Genevieve Cogman

There were clear class divisions among the protestors: the upper-class ones stood back and gave the orders, while the lower-class ones did the actual work. Some things didn’t change, no matter how many worlds you visited.

“I dislike the fact that she treated you like a servant,” Kai commented. His voice had an undertone to it that promised reprisals.

“Leave it for the moment,” Irene said wearily. “I’m not going to waste my time feeling insulted. And don’t you think we’ve got more serious problems to consider? Much more serious problems?”

What is written can be erased, alas.

And, really, Erda had put the basic problem in a nutshell. Everyone here viewed damage to their own particular interest as more significant than damage to anyone else’s. Whatever the scale of the damage.

“I have a complicated relationship with my parents. It’s a good relationship, but…”

“You hardly ever see them!”

“Yes, that’s why it’s a good relationship.”

She was trying to work out who these men were working for. Were they Qing Song’s minions, random gangsters, specific gangsters, or undercover police? So many enemies, so little time.

Walking through a library—any library—as they made their way to the exterior had its usual comforting, balancing effect on Irene. It was a reassurance that such places existed and that they would continue, even if she herself was as temporary as any other human.

They did attempt to leave the European Union last year, but apparently that was prompted by demonic interference.

Be careful. Be diplomatic. Try not to blow anything up.

The news was highly coloured, even if the print was black and white.

“Oh, history,” Silver said, cutting her off. “You’ll be talking about reality next, as if it were something special too.”

It was only a hypothesis, but it made an uncomfortable amount of sense.