Springwood, Hyde Park, New York
April 18th, 1941
The motorcade for Childe's ride arrived early in the morning at half past nine to the front entrance of The Springwood. Three were three black fords where the middle one had a blue and white pennant of the Fatui Eight Pointed Star. Pug had seen on every piece of Fatui correspondence and above the entrance of the Embassy in the Tiergarten and on the lapel pins of the croupier operatives who checked credentials at the gate. He had asked Lynette about it, two days before, when the logistical arrangements were being finalized and the question of the cars had first come up. She explained that it was called the Pale Star with it being the official symbol of the Fatui.
Pug stopped at the front of the steps as he watched the three black Fords come up the drive through the elm trees with the Pale Star pennant of blue and white catching the April light above the middle hood. Roosevelt sat on a chair outside as the cars pulled up with Harry Hopkin right beside him. After a minute, the lead ford stopped, then the middle one with the pennant, and then the trailing car. Then stepping out of the middle car was Childe with Lynette and Lyney not far behind him, Childe looked up at the broad white exterior of Springwood, the pillars, the windows, the lawns falling away toward the river, and could not help but whistle.
"Well," he said, low but not so low that Pug failed to hear it, "you do know how to build a house."
Roosevelt, who had heard enough to catch the spirit if not every word, smiled and lifted his hand while still sitting at the chair.
"Mr. Tartaglia," he called. "Welcome to Hyde Park. Please forgive me for not standing up."
"Mr. President," Childe said, taking the offered hand. "Thank you for receiving us."
Roosevelt held his hand briefly, warmly, then released it as he spoke, "You've had an eventful introduction to the country."
Childe's mouth quirked, "So I've been told."
Hopkins, beside the chair, gave him the sort of long, dry look.
Lyney came forward next, polished as ever, his hat in one hand and the other free for the brief clasp Roosevelt offered him, "Mr. President. Mr. Hopkins. Commander Henry."
"Mr. Lyney," Roosevelt said. "Miss Lynette."
Lynette inclined her head. Pug had the sense from watching her that she was taking note of everything that she was seeing from the number of Secret Service men, the servants who were pretending not to stare, and the distance from the front door to the nearest piece of heavy furniture.
Roosevelt stood up as he wrapped his arm around Harry Hopkins forearm and grabbed a cane nearby from his secretary Missy. The movement only took about a few seconds, but Pug watched Childe closely. Childe did not look away from FDR at all, but almost seemed to admire FDR's strength. He had no stare of crude curiosity or disgust, but instead seemed very impressed.
Once upright, Roosevelt leaned lightly on the cane and smiled as if rising to greet the Tsaritsa's envoy were no more extraordinary than receiving a senator from Albany.
"Well," he said, "now that I've committed myself to the trouble of standing, we had better go inside and justify it."
That earned a quick laugh from Childe as he replied, "I thought I was supposed to be the theatrical one today."
"Oh, no," Roosevelt said as he turned toward the open door, "In this house, if there is to be any managed theatricality, I reserve the right to direct it."
Hopkins snorted softly. Pug stepped aside as Missy opened the door wider, and the small party entered Springwood through the entrance hall. They were conducted down the gallery to the library at the far end.
Pug, who had not been inside Springwood before, found himself noticing the room at once. It was paneled in dark wood and lined with tall shelves of books. Rich red rugs covered most of the floor. Lamps cast a warm amber light that worked against the pale daylight coming through the high windows, and a broad fireplace sat at the far end beneath a portrait. The chairs and tables were set in close conversational groupings rather than formal lines, so that the room felt less like a chamber for ceremony than a place where difficult things might be said quietly and still matter very much.
Roosevelt seemed pleased by the effect, though whether he had intended it or merely known it would happen Pug could not have said. The President allowed them all a moment to take the room in, then moved toward his chair with the same careful economy he had shown outside. Hopkins stayed close enough to help if needed. Missy laid the cane within easy reach beside the low table and withdrew from the room as she closed the door behind her.
It was only when Childe's eyes shifted from the shelves and the rugs to the table beside Roosevelt's chair that the room's true arrangement announced itself. On the table were the recent printings of newspapers from different sources and the they all focused on one important topic.
