"Don't move," the blade said at Abigail's neck—green light painting her face. "Right," Abigail said. "And here I was planning to type the climax." The steel was cold. The light was warmer. Someone small and trembling crouched behind the lamp, a halo of emerald rotating over their head like a cheap lamp shade. The person—if person fit—had sleeves burned to lace and hair braided in a way Abigail recognized from museum plaques, not subway platforms. "Hands where I can see them," the voice said again, thinner now, breaking on an accent Abigail couldn't place. Abigail slid her palm toward her keyboard. "Is that a knife or an artisan bookmark?" The blade moved a half inch. "Do not make jokes. Give me your book." "My book?" Abigail kept her voice even. "My manuscript's on a laptop. Do you prefer the PDF or the rough draft? Either way, you should know stealing a cloud backup is illegal and also very inconvenient." The fairy—someone very definitely not from Harbor City society—blinked. The halo flickered green, then blue, then green. The knife sank another fraction closer. "You frightened me," the fairy said. "The images… the pages… they were lit. I thought they were altars." "Altars?" Abigail's mouth pulled. "To who? Coffee shops?" The intruder's hands shook so much Abigail could see the tremor through the cloth wrapped around the grip. "I only meant to… I need the book. I need the pattern." Abigail