So I'm downtown, walking in Shadow having just dined, and this guy is slouching towards me out of Faerie. He’s ordinary, mostly: long hair, sharp features, a perilous look in slitted eyes. Too many teeth. I notice him, but I have places to be. Then soft on the air, I hear the liquid syllables of my name. I freeze, he laughs.
“Remember the whale bao? The girls of Sang de Bayeaux?”
Now I have to look right at him, damn it.
"No, sorry, I don’t.”
It’s not quite a lie. There are rules, and my hands are ringed in iron.