The Nameless Name of the Velvet has passed this way. This mist is the hem of her grey garment. It'll be hell to find a way through.

As Eddy made his way home to East Borough from St George's, he decided to walk back rather than take the carriage again. This was less about saving money and more about giving him time to think.

Previously, his focus had been taken up by his plan to deal with the Machinery Hivemind and to get the Winged Doll off the streets, but the completion of that task and the subsequent digestion of his potion had brought the issue back to the forefront of his mind.

When he had left the Cathedral, he had distinctly felt that immaterial barrier between himself and the potion break down just a little. He was certain of it. It, if anything, confused him a little. What had he done to encourage such a reaction? Yes, leaving St Hierländ alive was an achievement, but so was raising the dead, so was completing his upgraded Rite of Protection and seeing it work. What was the difference in these matters? Why had one 'mattered' to his potion more than the others?

Of course, it wasn't merely an arbitrary signifier of 'importance'. Something in his recent actions had resonated with his potion. Some core value in his deeds had aligned with his potion and allowed his slight progression. When he was a Sequence 9 Barber, cutting hair professionally had mirrored his potion's requirements well enough to allow steady digestion.

Take pride in your skill with the blade - charge for your time.

Help others to transform themselves, or in the way they think of themselves.

In changing others, change yourself.

These principles had seen him through Sequence 9 - there must be equivalents for Sequence 8. It was just a matter of deducing them. Deducing the name. Easier said than done.

If Eddy was being fair, which he didn't want to be, then this impasse was most likely his fault. He had dabbled gleefully in his new ritual skills but had basically ignored the core of his latest powers. Perhaps he might have learned some clues if he had. Was it childish that he had been somewhat… underwhelmed by these abilities. Yes. Yes, undoubtedly. It was understandable though - if a little silly.

In any case, a bit of introspection was required. It might, Eddy thought, strolling past a workshop for a maker of luxury leather armchairs, be a good start to think about how Mr Voice had described Sequence 8 - in his own special and decidedly non-verbal way (in case things weren't hard enough). In fact, there is no time like the present. Eddy turned his Veil up to full in preparation.

"Mr Voice, could you describe your understanding of Sequence 8 again?"

[Acquiescence]

The taste of salt in the back of his throat. The lapping of waves along a riverbank. Mud, thick and deep, heavy on his limbs. The bands of a hull, covered in pitch. The glint of knives concealed by soot. Something precious. Something hidden. Eddy gasped as he broke out of the barrage of foreign sensations. He half-expected to cough up a lungful of seawater - that was how real it felt.

[Curious] Are you satisfied?

"Yes, Mr Voice. That was fine." Eddy gasped out his response, still his throat still feeling the burn of salt that didn't exist. Luckily, nobody around him thought anything of his antics. They were blind to him, after all. Eddy gathered himself and moved on.

The trick was, in his mind, to take what he had just felt and attempt to apply it to his recent actions. On the face of it, he was stumped by the seeming lack of connection to his previous 'role' as a Barber, but perhaps that was the wrong approach. He had been viewing the Sequences as a direct progression, but had Mr Voice ever implied that? Did there have to be a clear link between the different stages of his Path? Perhaps there was something overarching, but it could well be folly to assume such progression would be so merely superficial. What was he expecting? To advance from Barber to Barber-Surgeon? Barber to Cosmeticist? It seemed a little silly when he framed it like that. No, forget assumptions. His path would be to think only of the facts. What was the link?

His digestion had increased when he had left the Cathedral, not when he was inside it. Why was this? Safety? The completion of a mission? A groan of effort. The ship moves off the shore and back into the current. Away. Eddy blinked. "Mr Voice?"

Helping.