On the New York Times, it had:
VISITOR FROM "OTHER WORLD" STUNS PRESS AT PIER 97
Then the Herald Tribune had on their print:
TSARITSA'S ENVOY DEMONSTRATES STRANGE POWERS IN NEW YORK HARBOR
They had one thing that came with their top story, which was a picture of Childe in transformation or midway in his transformation. The New York Times especially had a gallery built into its edition, where they included all of the pictures taken of Childe going through his transformation.
Both papers had photographs. The Tribune had gone with the most dramatic one they possessed with Childe midway through the transformation, dark armor climbing over him like something alive, water and motion blurred around the edges of the frame. The Times, more restrained in its headline than in its curiosity, had printed a full picture gallery inside the edition, following the change frame by frame from man to something no editor in New York had possessed a proper word for two days earlier.
Childe saw the headlines, then the photographs, and for the first time since stepping out of the Ford, looked faintly embarrassed. Roosevelt noticed with a faint smirk.
"I thought it only fair," he said as he settled into his chair, "to permit the press to join us in spirit, since they were so determined to join you in person."
That drew the smallest twitch at the corner of Childe's mouth.
"I don't object to the press," he said. "Only to their timing."
Roosevelt nodded as if that were perfectly reasonable.
"Yes," he said. "That brings us neatly to the first question."
After a minute, Roosevelt sat down at the chair right beside the table with the newspapers as everyone else followed with Childe, Lyney, and Lynette to his right while on his left was Harry Hopkins and Pug. He lifted the Times by one corner and let the front page rustle once in the quiet room.
"How," Roosevelt asked pleasantly, "did thirty-one American reporters come to know, in advance, the date, the ship, the pier, and nearly the hour of your arrival?"
Lyney folded his gloves once over in his lap as he pulled them off, while Lynette did not move at all. Childe looked at the paper for a moment before answering.
"There are several possibilities," he said.
"I'm sure there are," Roosevelt replied.
"Someone on your side talked. Someone on the Swedish side talked. Someone in New York harbor observed more than he should have," Childe paused, his eyes flicking once toward the photographs,"Or someone decided that if America's first question was whether we were real, then the fastest way to answer it was in public."
He let that sit for half a beat, then added with disarming frankness, "Or it may have been Pantalone."
Roosevelt's expression did not change, "Your banker?"
Childe nodded in response.
"You say that without any doubt and very quick to admit it."
Childe gave the smallest shrug, "Because it would not surprise me very much."
Roosevelt rested the Times on his knee, "I was under the impression the Fatui presented a united front."
"We do," Childe said. "In public. Most of the time."
Childe's response earned him a look from Lyney, though not an offended one, but it resembled more of the fact that Childe kicked open a door that should have remained locked. However, Childe saw it and choose to ignore it.
"We serve the Tsaritsa," he went on, "That part is not in question. But the Harbingers are not a choir, Mr. President. We each command our own resources, our own personnel, and often pursue different methods toward the same end. In that sense, we are less like a court and more like a highly militarized confederacy. The Director manages us all at once, but above him is the Tsaritsa, and only the Tsaritsa."
Hopkins looked up from his pad as he was writing down notes and clarified, "A high command, then."
"Yes," Childe said, "A more mobile one than most."
Roosevelt studied him for a moment.
"And Pantalone's method?"
A faint curve touched Childe's mouth.
"He believes in making facts expensive enough that other people are forced to believe in them too."
That drew the slightest visible reaction from Hopkins. Pug, meanwhile, felt the line settle into place in his mind with uncomfortable clarity. It sounded exactly like the kind of doctrine that would stage a public arrival, tip the press, and call the resulting headlines proof instead of spectacle.
"So your possibilities are these," Roosevelt said mildly. "An American leak. A Swedish leak. A harbor leak. A deliberate public demonstration. Or an internal initiative by one of your own senior men."
"Yes."
"And you do not know which."
"No," Childe said. "Though if it was Pantalone, I imagine he is very pleased with the morning papers."
Lyney exhaled softly through his nose, "He would call it efficient."
"He would call it cheap at the price," Childe corrected.
This time even Roosevelt smiled.
"Well," he said, lowering the paper back onto the table, "that is admirably candid. It is not every day a foreign envoy suggests that one of his own superiors may have arranged his press difficulties as a form of strategic advertising."
