The Nameless Assassins

Andrel's Graduation

As I reluctantly looked towards the next phase of my life, Faith went to the Sensorium to revisit an old one. There, she drew Madame Keitel into the secret archive for a private conversation (by now, my archivist was so used to shadowing them that he didn't give it a second thought) and declared, "I think it's time."

Accustomed to these bold, ambiguous proclamations, her old friend merely asked, "Yeah?" and waited.

After a pause – almost a hesitation, really – Faith stated, "I want to remember Dunvil."

Now it was Madame Keitel's turn to go silent. Eventually, she answered, "All right. If you're sure." There was no trace of enthusiasm in her voice; better than anyone – including Faith – she knew what those memories would do to a patron.

Seeing her reluctance, Faith heaved a theatrically reassuring (and reassuringly theatrical) sigh. "It's the end of an era, Madame Keitel." She gave an elaborate, helpless shrug, disclaiming responsibility for the passage of said era. "I don't know what I'm going to do after this."

Madame Keitel's grim expression didn't change, although she did try to comfort her old friend. "I don't know either, but...I'm sure you'll find something."

At that, Faith flashed a grin, signaling that she'd had enough of being serious. "Well, I'm sure I'll find something to replace the pink." (Here, the archivist gave me a shocked, questioning look. I just nodded.) "Maybe I'll try steampunk chic next time? I'll need to build a totally new wardrobe! And we'll have to get a new couch for the Pink Salon – which won't be the Pink Salon anymore! The Steampunk Salon? Hmmm, I'm not sure whether I like the ring of that." (Apparently alliteration was another personality trait she intended to shed.) "Well, I'll leave this tragic effort to another day. In the meantime, shall we?" Ruffles aflutter, she sidled out the door.

Drawing a deep breath, Madame Keitel followed. "You're going to do it, then. You're going after Dunvil."

Faith waved a hand. "No time like the present."

"Then...I suppose I'll have to decorate this place again." Opening the door to the Soon-to-Be-No-Longer-Pink Salon, Madame Keitel ushered Faith in.

"Indeed." In a cloud of pink froth, Faith twirled across the floor and plopped onto the couch. Pulling her knees up and propping her chin on them, she surveyed the room. "Don't you think it'll look better with some clockwork mechanisms over there, instead of those pink ribbons? A steam-powered clock, perhaps?"

"I'll call my decorator tomorrow, dear."

Just before she shut the door behind them, the archivist heard Faith cry, "Not just yet! We may fail! We may have to make a second attempt!"

Madame Keitel's voice was bleak. "I don't think he'd let you make a second attempt."

"Well, then, I'll just have to make sure that it's me not letting him not let me make a second attempt!"

"That's my girl."

After a few hours lost in her own memories for a change, Faith emerged with an extra-bright grin on her face. "Well," she informed Madame Keitel, "I think I won't ask for these to be erased from my mind quite yet. I'll hold onto them for a while."

The archivist, on the other hand, looked as if he would very much like for all of these events – dating all the way back to the first time he laid eyes on her – to be expunged from his memory.