Cicero left his mother's room, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked past the living room, not even turning his gaze towards the couch. For so many years, he has taught himself that even the smallest of gaze could materialise into tainting the perfection of what one witnesses. For example, in certain moments, Cicero couldn't even look at the Night Mother, because the simplicity of his gaze was incredibly filthy and could taint her purity. Here, in this case, the knowledge of the sleeping woman upon his couch, in her moment of purity, was enough to divert his gaze, for fear that he could wake her or disturb her in some way, just by looking at her.

What contented him the most, was the fact that there was a sleeping woman on his couch, and this meant that, since she was asleep, and sleep, as Cicero had learned through years of killing people for money, was the most complete form of vulnerability, that she trusted him. Her moment of fragility was rested, by her, into his hands. She allowed herself to become comfortable around him, and will herself to feel safe with him. Never before had he felt this way. The moment when he was trusted with becoming the Mother's keeper was similar, but this was a woman, entrusting herself into his hands, not begin given to him. He was humbled, and glad, by these events.

He returned into the kitchen, where a great many things were cooking – left over fresh eggs from the summoning, bacon that he had sitting in his freezer for almost too long, freshly baked bread, which he was incredibly used to making back home in Skyrim (since, due to the freezing temperatures, they had to eat entire wheels of cheese and loaves of bread at one time to maintain a healthy calorie intake). He placed a few towels over his hands, reached into the oven, and removed the crusty bread from the oven. It had taken quite a few charcoal bricks intended to be bread in order to figure out how to properly use the strange oven with no fire.

He sliced into the bread, allowing the aroma of the warm loaf to emit into the air. He placed them on the sides of two plates, along with the over-easy eggs, and a few strips of bacon. He smiled at the presentation of the breakfast. He was used to eating meals like that quite often, but he knew that Clarice was not as accustomed, and was continuing to treat her, like he treated the Mother, just for being with him.

Slowly, he was becoming confident in his feelings for her. He hadn't remembered much of his past before the Brotherhood and, especially, before the Jester. However, he knew that he had once felt something for someone, and the reflections of those emotions assured him that he was capable of feeling it again. He liked her, he told himself. He really did. He liked it when she was lying in his arms, he liked when she spoke to him, he liked his lips against her, he liked being inside of her, he liked her and everything she was. He liked her being in his house. He liked her lying on his couch. …Why wasn't she lying on his couch?

He walked into the living room, two plates in his hands. "Clarice! Breakfast is… served?"

He paused in the entrance to the living room, finding his couch void of Clarice. He frowned, looking to the place where her coat had hung, and found no coat to be found. He looked down to the plates in his hands, frowning. He knew there was no way he could take these and keep them fresh, to her house. When had she left? She was there when he went to take care of the Mother. Where did she go?

Immediately, he began to feel worried. He hoped, and prayed to the Gods, that nothing had happened to her, and that the Hagraven hadn't found her either. Maybe, however, she would be coming back to him. He nodded, content on that thought, and turned to bring the plates back into the kitchen. He placed the full plates back into the empty oven, hoping they would stay somewhat fresh until Clarice returned. A single slice of bread hung out of his mouth haphazardly as he closed the oven, and proceeded back into the kitchen.

In there, contrary to what had been there beforehand, an entity was sitting upon his sofa. Again, he paused at the entrance to the living room, surprised by the sight. An aura of deep darkness consumed half of the sofa, but eventually it subsided, leaving behind a tall, slim creature that looked like a horrendous combining of a raven and an old woman. It had a long, curved nose, long, slender claws, and bird-like feet, random feathers protruding out of the thing's skin in odd places. It wore a heavy-looking armour, which was what delivered the dark smoke which swirled around it.

"Hello, Black Hand," the Hagraven said, grinning. In its claw, it twirled Cicero's ebony blade around its fingers, playing with it in a threatening manner.

"What are you doing here?" Cicero said, as more of a statement than a question. The Hagraven cackled. "How did you find my blade?"

"Oh, I happened to come across it in an alley," the Hagraven grinned. "Sort of followed it after you threw it out the window in wistful abandon."

"What do you want from me," Cicero said, glaring. "Where is Clarice?"

"Oh, she left," the Hagraven replied. "And I entered. She didn't even see me walk past her. And I don't want much, Black Hand. Just revenge. You have killed so many of my sisters, you and your kind. And what better way to get back at you, than remove what you all so desperately cling to: your mother. You, Cicero, are simply a liability. You are physically capable of finding out how to go back, and I just can't have that, can I? You weren't supposed to go with her. So, now, I have to eliminate you, the Keeper of what I want destroyed. Loose ends and everything. You understand."