Childe's mouth quirked.
"I didn't say he arranged it."
"No," Roosevelt replied. "You merely implied that if he had, he would consider it money well spent."
"Yes."
Roosevelt let that rest in the room for a moment.
Then he set the paper aside and said, "And on the pier, you elected to settle the question rather decisively."
Childe's expression shifted just slightly, "It ended the wrong conversation."
Roosevelt's eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly behind the pince-nez, "The wrong conversation."
"If the first argument in America remained whether I was a hoax," Childe said, "then everything after it would have been wasted. Whether Snezhnaya was real. Whether your government ought to hear us. Whether the Fatui were diplomats, a threat, or a story told to frighten editors into selling newspapers. None of that matters if the first fact is still under debate."
Pug saw Roosevelt revise some internal judgment.
"So," the President said, "you chose witnesses."
"Yes."
"And you were not distressed to find yourself with an audience."
Childe smiled slightly, "No."
"That," Roosevelt said dryly, "I had gathered."
The room loosened by a fraction. Roosevelt let it. Then he rested one hand beside the folder Lyney had brought.
"Very well," he said in a tone that sounded to be more conversational, "Tell me about Snezhnaya."
Childe heard the change in tone and, to Pug's eye, recognized it for what it was: not small talk, but the beginning of a map. He sat back slightly in his chair.
"What would you like to know?" he asked.
Roosevelt folded his hands loosely over one knee.
"How it governs," he said. "How it feeds itself. How it arms itself. How much of it belongs to the Tsaritsa, and how much merely obeys her. I've had enough introductions to mystery for one week. I'd like some machinery."
That seemed to please Childe.
"Snezhnaya is centralized," he said. "More than most of your nations. The Tsaritsa is the state in the sense that no meaningful policy exists apart from her will. But Snezhnaya is not chaos held together by fear, if that's what you're asking."
"It was not," Roosevelt said mildly. "Though I appreciate your volunteering the distinction."
Childe settled back in his chair for a moment, "Snezhnaya is the northernmost nation of Teyvat. Cold....Very cold, though I expect you've gathered that from the name. The Tsaritsa rules it and has ruled it for longer than any living person in my world can accurately remember. The people are tough because the land requires it and proud because they have earned the right to be."
"How large?" Hopkins asked, pen ready.
"In population, comparable to your eastern seaboard from Boston to Washington. In territory, something between your Alaska and your western territories." He considered. "The comparison is imprecise. Teyvat's geography does not translate neatly onto your maps."
"And the Fatui," Roosevelt said. "Where do they sit relative to the government."
"They are the government, in the sense that matters. The civil administration exists like the Snezhnograd Veche under Pulcinella. The Northland Bank manages commerce and trade. But the Fatui are the Tsaritsa's instrument. Her foreign policy, her military force, her intelligence apparatus," He said it without apology, the way a man describes an arrangement he was born into and has never found occasion to question, "I am not a diplomat who happens to carry a weapon, Mr. President. I am a soldier who has been asked to negotiate. The distinction matters for how you read what I tell you."
"And the Harbingers?" the President asked. "Are they ministers, generals, proconsuls, or something less governable than that?"
"Different Harbingers would answer that differently," Childe said. "Which should answer part of your question. Officially, we are the Tsaritsa's executive agents. In practice, each Harbinger governs a domain of responsibility large enough to require its own people, its own methods, and its own judgment."
"Baronies," Hopkins said.
He paused, then added with the same disarming frankness he had shown all morning:
"Our authority comes from usefulness. From results. From proving, repeatedly, that we can do what others cannot."
Roosevelt's eyes remained on him.
"And that is enough?"
"In Snezhnaya?" Childe said. "Yes."
The room stayed quiet.
Then Childe went on with a smirk and his eyes closed, "If I told you that Arlecchino, as we also call her, the Knave, became a Harbinger because she killed the woman who held the title before her while still a child in the House of the Hearth, would that help clarify matters?"
