Dinner was already in full swing when they entered the breakroom.

  The long table was crowded, chairs pulled close together, voices overlapping in comfortable chaos. Hosts drifted in and out between bites, some still half in costume, others loosened and relaxed, laughter rising and falling like a tide. The buffet counters were picked over but still abundant, steam rising from warm dishes and the clink of cutlery underscoring the hum of conversation.

  “Ah! There they are!” someone called.

  A chorus of greetings followed as Olivia and Charles made their way inside.

  Miss LaDonna, seated at the far end of the table with a cup of tea and an immaculate posture, looked up and smiled warmly. “Well?” she asked Olivia. “Was your shopping trip successful?”

  Olivia grinned, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under so many curious gazes. She stepped to the counter, set the laptop down carefully along with the small bag of accessories, then held up her new phone.

  The reaction was immediate.

  “Ohhh,” came from several mouths at once.

  “Lovely finish,” someone murmured.

  Victor Von Psychotron leaned closer, peering over his glasses. “Is that the new Mk Four?” he asked, impressed. “Very nice. Functional and durable. That must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”

  Before Olivia could answer, the room erupted into chatter.

  “I had the Mk Two for a century before upgrading—solid piece.”

  “No, no, the Mk Three had better translation matrices.”

  “I still prefer the old rune-backed models. Less temperamental.”

  “Mine once survived a temporal inversion without losing signal.”

  Phones appeared from pockets, sleeves, coats, and places Olivia didn’t think had pockets. Devices of crystal, brass, bone, living wood, and softly glowing stone were passed around, compared, debated, and praised.

  Olivia listened, smiling, then gradually realized something odd.

  None of them looked… normal.

  No glass slabs with black bezels. No cracked plastic cases held together with hope. No frayed charging cables.

  Every single device in the room was something else entirely.

  She glanced down at her new phone—sleek, crystalline, faintly humming with quiet power.

  Huh, she thought.

  Apparently, she’d been the last holdout.

  The realization didn’t bother her as much as she’d expected. If anything, it felt like crossing an invisible line—one she hadn’t known was there until she’d stepped over it.

  She caught Charles watching her from the end of the table, that knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  Welcome, it seemed to say, to the rest of the world.

  Olivia helped herself to a pot pie from the buffet—golden crust, steam escaping the moment she cracked it open—and carried it back to her usual seat. As she settled in, she glanced around the table at the assorted Hosts, their strange, beautiful, decidedly non-mundane devices still being passed around and debated with great enthusiasm.

  She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then looked straight at Charles.

  “So,” she said, very plainly, “what about you, mister Goblin of the Winter Court? What kind of phone do you have?”

  For half a second, the table went still.

  Then Miss LaDonna pressed a napkin to her mouth, shoulders shaking. Victor made a sound suspiciously like a snort. Someone further down the table outright choked on their drink.

  Charles, for his part, merely smiled.

  “Oh, an excellent question,” he said mildly.

  He set his teacup aside and reached deep into his coat—deep—his arm disappearing far past the elbow. After a moment of deliberate rummaging, he withdrew something and laid it gently on the table.

  It was… a handset.

  Ancient-looking, carved ivory worn smooth with age, bands of tarnished brass worked into elegant filigree, and polished ebony forming the grip. A thick, coiled cord emerged from the base and vanished back into the impossible depths of his coat, tugging slightly as if connected to something very solid and very far away.

  “I prefer something a bit more… traditional,” Charles said, holding it out to her.

  Olivia stared.

  She leaned forward, eyes wide, and very carefully took the handset in both hands. It was warm—not hot, just comfortably so—and heavier than it looked, with the unmistakable weight of something built to last.

  “…Is this,” she asked slowly, “an actual corded phone?”

  Charles inclined his head. “Quite.”

  “But,” she went on, turning it over, “where does the cord go?”

  He smiled wider. “Yes.”

  That earned a fresh wave of laughter around the table.

  Olivia laughed too, shaking her head as she handed it back. “Of course it does.”

  Charles returned the handset to his coat with a practiced motion, the cord slipping back out of sight without so much as a snag.

  “Never needs charging,” he added casually. “Excellent reception. Works across Realms. And it rings only when it truly matters.”

  Miss LaDonna reached over and patted Olivia’s hand fondly. “He’s had it longer than most civilizations have had plumbing.”

