said.

The Station hummed on—quiet, steady, and distinctly aware that Olivia Harrison did not appreciate being deemed Acceptable by anyone, no matter how cold or crowned.

Winter had noticed her.

And Olivia was not impressed.

Olivia never saw the woman leave.

By closing time, the lobby had returned to its usual calm—lights dimmed, phones quiet, doors locked—but there had been no sign of blue-and-silver departing through the front, no chill passing the windows, no sense of resolution.

According to the goblins, this was a good thing.

“That’s… very good,” Greb had said solemnly.

“Means Winter didn’t stomp off offended,” Clockett explained.

“And she didn’t take anything,” Grint added from the floor, where he was still lying. No one questioned it.

Olivia questioned everything.

By a few minutes after seven, she was in the breakroom with Miss LaDonna, arms crossed, tail flicking in sharp, irritated beats as she recounted—again—exactly how she’d been handled.

“She didn’t even ask,” Olivia said, teeth clenched. “She just—” She made a sharp lifting motion under her own chin. “Like I was an object. Something to be inspected.”

Miss LaDonna laughed.

Not unkindly. Not mockingly.

But openly.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, wiping at the corner of her eye, “that sounds exactly like her.”

“That’s not funny,” Olivia snapped.

Miss LaDonna sobered just enough to meet her gaze. “It is, if you’ve known her as long as I have.”

Olivia paced. “She’s supposed to be a Queen. There’s supposed to be— I don’t know—manners? Protocol? Respect?”

Miss LaDonna smiled faintly. “Mab has never confused authority with courtesy. She treats everything like that. Courts. Enemies. Allies. Even her sister.”

“You know her,” Olivia said, incredulous.

“I do,” Miss LaDonna agreed easily. “And for the record, I hold allegiance to neither her nor Titania. That has saved me a great deal of trouble over the centuries.”

Olivia stopped pacing. “So you’re saying she’s just… like that.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

Miss LaDonna’s smile softened. “No. It doesn’t.”

The door opened then, footsteps quick and familiar.

Charles trotted in, looking mildly apologetic, already shrugging his coat open as he spoke. “My apologies, ladies. I was delayed.”

Serving trays began to emerge from impossible pockets, one after another, filling the table with the unmistakable aroma of Southern barbecue—smoked meats, cornbread, sauces from at least three different states arguing amicably with one another.

“I brought variety,” Charles added cheerfully. “In case anyone wished to declare regional loyalty.”

Olivia pushed back her chair.

She was halfway to standing—every word she’d been holding ready to launch—

—when Miss LaDonna’s hand closed gently around her arm.

Not restraining.

Grounding.

“Eat first,” Miss LaDonna said quietly, without looking at her. “Then speak.”

Olivia froze, breath tight in her chest.

Charles glanced between them, saying nothing, already setting plates as if this were the most ordinary evening in the world.

Slowly, reluctantly, Olivia sat back down.

The meal began.

Smoke and sweetness filled the room. Plates passed. Charles chatted lightly, careful and maddeningly normal. Miss LaDonna ate with evident pleasure, humming softly under her breath.

Olivia chewed.

And simmered.

Every bite made the wait worse.

Every moment Charles didn’t acknowledge anything sharpened her resolve.

When the trays were half-empty and the initial hunger dulled, Miss LaDonna dabbed her mouth with a napkin and finally looked at Olivia.

“There,” she said. “Now.”

Olivia pushed her plate away and stood.

“Charles,” she said, voice tight, controlled, and furious. “We need to talk. About your guest.”

The hum of the Station deepened—attentive, expectant.

And Charles, at last, stopped smiling.

“She treated me like an object,” Olivia said flatly. “Like a thing to be appraised.”

Charles sighed—not tired, but careful. “She treated you like something valuable.”

“That is not better.”

“It is… different,” he said. “Mab does not bestow attention lightly. Her standards are exacting.”

“I didn’t ask for her attention,” Olivia snapped.

“No,” Charles agreed gently. “You didn’t. That’s precisely why it matters.”

Miss LaDonna watched them both, amused and sympathetic in equal measure. “My dear,” she said, “Queen Mab does not have the luxury of warmth in public. Everything she does is watched. Interpreted. Weaponized.”

Olivia crossed her arms. “So that makes it okay to grab my face?”

“No,” Miss LaDonna said promptly. “It makes it expected.”

“That’s worse.”

Charles smiled faintly. “Welcome to sovereignty.”

Olivia opened her mouth to argue again—

—and Charles reached into his coat.

Not theatrically. Just… deliberately.

He withdrew a scroll, bound in pale blue ribbon, the wax seal impressed with a sigil that made the air feel suddenly colder. He placed it on the table between them and slid it toward her.

Olivia stared at it.

“…What is that.”

“An invitation,” Charles said. “To an audience. At your convenience. Afternoon tea.”

Her ears flattened. “You’re joking.”

“I assure you,” he said dryly, “she does not joke in writing.”

Miss LaDonna leaned forward, eyes bright. “Oh, this is interesting.”

Olivia didn’t touch the scroll. “Why.”