No one on the American side said a word as Hopkin's pencil stopped, Roosevelt raised an eyebrow, and Pug on the other hand believed it immediately. He did not doubt that at all as it sounded like something that explained how Arlecchino got her title as a Knave and position as a Harbinger. However, the name of Pulcinella hit him like the other names of the Harbingers. Arlecchino….Pierro….Tartaglia…..Pantalone….These names….he knew for sure, but still after all these months, he could not put his finger on them. There was a connection for sure, but Pug could not make it connect. There was for sure something that was old, theatrical, and European in it.
Childe then continued as he glanced at Hopkins, "The Harbingers are not a ministry in the sense you would mean it. We are selected, elevated, or tolerated because the Tsaritsa finds us useful. Some inherit institutions. Some seize them. Some build them out of nothing. But none of us hold place by sentiment, family, or custom alone."
Roosevelt let the silence hold for a moment, then rested one hand on the folder beside him on the table.
"Yes," He said, "That does clarify matter in fact. Now tell me: what does your Tsaritsa want from Europe."
Childe nodded as Roosevelt opened it, but answered before the President could look to far down the page.
"The Tsaritsa proposes a seven-point framework for peace in the European war, and for the wider questions growing around it," he said. "She believes the conflict, if left to itself, will expand beyond Europe and begin consuming states that are not yet formally part of it. Your Lend-Lease policy means Britain will continue fighting. Germany will read that, eventually, not as neutrality with preference, but as undeclared participation delayed by law and language. If the war lengthens under those conditions, Berlin will cease treating American distance as meaningful. At that point Snezhnaya's position within the Pact becomes more dangerous."
Roosevelt looked up from the folder.
"Dangerous in what way?"
"In the practical way," Childe said. "If Germany concludes the United States is already entering the war by another route, it will expect its allies to behave accordingly. That includes us."
"And the Tsaritsa objects to being drawn into conflict with the United States."
"Yes," Childe said simply. "She has other priorities. Domestic ones. Strategic ones. A conflict with America before she chooses it would be expensive, distracting, and badly timed."
Roosevelt's expression remained mild.
"That is a refreshingly candid way to describe peace policy."
Childe's mouth twitched.
"You asked what she wants, not what would sound best in a communiqué."
"That," Roosevelt said, "is true."
"The first point that she offers," Childe continued, "is territorial recognition. Germany would recognize British sovereignty and territorial integrity permanently and without condition. No invasion of the home islands. No future strategic bombing campaign against Britain. The Blitz ends."
Roosevelt listened without interruption as Childe continued.
"In return, Britain recognizes the present continental settlement. No military re-entry into Europe. No support for resistance movements in occupied territories. No material support for governments in exile intended to reverse Germany's current position."
"You are asking Britain," Roosevelt said, "to preserve itself by abandoning everyone else."
Childe kept his face straight, "I am stating the facts as it stands. Even if Britain wins this war, it will lose more than it gains. It cannot afford to maintain a large empire if a war of this scale continues for many years from now."
Roosevelt did not answer at once. He sat with one hand resting on the folder, the other on the arm of the chair, looking at Childe with that fixed, almost patient concentration which Pug had begun to understand was one of his more dangerous expressions.
"That," Roosevelt said at last, "is a very continental way of defining British defeat."
Childe inclined his head slightly, "It is a strategic one."
"No," Hopkins said, without looking up from his notes. "It is a banker's one. Balance sheets, shipping losses, overstretched commitments, diminishing reserves. You're asking Britain to survive as an island and call that victory while the rest of Europe is nailed down around it."
Childe glanced toward him.
"If Britain's alternative is eventual exhaustion with the same result and far greater ruin, then yes."
Pug felt the line land hard in the room, not because it was false, but because it was cold in precisely the place Churchill would never permit coldness.
Roosevelt's mouth tightened by less than a degree.
"You speak of Britain," he said, "as though it were already an after-action report."
Childe did not retreat from it.
"I speak of Britain as a power whose options are narrowing. You asked what the Tsaritsa wants from Europe. She wants an end state that can still be managed when the shooting stops."
"And France?" Roosevelt asked. "Poland? Norway? The Low Countries? Yugoslavia tomorrow, Greece next week, perhaps half the map by summer if Berlin keeps its appetite and its luck?"
Childe's expression did not change.
"The framework recognizes realities already created by the war."
Roosevelt gave a short, humorless breath through his nose.