  “Well,” Olivia said, picking up her fork again, still grinning, “I guess I shouldn’t complain about my upgrade, then.”

  Charles lifted his teacup in a small salute. “Welcome to proper communication, my dear.”

  Around them, dinner resumed—laughter, chatter, the comfortable noise of a place that felt less like a workplace now and more like… home.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Dinner wound down gradually, plates cleared and laughter softening into comfortable after-dinner murmurs. Hosts drifted out in twos and threes, some heading back to studios, others vanishing down familiar hallways with easy waves and promises to “catch you later.” Eventually, only a handful remained, and even those began to peel away as the evening settled into a quieter rhythm.

  Olivia gathered her things and excused herself, laptop tucked under one arm, phone safely in her pocket.

  “I’m going to get this set up,” she said. “And… I think I should call my mum.”

  Miss LaDonna smiled knowingly. “That would be wise, dear. Don’t leave those threads unattended for too long.”

  Charles nodded. “Roof later, then? Stargazing before the midnight shuffle.”

  Olivia smiled back. “I’d like that.”

  Up in her apartment, she set the laptop on the small table near the sunken conversation pit and opened it. It woke instantly, screen glowing softly, no fan noise, no heat—just ready. She ran through the most basic setup without thinking too hard about how effortlessly it all worked. There would be time to marvel later.

  Instead, she checked the time.

  Morning in Perth.

  She hesitated only a moment before dialing.

  It rang twice.

  “Olivia?” her mum’s voice came through, brisk and distracted but unmistakably hers. “Love, I’ve only got a minute—what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Olivia said quickly. “I just… wanted to call.”

  “Well!” her mum said, clearly surprised. “That’s nice. How are the bright lights of Hollywood treating you?”

  Olivia smiled faintly at that. “Still shining,” she said, letting it slide. Correcting her never really went anywhere. “I’ve got a new phone. Same number, but a much better plan. I can call more often now.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” her mum replied, the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “About time you upgraded that old thing. Just remember to put some money aside, darling. Entertainment work dries up faster than you think.”

  “Of course,” Olivia said softly.

  Her mum talked—about listings, about a nightmare client, about a deal that nearly fell through but didn’t, thank goodness—and Olivia listened, offering murmured responses where appropriate. She didn’t mention the station, or the apartment, or the fact that she finally felt… steady. She knew better. This wasn’t the kind of conversation where that would land.

  “Well,” her mum said at last, “I’d better run. Good to hear from you. Try not to disappear again, all right?”

  “I won’t,” Olivia promised.

  The line went dead.

  She sat there for a moment, phone still in her hand, staring at nothing in particular.

  The apartment was quiet. Warm. Safe.

  And still, a familiar heaviness crept in—old, practiced, stubborn.

  You called, she told herself. That counts.

  She set the phone down, took a slow breath, and remembered Miss LaDonna’s gentle voice.

  Join us on the roof.

  Olivia changed into something comfortable, slipped her ears back into place, clipped on her tail, and headed upstairs. The stairwell felt different at night—quieter, more reverent somehow. When she pushed through the heavy door to the roof, cool air greeted her, carrying the faint scent of greenery and distant fire.

  Charles and Miss LaDonna were already there.

  They sat near the firepit, its flames low and steady, casting soft light across the rooftop garden. The sky above was impossibly clear, stars sharp and bright, far more numerous than any New Jersey night had a right to be.

  Miss LaDonna looked up as Olivia approached. “There you are.”

  Olivia sat down between them, wrapping her arms around herself—not from cold, but from the simple need to be held together for a moment.

  Charles tipped his head back, gazing skyward. “Hosts start clearing out around midnight,” he said casually. “Always a good time to look up before they go.”

  Olivia followed his gaze. The stars seemed closer here. Kinder.

  She let the silence settle, the kind that didn’t demand anything from her.

  For the first time since the phone call, the tightness in her chest eased.

  Whatever her mum thought.

  Whatever Hollywood was supposed to mean.

  Whatever waited next.

  Right now, she was exactly where she was meant to be.

  They sat together beneath the open sky, the rooftop quiet except for the low crackle of the firepit and the distant, ever-present hum of the tower. Stars scattered across the darkness in impossible numbers, sharp and cold-bright, like frost caught on black velvet.

