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Grimme stormed through the ballroom, in an temper that would have scared a coal-monster into a furnace.  No one, of course, noticed her.  She wasn’t stupid.  Her powers were still in tact.

Her link was not.

She stabbed her thumbnail over the back of her neck.  “Stop thinking about it.” she muttered.

Her other was still a long way away.

Plan A: create a new link.  Assuming the supplies were available.

Plan B: continue the Choosing.  Win. Re-implant link (Assuming it wasn’t tampered with).

Plan C: …

Grimme grabbed a pawn with her symbol, and pulled her out of the room.  “Where can I get cleaned up?”

The maid smiled.  “Hello, my name is Charlie.”

“Coal spit.” Grimme snarled.  “You… fine.  I don’t care.  I just want to have a bath.  A nice, hot bath.”

“Okay,  if you would follow me.”

Grimme growled deep in her throat.

~#~#~

The bath was as luxurious as she remembered them.  And Fake-Charlie had provided bubbles, and rose-petals, and a rubber ducky.

And then Grimme stared blankly at the vanity as the Pawn carefully brushed her hair.

Fake-Charlie deftly parted, braided, and pinned her hair.  A messy riot of mixed curls.  A series of thin braids merging into the thick braid coiled into a subtle bun.

The outfit was… well, it was.

Her usual pants and tank-top, and sleeveless overshirt.  All that was missing was her leather apron.  She was tempted to rummage through the room, look for chemicals, vials, equipment…

“Your gloves.” Char… Fake-Charlie held out the strong leather,  They folded over her belt easily.

And then she was alone.

Grimme cleaned her ax, sharpened it, and growled deep in her throat.

“Stop putting it off.” She glanced at the door.  “Unless you want to be magicked back.”

She glanced in the mirror again.

Yes.  That was her.  That was someone Wy would recognize.

She smirked.  Slid the battle-ax in place.  Nodded sharply.

Spun on her heel and left the room.

~#~#~

It looked like not even a minute had passed in the ball-room.

Grimme drifted to a table, studying the meats.  But the desert table caught her eye.  Most especially the disaster of a cake.

Whoever had devoured it, clearly never had a good cake before.

She could make one better in her sleep…

“But that was a long time ago.” Grimme glanced aside …

Cookies.

Her mother’s recipe.

Handed down ten generations.

One of the ingredients didn’t even exist anymore. Etherberry Extract.

But when she tentatively nibbled the corner, she could taste it.

“I’ll need to find who preserved it.” she murmured.

She took the plate with her.  There were other cookies.  These were hers.  She sat at the table, scratching her neck.

She raised an eyebrow as the assassin slid beside her.

“Do you know where the voice comes from?” she – Chantara, 17, ambidextrous… “It scares me.  It doesn’t sound like a person.”

Grimme squinted at the assassin.  Really?  That’s the cover she’s going for.

“Castle Oaken Door, a shape-shifting, manipulative purple-spit, shatter-burned coal monster if there ever was one.”

She discretely pulled her hand down, gritting her teeth.  This new tell would have to be crushed.

“You haven’t seen a coal monster.” She pursed her lips.  “At the moment, it is the best insult I can think of.  Wy was better at that aspect.”

She motioned to the seat beside her.  Elegant, twisting her wrist just so Mother would be proud. “This is a good recipe, would you like a sample while we talk?” She gestured to a servant, every line of her breeding shone despite her outfit.  “Tea please, for two… at the moment.”

Grimme smiled gently –

“Don’t show your teeth…

– and every rehearsed motion

“Always offer assassin’s food.”

– and every memory returned.

“Kill him slowly.”