"Yes," he said. "Conquest often prefers to be called reality once it has time to sit down."
That made Lyney lower his eyes for a moment, not in embarrassment, Pug thought, but because the line was too clean not to admire professionally.
Hopkins finally looked up.
"And the resistance movements?" he asked. "You are asking Britain to abandon them too."
"Yes."
"To tell every occupied people in Europe that their usefulness has expired?"
"I am saying that wars do not end because all moral obligations have been satisfied," Childe said. "They end when states decide the cost of continuing exceeds the gain."
Hopkins's pencil stopped.
"That," he said, "is one hell of a sentence to bring into this room."
Childe's mouth twitched faintly.
"You asked for machinery."
Roosevelt let the silence breathe for a beat, then turned one page in the folder with deliberate care.
"The second point," he said, "you describe as colonial and imperial stability."
"Yes."
"Which means Germany keeps Europe, Britain keeps the empire, and the Tsaritsa keeps the right to decide whether either of them has misbehaved."
"Yes."
Roosevelt nodded once.
"So everyone keeps what they can still reach, and Snezhnaya keeps the future."
That time, even Childe paused a fraction.
After a moment he said, "That is a harsh way to phrase it."
Roosevelt's eyes remained on him.
"Is it inaccurate?"
Childe considered, then said simply, "No."
Pug watched Hopkins write something in the margin of his notes and then underline it once. He could not see the words from where he sat, but he suspected he knew their shape.
Roosevelt rested his fingertips on the edge of the paper.
"Proceed," he said.
"The third point," Childe said, "is the Snezhnayan guarantee. The Tsaritsa formally guarantees the settlement. Any violation by either party, German or British, triggers Snezhnayan enforcement."
"Enforcement With what authority?" was what Roosevelt asked next.
"With the authority granted by the treaty."
"No," he said mildly. "With what right?"
Childe held his gaze, "With the right of the only outside power both parties might trust to enforce what the others cannot."
Roosevelt closed the folder halfway and laid his hand over it.
"If Britain signed this," he said, "Europe would acquire a permanent Snezhnayan referee with legal grounds to intervene wherever peace was said to have been broken."
"Yes," Childe said.
"Tell me something, Mr. Tartaglia," Roosevelt said, "If the treaty is violated by Germany, Snezhnaya enforces it against Germany. If it is violated by Britain, Snezhnaya enforces it against Britain. What happens if the treaty is violated by Snezhnaya?"
For the first time in several minutes, Childe's answer did not come instantly.
At length he said, "Then the treaty is already dead."
Hopkins let out a breath that was almost a laugh and not amused in the least.
"That," he said, "is efficient."
Roosevelt's eyes did not leave Childe.
"Yes," he said quietly, "It is."
Roosevelt did not answer further as he grabbed his cigarette holder and light it up as he placed it between his lips at a jaunty angle, "And the other four points?"
"Atlantic commerce," Childe said. "Immediate cessation of U-boat operations against American-flagged or American-escorted commercial shipping that will come because of lend-lease. It's enforcement will happen upon acceptance of the framework."
Roosevelt's fingers paused on the page, "And Germany agrees to this."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because the Tsaritsa can produce compliance faster than argument can."
"And if a German commander chooses not to comply?" Roosevelt asked.
"Then Germany violates the settlement," Childe said. "And Snezhnaya responds."
"How?"
"That would depend on the circumstances."
Hopkins looked up. "That is not an answer."
"It is the answer I have." was what Childe said next.
Roosevelt let that one sit without rescuing it, "The fifth point?"
"Pacific non-aggression," Childe said, "The Tsaritsa will use Snezhnayan influence within the Tripartite Pact to discourage Japanese expansion into areas that would bring Japan into direct conflict with the United States. The Philippines. Guam. Your Pacific routes."
Roosevelt looked at him steadily.
"Will she?"
"Yes."
"Can she?"
The silence that followed was longer than the others.
When Childe answered, he did so with the same honesty that made him difficult to dismiss and impossible to trust cheaply.
"She can exert influence. She cannot command Japan as she commands Snezhnaya."
"Well," Hopkins murmured, "there's your weak plank."
Lyney intervened with smooth precision.