“Because,” Charles said carefully, “she holds you in very high regard.”

Silence.

“That’s a terrible way to show it,” Olivia muttered.

“Yes,” Charles agreed. “She’s dreadful at that.”

He steepled his fingers. “Olivia—Mab in public is Winter. She must be. Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown, and all that rot. There is no softness permitted when the world is watching.”

“And in private?” Olivia asked suspiciously.

Charles’s mouth twitched.

“Well,” he said. “If she removes the Crown… then you are no longer speaking with Queen Mab.”

Miss LaDonna smiled, slow and knowing. “You’re speaking with Maybelle.”

Olivia blinked. “Her name is Maybelle?”

“In chambers,” Miss LaDonna said lightly, “she’s quite charming.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed as she looked between them. “You both know this from experience.”

Miss LaDonna laughed outright. “Oh, Charles knows this from experience.”

Charles coughed delicately. “Miss LaDonna—”

“Oh hush,” she waved him off. “If you’re going to be immortal and interesting, people will speculate. Especially when private chambers are involved.”

Olivia stared at him. “You and the Queen.”

Charles did not deny it.

He merely smiled, a little ruefully. “It was… a long time ago. And more than once.”

Miss LaDonna added sweetly, “Winter is very cold. One seeks warmth where one may.”

Olivia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

Charles pushed the scroll a little closer to her. “Take it at face value,” he said. “Go. Be respectful. Drink the tea. Do not test her patience.”

“And if I do?” Olivia asked.

Charles’s eyes flicked briefly, meaningfully, toward the window. “I truly don’t believe she needs another sculpture for her gardens.”

That got Olivia’s attention.

She picked up the scroll at last, turning it over in her hands. The ribbon was cool to the touch.

“…She really thinks I’m acceptable,” Olivia said quietly.

Charles nodded. “More than that. She thinks you matter.”

Olivia exhaled, long and slow, some of the fury finally bleeding off into wary contemplation.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Miss LaDonna smiled. “Good girl.”

Olivia shot her a look. “Do not start.”

Charles relaxed, just a fraction. “When you’re ready,” he said. “Winter will make time for you.”

The Station hummed softly—aware, approving.

Friday, mercifully, behaved itself.

The Audience had been scheduled for the following week—with Olivia’s permission—and while she still wasn’t thrilled about it, she had agreed. Charles had promised he’d be there the entire time, which helped. Not enough to make her happy, but enough to make her willing.

By early afternoon, the familiar Friday rhythm set in.

Doctor Torpor arrived first.

He stopped immediately beside the artificial ficus near the vending machines and launched into a heated critique of Franz Ferdinand’s role in the outbreak of the First World War, gesturing sharply at the plant’s broad plastic leaves.

“This is precisely the sort of reductive thinking that leads to disaster,” Torpor snapped. “A single assassination does not a world war make—”

The ficus did not respond.

Forty-five minutes later, Torpor was still arguing.

Mid-rant, Caretaker Collins slipped through the lobby doors, dragging his wheeled case behind him. The haunted doll Alice rode atop it, staring blankly ahead. Neither of them spared Torpor so much as a glance. Collins signed in, collected his assignment without comment, and disappeared down the hallway toward his studio, Alice bobbing faintly with each step.

Not long after that, Mistress Malicious swept in, all presence and perfume, followed closely by Baron Morbid and Jacque—Jaque gesturing theatrically at absolutely nothing. Al Omega arrived carrying Bob the skull under one arm, Geoff Arbuckle tagging along beside them, cheerfully explaining he’d “caught a ride.”

They signed in, took their assignments, and vanished into the warren of studios with practiced ease.

Finally—finally—Doctor Torpor stormed away from the ficus in a visible huff.

“Stupid chlorophyll abusers,” he muttered, stalking up to the desk.

He signed in sharply, then paused, peering at Olivia with critical interest.

“Hm,” he said. “Your fur is markedly sleeker today. What shampoo are you using? I may require it.”

Olivia smiled sweetly. “I’ll write it down for you.”

Torpor nodded gravely, ignoring the fact that his black-and-white skin was entirely hairless, then swept off toward his studio, clearly satisfied.

By the time the lobby clock crept toward five, Olivia felt settled. Centered. The Station was full, humming happily, exactly as it should be.

That was when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

She barely flinched.

“Nice try, Oliver,” she said pleasantly.

The man stepped back into view—ragged jeans, black hoodie stained beyond redemption, a baby-faced mask smiling blandly at the world.

“Well,” he said, voice perfectly clear despite the mask, “back in the good old days you’d still be screaming.”

Olivia laughed. “And five minutes later you’d have me trussed up and hanging from some pipes in your basement, right?”

Oliver shrugged. “Tradition matters.”

They chatted a few minutes more—nothing important, nothing alarming. He signed in, collected his assignment, and headed down the hall toward his studio as the lobby doors locked automatically behind him.

Olivia watched him go, tail swaying lazily.

Another Friday.

Another day where the strange had settled into something like home.

And for the first time since Winter had brushed her chin and called her Acceptable, Olivia felt—if not calm—then at least certain of one thing:

Whatever came next, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.