They tell me I'm in shock.

No.

First, they tell me I've caused an international incident.

Then they tell me I'm in shock.

No. I'm in shock. This comes after some eight months of negotiating, a temporary peninsula holding cell,

which begins to feel increasingly

permanent over time, a lawyer from my own country who holds his finger to his lips as if to

indicate that our private interview room is not, in fact, private. A considerable amount of

furious shouting, assertions from Peninsula policemen, policewomen, and police people that I will

never see my homeland again, and I should just come clean about my plot to destroy the town of

Bellwethers with two servants of an illicit faith. And by the way, if it transpired that the

conclave of the consolidated lingers straits had funded, or in any way enabled said plot,

that would be useful information. That would make

things go a lot easier for me. A final frenzied agreement between nations, a car to the border,

a hurried exchange and another holding cell on the CLS side of the border with different flags

hung over the supervising sergeant's desk. I'm interviewed by two detectives from the

Nesh Municipal Force, as well as someone who introduces herself as a political attache, and

lean sourly against the corner of the cell when everyone else is talking. You can see them frowning

as they scribble on their notepads, trying to construct some, or any kind of coherent narrative out of what I'm telling them.

Over time, they seem to acknowledge that I am probably not a covert member of the parish of Tideon Flesh, but they continue to probe at me all the same, looking for other angles.

What am I holding back from them? There has to be more to it than this, surely.

Some final secret, some last revelation that makes sense of all this.

...