  Charles passed Olivia a mug without ceremony.

  “Careful,” he said mildly. “Still hot.”

  She wrapped both hands around it, the cocoa’s warmth seeping into her fingers. “Thanks.” She took a sip, sighed, and felt something in her chest finally loosen.

  For a while, none of them spoke. They simply watched the sky.

  Then the thought surfaced—unavoidable now that it had teeth.

  “Charles?” Olivia said, eyes still upward.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Dramir—and the other dwarves—they kept calling you Jester.” She hesitated. “They said it like it was… official. Like a title.”

  Charles made a small, dismissive sound. “Oh, that old business.”

  Miss LaDonna didn’t even turn her head. “Charles.”

  “It’s really not—”

  “Charles,” she repeated, gently but firmly. “She has a right to know who she’s working for.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Just for a moment.

  When he opened them again, the easy humor was still there, but subdued now, folded inward like a well-worn coat set carefully aside.

  “…Very well,” he said, exhaling. “But let’s be precise.”

  Olivia frowned slightly. “Precise?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, glancing at her. “Because people get this wrong all the time.”

  She tilted her head. “Wrong how?”

  “You’re thinking Fool,” he said mildly.

  “Well—aren’t jesters just—?”

  “No,” Charles said gently, but firmly. “Absolutely not.”

  Miss LaDonna smiled into her tea.

  “There is a very important distinction,” Charles continued. “A Fool is loud. Raucous. Crude. They favor pratfalls, insults, and setting one’s shirttails on fire while pointing and laughing.”

  He gave a faint sniff.

  “The Winter Court would never suffer a Fool.”

  Olivia blinked. “Oh.”

  “The Summer Court, on the other hand,” he went on, “adores them. Robin Goodfellow holds that title quite proudly. All noise and chaos and scorched dignity.”

  Miss LaDonna added calmly, “And entirely unsuited to Winter.”

  Charles inclined his head. “Exactly.”

  He leaned back, gazing up at the stars once more.

  “I am—formally—the Jester Emeritus of the Winter Court. Not a fool. Never a fool.” He smiled thinly. “A Jester uses wit, wordplay, and truth sharpened just enough to draw blood. We skewer our opponents with their own words. Hoist them neatly upon their own petards.”

  Olivia smiled despite herself. “Less slapstick. More… surgical.”

  “Precisely,” Charles said, pleased. “We speak what cannot otherwise be said. We mock power so it remembers it is not absolute. We advise, we negotiate, we provoke. And occasionally,” he added dryly, “we survive.”

  He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I also happen to be Queen Mab’s liaison to other Realms. Diplomat, envoy, and—when necessary—intermediary.”

  Olivia’s mug hovered halfway to her mouth.

  “…Queen Mab,” she repeated faintly.

  “Yes,” Charles said easily. “May she reign eternally in frost.”

  “And—” Olivia swallowed “—Queen Titania?”

  “Also quite real,” he replied. “And every bit as complicated.”

  Olivia leaned back, staring at the sky as her worldview quietly rearranged itself. “But… fairy tales. Stories. I grew up with those.”

  “Yes,” Charles said gently. “And like all stories told often enough, they drift. They acquire morals, agendas, revisions. Political varnish.”

  Miss LaDonna spoke softly now. “Truth survives in stories, Olivia—but rarely intact.”

  Charles nodded. “What you’ve read isn’t wrong. Just… curated. The Courts have had a very long time to shape how they’re perceived.”

  Olivia laughed quietly, disbelief and wonder tangled together. “So the Queens are real. The Courts are real. And my boss is a goblin Jester-diplomat to an immortal frost monarch.”

  “When you put it like that,” Charles said lightly, “it does sound a bit much.”

  She turned to look at him—the ears, the eyes, the impossible coat, the warmth beneath the sharp edges.

  “…Why here?” she asked. “Why the Mundane Realm?”

  Charles’s expression softened, something old and fond passing through it.

  “Because someone has to care for it,” he said. “And because, for all its fragility, it produces extraordinary people when given half a chance.”

  Miss LaDonna rested her hand over Olivia’s. “And because the Signal places its bets carefully.”

  Olivia looked between them, heart racing—not with fear, but with awe.

  Above them, the stars burned on, silent and watchful, as the world quietly—irreversibly—shifted into a truer shape.