Eddy smiled a little. Mr Voice was guiding him. He had been onto something there. What was it about getting out of St Hierländ specifically that warranted such a reaction? He'd already mentioned that his other achievements had brought no such reward. A false plank is pulled away. Secrets hidden in plain sight. Was that it? The deception? The fact that he had lied to the Church and got away with it? Had getting out of the cathedral and reaching the street - safety - triggered this principle? That must be it. Was there an emphasis on secrets hiding behind a facade of honesty? From what Eddy had felt, had seen flashes of, that might fit.

A thought occurred, at that realisation. Hidden pockets. His Sequence 8 powers included unnatural skill at spotting and creating hidden pockets, concealed compartments. Yes, this resonated - this was correct. He had given up minor secrets and, in doing so, hidden the truths which would have harmed him. The truth that he was not a Mystery Pryer, that he was on a heretical 23rd Path. That he harboured a thing in his head. Hide that which must be hidden. Let truths conceal lies.

Gold spilling between fingers. The laughter of the crew.

He had come out of the cathedral not as a rogue Beyonder, scared of the sight of his orthodox brethren - cowering from attention - but as an acknowledged informant of the Church of Steam and Machinery. Someone who had aided them with no (apparent) benefit. Perhaps not a friend, but not an enemy either. Someone who had the benefit of the doubt. Someone for whom they could vouch. Ikanser Bernard had said it. Goodwill is repaid with goodwill. His lies had brought him rewards. Profit by your secrets.

The grips of knives are clutched beneath jackets. They move forwards, eyes daring. Do not stand in their way.

His lie had been tested, his defences probed. The Hivemind had used their artifact against him, confident in its abilities - but he had overcome it with preparation and knowledge. Failure would have led to disaster, injury - perhaps death. But he had not failed. His lie had held secure. His secret had been safeguarded, his cargo protected. Defend your secrets with all your might.

Yes. Yes, it all made sense. Salt and mud. Hidden treasures. Buried secrets. The smell of the tides, the pockets disguised in the lining of his suit. Quick fingers. Sharp knives. The images, the visions were coming thick and fast now, Mr Voice desperately trying to aid his revelation as much as he could. Eddy stumbled, his fingers dragging along the bricks of a building. His spirituality was coming undone. He could see lights filled with endless knowledge surrounding his vision. He couldn't close his eyes. They were peeling back his eyelids.

Hide that which must be hidden. Let truths conceal lies. Profit by your secrets. Defend them with all your might.

Sequence 8.

Smuggler.

When Eddy finally got home, he was starving. A brief detour to buy a Desi pie solved that issue. Thick pastry met oil and meat and chunks of sweet apple - causing Eddy to salivate. He was still getting used to eating more than stale bread and scraps. Even with all the danger around him, with Blue Mitch breathing down his neck, with the Zmangers waiting in the wings, with the Machinery Hivemind looking over his shoulder, Eddy was still - in a material sense at least - living better than he ever had before. The subject made Eddy think of his next steps.

He had overcome this latest emergency and now had to take stock. He'd lost his artifact (and good riddance), and the only thing of mystical value that he owned was his copy of Explorations into Arcane Symbology and Meditations on the Gospel of Zacchaeus by Neville Atherton. Without a doubt, his most prized possession. Even reciting the title made him want to read it again - to get lost in the sheer maddened stream of consciousness that was Atherton's work.

Beyond that, he owned a room in a tenement, a good pair of scissors, some knives, clothing (including a mask), and a wallet containing just over sixteen-and-a-half pounds. It didn't sound like much, but Eddy knew what it took to keep a man alive, fed, and under a roof. Sixteen pounds? He could live on that until the end of the year with room to spare. Bear in mind that this was accounting for his current budget. He could eat as he was now accustomed to and continue living in his small, damp, tenement room. A bed was a bed. It was July now - so five months. He could stretch that to six or seven if he really had to. Basically, Eddy thought, he'd made it.