Finally, Clarice saw a parking lot in which she could pull over and park for a moment, both to recollect herself, and to speak with this apparition. She stopped the car at the edge of the parking lot, and stared forward at the world in front of her, without really seeing it. The smallest sounds that occurred around her seemed far too loud – the cars driving parallel to her on the highway to her left, the sound of footsteps walking in and out of the store to her right, the dull voices of individuals going to work in the early morning, the wind hitting against her car.

"…Clary?" Wanda said, frowning.

Clarice blinked and turned her gaze to the ghost, where they rested for a long moment. She examined the opaque, blue-white figure. It looked like Wanda: some sort of three-dimensional silhouette of her best friend. It sounded like Wanda, though a slight more echo-y. There seemed to be a cold aura around the passenger, chilling her slightly. She sighed and looked away from the apparition, not sure what to say to her.

"How is everything going with you?" Wanda said, looking out the window as well.

"Fine," Clarice said. "Trying to get Cicero home."

"Yeah, I heard," Wanda replied, turning her head to look at Clarice. "Why didn't you tell me about all that?"

Clarice glanced to her, smirking slightly. "Would you have really believed me?"

Wanda smiled back, and looked forward again. She sighed heavily. "I would love to go to that world with you."

Clarice turned her head to look at her. "I'm not going."

Wanda's eyes widened and she snapped her head to look beside her at her best friend. "What?! How could you turn that down? Imagine that world. I heard it even had two moons and northern lights all year round! And I know how much you like that creepy little jester."

Clarice giggled slightly, before looking back out the windshield. "I just can't. I have too much to do here. Imagine what my clients would do without me."

"Fuck the clients!" Wanda said, loudly. "Clarice, for fuck sakes, you need to do something for you at some point in your existence. Just say, screw everyone else, and go do what you want, rather than what other people want you to do."

Clarice sighed and smiled, looking to her friend. "I miss you, Wanda."

Wanda's harsh gaze turned into a soft, sympathetic smile. She couldn't stay mad at her best friend for too long. She shook her head and sighed, looking back out the window. "Wanna hear what the afterlife is like?"

"No," Clarice insisted. "I want to be surprised about something."

"Have you heard from Stephen?" Wanda asked, referring to her boyfriend.

Clarice shook her head, sadly. "No. I was meaning to call him, but I wanted to give him the chance to mourn. You should see the guest list for your funeral, though – there's a waiting list."

Wanda laughed. "Make sure it's a party, eh?"

Clarice laughed, thinking about all the parties her and her best friend had had together, drinking countless beers and martinis, laughing, singing, and dancing. If anyone could party, it was Wanda King. And now, the world was without her. Clarice was without her.

Unable to contain it any longer, thousands of tiny beads of salty water coalesced and rose in Clarice's eyes, filling them, then began to pour out. Her face contorted into the expression of utter agony, and in an attempt to hide it from Wanda, in front of whom she always hated to cry, she let her face fall into her hands, and attempted to supress the shuddering of her shoulders as she sobbed.

"Please don't cry!" Wanda said, her voice shaking as she moved over to embrace her friend. The apparition's body upon Clarice's didn't feel human, or like a physical entity, rather it simply felt cold. Despite this, Clarice knew it was still her best friend, and she couldn't help sit up and hug her tightly. "You know that I always cry when you cry."

"I don't know what I'm going to do without you!" Clarice sobbed into her best friend's apparition. Her tears ran down her un-skin, like clear marbles rolling down a smooth hill.

"You need to keep going!" Wanda insisted, also crying. Once her tears fell from her face, they disappeared completely. "You need to devote your life to making yourself happy while you make others happy, since that's what you've always done best. You're so much more beautiful than me, Clary. I always envied you, how you just knew who you were and what you were doing."

"I always envied you!" Clarice replied, with a slight laugh. "You were just always so gorgeous and everyone loved you."

"But I was like that because people fashioned me into a person like that," Wanda said, moving away from her to look her in the eyes. "You, you were just so sure in yourself. The people who loved me loved me because they loved what I made them look like when they were around me. I was fun. But all those same people loved you, because you basically just told the whole world to go fuck itself, and you were going to be you and you didn't care."

