"Arthur Penhaligon?" Friday repeats, drawing the syllables of the name out as if to taste them. "Why this sudden interest in inferior mortals, Sunday?"

Sunday shrugs. He can't explain it himself, really. But he finds himself dwelling on his brief meeting with the strange little boy quite often of late. It has been a month (not that long, when one considers that the Architect has been gone for millennia) but that is a long time to think about a mere mortal.

"Curiosity," he says. "I ventured into the Secondary Realms and the one known as Arthur Penhaligon... saw me. I was not hidden as well as I could have been, but he saw through various layers of cloaking nevertheless."

"It is likely nothing worth noting," Friday remarks, seemingly indifferent. Her moods are mercurial since the breaking of the Will, and her temper has only worsened in the intervening millennia. "Some mortals possess the ability to see through House illusions. A side effect, perhaps, of the inimical presence of a Denizen of the House."

"Nevertheless, I would like to see the record," Sunday says, ignoring her pointed look.

"Very well." Friday raises the mirror that is the Fifth Key and turns to gaze into it. "Noon. Attend me."

A few moments later, Sunday hears frantic footsteps in the hall beyond Friday's office. They slow, fading to a sedate walk, and Friday's Noon enters without so much as a hair out of place.

"Lady Friday," Noon says, bowing deeply, more than the situation requires. Sunday blinks when he sees the edge of a bruise beneath Noon's collar. The Middle House is not particularly close to Nothing, there ought to be no random Nithlings bubbling up; there should be no reason for Noon to be wounded. It takes a lot to hurt a Denizen, and this is doubly true for someone of Noon's rank. "How may I be of service?"

"Sunday wants to see a record. Show him to it," Friday says dismissively.

Noon's gaze flicks to Sunday. "Lord Sunday." The second bow is not a centimetre too deep. It would rankle, if Sunday was not a visitor to Friday's domain. "If you would follow me-"

"I don't want you helping Sunday to sneak around my Demesne!" Friday bursts out. Her beautiful face is terrible in its fury as she stalks around the desk towards her subordinate.

Noon flinches, fear chased by resignation across his face.

"Had I any intention of sneaking, I would not have asked your permission for entrance," Sunday interrupts, incensed. The Seventh Key is paramount; he has nothing to fear even in Friday's domain, so he steps between his fellow Trustee and Noon without giving it any thought.

Friday snarls at him; the mirror's surface flashes in reaction, and the air seems to grow heavier. "You seem to have forgotten our compact," she says. "You've decided to reunite the Will, haven't you! Why else would you ask after the record of a Rightful Heir."

Sunday blinks, taking an involuntary step back at the utterly unexpected accusation. "I did not know he was a Rightful Heir," Sunday says, widening his stance in case Friday intends to attack him as her attitude and bearing would suggest. Friday is not a fighter; but neither is Sunday, when it comes down to that.

Friday studies him, though her eyes seem less furious. "You seem honest," she remarks, her posture relaxing. "Noon, show him to the room where the records of all Rightful Heirs are held."

"At once, milady," Noon says. "Lord Sunday-?"

Friday has already turned back to her desk, apparently ignoring the exchange.

"After you," Sunday says, falling into step beside the Time as he is led out of the office.