Except…

Except Eddy wasn't quite happy with 'getting by', with just surviving. He wanted to thrive. He wanted to get Meursault and the Zmangers off his back. He'd pay off his 'debt' to them and then make sure they wouldn't bother him again. He wanted to hurt Blue Mitch for pushing him into this whole Beyonder mess. Sure, he could also thank him for it (in many ways life had never been better after all), but he still wanted to hurt the Parliament Street Gang and their brutish leader. So, it was decided. He needed more power. For power, he needed knowledge. For knowledge, he needed books. Books cost money. Books on mysticism cost a lot of money. He had some money, but that would dry up pretty quickly once he started amassing a small literary collection. Time to start with that.

Eddy made his way back into his room on Grey Palm Alley, collapsing onto the low bed as soon as he had locked the door securely. The cheap frame of the bed groaned as his body hit the covers. He was spiritually and mentally exhausted - illusions and immaterial whispers playing with his senses. Despite it only being a little past noon, he was bone-tired. The interrogation and its uncertainty had taken a lot out of him. The revelation of his new Sequence had finished the job. Even though he had lots to do, Eddy ended up drifting into an unwilling nap. As he lay on the bed, still fully clothed, Eddy let out a sigh and let himself start to doze off. He deserved a nap. He could give himself that much.

Evening found Eddy back down by the Embankment. It was starting to become a habit. He now knew the route off by heart. Passing through Proscrito territory openly (they only cared about street girls), into Black Skeleton Gang turf, and then down to where the Rakers controlled the tunnel entrance. As long as you didn't stand out, the gangs wouldn't make trouble with you. Good advice - not that Eddy needed to worry about that with his Veil up for most of the journey. He followed the usual routine, dropping the Veil before he reached the tunnel entrance, enduring the cursory questions by the Rakers at the gate, and then walking through into the underground market.

The market was bustling as usual. It didn't seem to matter which hour of the day or night it was, or what was going on in the city. The market was always moving. Eddy was sure that Backlund could burn down above their heads and the Embankment's visitors, masked and cloaked, would continue to haggle over herbs and carved splinters of bone. It was simply a fact. There was something particularly Backlund about it all. It amused Eddy, in a way that was hard to describe. It just did.

Eddy's enhanced eyes roamed the market. A certain cloth merchant's stall seemed to be absent. At the very least, Eddy's eyes were not graced by the gold-rimed aesthetic monstrosity that the insect-masked man called a shop. He was rather glad of the absence. The last interaction with the man had been… strange.

Eddy weaved his way through the crowds and stalls until he reached the cavern's wall. The walls were usually the worst places in the Embankment market. Their low lights harboured the opium dens and drug peddlers - along with some flesh merchants who targeted the more unusual tastes. Eddy didn't like to think about that. However, this part of the wall had been carved out to include something rather different. An almost proper shop had been excavated into the stone of the cavern.

Naturally, there was no glass in the window, no bell above the door - but it at least had a good curtain over the entrance and a wooden sign overhead. It had letters painted onto it in a fine burgundy. Eddy was not a good judge of such things, but the shop's name had been written with rather elegant calligraphy. Morland's. This was Eddy's goal for the day. He brushed the curtain aside and entered the shop.

Inside, Eddy was met with books. Lots of books. The interior of Morland's was absolutely filled with piles of tomes, and towers of boxed manuscripts. In a corner, Eddy could even spot a shelf filled with wooden cylinders. Housing for scrolls? By the door was a makeshift desk at which perched the proprietor - Miss Morland. Miss Morland was a diminutive old lady. Her grey hair was styled neatly and her eyes were surrounded by an elegant pair of half-moon reading glasses. Overall, she perfectly gave off the impression of a sweet old librarian (if one ignored that she exclusively worked in the black market).

When Eddy walked inside, she raised her head from a thick and dusty tome resting on a reading stand and nodded politely. She added a small smile. Eddy returned her nod, doffing his cap. From what he had learned, Miss Morland rarely spoke to her customers. A good thing. It was best not to be too gregarious when under the Embankment. Eddy noted the book she was reading. As he walked further into the shop, between the piles of old works, his angle improved and he spotted the title: The Voyages of Ferninshun of Oreol. He did not recognise the language in which it was written. From what he could see, the text was spindly and unwilling to conform to neat lines - wending over the page. His eyes almost drawn to it, Eddy felt the scratching of rats and tasted something dry and musty on his tongue. He wrenched his head away. Morland's books were not always safe.