Clarice laughed, wiping her eyes. "That's the exact opposite of how I viewed myself."

"I know that," Wanda said, wiping her face. "That's why I wanted to tell you that. That's why I wanted you to be Claire's godmother."

"Claire?" Clarice frowned, tilting her head to a side.

Wanda began sobbing again, smiling through the tears. "Yeah. The dudes up in the afterlife told me that she was going to be a girl. And Stephen and I both said that if it was a girl, we were naming her after you."

Clarice choked on a sob, wiping her eyes viciously. "And if it was a boy?"

Wanda shrugged, laughing through a weep. "I dunno, David or something lame like that."

Both women laughed at each other for a short moment, before wiping their own eyes and sniffing in an attempt to bring themselves back to reality for a moment.

"I can't stay long," Wanda said. "Besides, you're about to get a really important phone call, and I'm not supposed to be here when you do."

Clarice frowned, bewildered. "A phone call? From whom?"

Wanda smiled and shook her head. "Spoilers."

With that, the silhouette that was Wanda began to fade. Clarice could see through her much better. She shook her head and desperately reached for the cold figure. Wanda extended her arms and embraced her best friend tightly. Clarice cried softly into the fading figure. Her tears now passed through her, rather than rolling off of her. Eventually, so too did her arms – they slipped right through the figure.

"I love you," Clarice said, sniffing.

"I know," Wanda replied, her voice quiet and much more echoed than before. "I love you too, Clary."

With that, Wanda's figure disappeared, leaving Clarice alone, in the car, arms extended around empty air.

Suddenly, her cellphone screamed at her from her coat pocket. Clarice jumped and fumbled into her coat for her phone. When she found it, she pressed the "talk" button, and placed it against her ear, confused. "Hello?"

"Yes, hello, is this Ms. Stoker?" a deep, male voice asked her.

"Yes, this is she," Clarice replied. "To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Constable Nathan James," the officer said. "We tried to reach you at your home, but you were not there. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"

"Um, I suppose so," Clarice frowned, eyebrows furrowed.

"Good," she could hear the rustling of papers in the background. "You are a psychologist, am I right?" Clarice affirmed. "Is a Mr. Cicero Imperial a client of yours?" Clarice affirmed, thinking of the conversation which must have transpired between Cicero and the person who needed the information of his "last name".

("Name?" "Cicero" "Last name?" "…What?" "Your family name" "…Dark Brotherhood?" "…Is that all one word?" "Um, no?" "Could you spell it?" "D-A-R-K space B-R-O-T-H-E-R-H-O-O-D." "…Are you being serious?" "You asked me my family name. That's my family." "I mean the family that you are from." "Oh! Well, I'm an Imperial, and-" "Okay! That'll do.")

"Is Mr. Imperial prone to psychotic breakdowns and violent episodes?" the officer asked.

"Um, not really," Clarice said, frowning. "He's a little crazy, but nothing out of control."

"Did he give you the cut on your neck?" the officer asked.

"What is all this about?" Clarice asked, becoming defensive of her little jester.

"Well, we have reason to believe that he murdered Wanda King," the officer said. "We have a warrant to search his house, and for his arrest. We are going over there this evening, and if we find plausible grounds for his arrest, we will perform such an arrest."

Clarice paled, eyes wide. "What's your proof?"

"Well, besides the fact that the slip of paper found in Wanda King's hand was his address," the officer explained. "And the murder weapon found has his fingerprints on them, and after we discovered this, it went missing. Furthermore, when we went to question him, he was aggressive in not letting any officers into his apartment, and when asked if he knew Wanda King or heard anything, he was quite passionate that she was not his doing, he needed to take care of his mother, and that the officers needed to go away."

Wanda's hands shook slightly as she held the phone. Suddenly, she realised that time was incredibly limited. She needed to get him home tonight, before the police went to pay him a visit, or the consequences could be incredibly drastic. Immediately, she turned on her car and zipped around, speeding back to the highway to head back to Cicero's house.

"I'm sorry, officer, I'm a bit busy right now," Clarice told him. "But I know that Cicero is a good man. He's a little strange, but he can be kind and sweet, and I don't think he would kill anyone without reason." (like his Mother telling him to, she thought) "I can vouch for that. You can put that on record."

The officer paused for a moment, before sighing. "Alright, Ms. Stoker. Thank you for your time."

She hung up her phone and threw it onto the passenger seat. "Yeah. Time." She said to herself. "Something I wish I had more of."