Eddy picked his way through Morland's collection for what seemed like hours. Thankfully, the woman was more than happy to allow customers to linger in her shop. Eddy thought that was only fair. If she had wanted efficient service then she should have laid out her shop better, or at all. Perhaps a product catalogue wouldn't go amiss. Setting his joke aside, Eddy continued his search - taking care not to disturb the books too much. Who knew if there was a particularly malicious mystical tome somewhere in the labyrinth? Perhaps that was why Morland refused to sort out her shop. Was it a matter of self-preservation?

After some more time passed, Eddy found his way back to the counter with two books. He'd toyed with getting a third - simply based on the beautifully decorated cover - but had decided against it when he realised that neither he nor Mr Voice could read a word of the text. That was slightly concerning. Eddy did not like to feel as if Mr Voice had limitations. After all, Mr Voice's knowledge translated directly into Eddy's power. In any case, Eddy purchased two books before packing them away carefully in cloth and tucking them under his jacket. He was hopeful about them, but their study would have to wait until he got home. They'd better be worth it. Miss Morland had taken one glance at them and demanded three pounds and ten soli each. Seven pounds total. It was like he'd been stabbed. He'd handed over the money. The realisation had truly settled in that mysticism was going to be an expensive hobby.

As soon as Eddy was out of the shop he threw up his Veil and raced home. He was certainly a little giddy. Truly, mysticism was his new hobby. The fact that Miss Morland's shop was almost gambling didn't help. In that maze of papers, one had to rely on skill and a fair bit of luck to sort the gold from the dross, the wheat from the chaff, the blood from the water. He couldn't wait to find out what he had won with his seven pounds.

When he reached home he made sure to once again lock the door securely (no nosy landlords allowed) and unwrapped his two new books. One had a grey cover, a woodcut on the front depicting some sort of cat-thing eating the innards of a still-living anthropomorphised mole man. Kitling Ripe and the Moldywarp's Grave (and Other Stories). It purported to be written by one 'N.K. Field'. Apparently, it was a volume of children's stories, although the gory cover art belied that claim slightly. Eddy was sure there were secrets within.

The second book had been Mr Voice's choice. In Morland's, he had assured the doubtful Eddy that it was worth buying. Supposedly, it 'smelled like a crumbling dream' - whatever that meant. Regardless, the pale purple cover was marked only by a scrawled '3' near the top. That was one of the reasons why Eddy had been wary of buying it. Why would one wish to start with the third volume of a series? It felt wrong, but Eddy trusted Mr Voice enough to push past his doubts. The spine of the book was more informative. The Locksmith's Dream: Trespasses. The name Teresa Galmier had been written inside the cover. Eddy guessed that she was either the author or the previous owner. He was not sure.

Either way, he knew how he was spending the rest of his weekend.

AN: This is a shout-out to reader GoMagikarp, who seemingly guessed immediately that Eddy was a Sequence 8 Smuggler. Congratulations! There isn't a prize, but I was impressed. This chapter mostly happened inside Eddy's head. I'm sorry about that, but we need Eddy's mentality and priorities to be set up for the next story arc - including him getting sorted on his Sequence, etc. Also, new books - both from CultSim of course. We'll see those next week. God, I love that game. Can't wait for Book of Hours to come out in August (fingers crossed). Finally, we've breached 50k words. An arbitrary goal, but one I was happy to reach nonetheless. A combination of work and my own lack of creative stamina means that I'm never going to be one of those authors that pumps out thousands of words a day, but this is my first big project and I suppose I'm just happy to get this far. Thanks for sticking around for it!