"The point is not offered as a binding Japanese commitment, Mr. Hopkins. It is offered as evidence that Snezhnaya is prepared to spend political capital within the Pact to prevent wider war."
Roosevelt nodded once.
"Yes," he said. "I understood that. I also understand that if Tokyo concludes its interests require movement south, the Tsaritsa's objections may prove morally admirable and strategically useless."
Lyney did not argue the point.
Childe said only, "That is possible."
Roosevelt turned another page.
"And the sixth?"
"Formal trade relations between Snezhnaya and the United States," Childe said. "Access to materials not available on Earth. Alchemical compounds. Resonant metals. Medical substances your scientists have not yet studied."
"And in return?"
"Industrial access. Scientific exchange. Mechanical processes. Certain categories of chemical and manufacturing knowledge."
There it was in the open at last.
Not merely peace. Not merely recognition. Appetite.
"In other words," Roosevelt said, "you would like us to study your miracles while you study our factories."
"That," Childe said, "would be a fair summary."
"And Germany is content with this?"
"No," Childe said. "Germany is content with what it believes it can gain first."
That one Pug stored away at once.
Roosevelt moved to the final page.
"And the seventh point."
For the first time, even Lyney sat a shade straighter. The paper had reached its real demand.
"The United States formally recognizes Snezhnaya as a sovereign nation," Childe said, "acknowledges the framework in a joint communiqué, and agrees to serve as a neutral administrative guarantor of the settlement's terms."
No one spoke for several seconds.
Outside, somewhere beyond the windows, tires moved softly over gravel. Inside the library the silence seemed almost physical.
At last Roosevelt said as he leaned back slightly in his chair, "So, You have brought me a settlement Britain cannot accept, an enforcement mechanism that places Europe under permanent Snezhnayan arbitration, an Atlantic guarantee I cannot verify, a Pacific assurance you cannot promise, a trade proposal that amounts to mutual industrial reconnaissance, and in exchange I am to confer public legitimacy upon a government most Americans still know from newspaper photographs of a young man turning into something infernal on a New York pier."
Childe listened with his full attention on Roosevelt, and when the President finished, he nodded once.
"Yes," he said.
That made Hopkins laugh once under his breath, not because it was funny, but because candor on that scale had become its own form of absurdity.
Roosevelt did not laugh.
"Mr. Tartaglia," he said, "do you know what Churchill would call this offer?"
Childe considered.
"Unsatisfactory?"
Roosevelt's smile was brief and sharp.
"He would call it an attempt to make Britain surrender in moral language while pretending not to notice the difference."
"That," Childe said, "is one interpretation."
"It is the correct one."
Again Childe did not deny it.
Roosevelt rested his fingertips on the closed folder as he asked something that seemed to be on his mind, "I suppose that we will continue these talks as the days go by, but I would message your Tsaritsa immediately that some changes on these terms are going to have to be made. But before we move to lunch, answer me this. What happens if these talks go nowhere at all? What does your Tsaritsa intend to do if nothing comes out of it?"
Childe was quiet for a moment. Not the deliberating quiet, not the thinking quiet that Pug had learned to read over three weeks. This was a different quality of silence where the silent man was waiting for a question to arrive and is now deciding whether the room is ready for its answer.
"She increases," Childe said, "with her own form of Lend-Lease as a form of contribution to the Tripartite Alliance. We already have plans give by Germany of U-boats and Panzers, where we are developing our own variant for our own purposes. We have already given some in response to Yugoslavia and the world is seeing the results of that."
"Yes, I am sure the British especially are getting reports of that. With the Eiskrieg that the press calls your tactics," Harry commented.
"We have already made the Germany industry more efficient and faster in production, but have not released any of our more dangerous weapons to them. If the Tsaritsa makes the determination that the talks are going nowhere, she will consider donating some to the Axis alliance. Germany would be getting new panzers and u-boat designs that have been improved or rebuilt with our own skills and abilities," Childe continued.
"And Italy," Roosevelt said, "The Mediterranean."
"Italy has been a disappointment to everyone involved," he said, with the matter-of-fact candor of a man who had sat in enough Axis planning sessions to have formed an unvarnished opinion of Italian military performance, "The Greek campaign was an embarrassment that required German and Fatui intervention to prevent a collapse. North Africa has been functional only because Rommel is exceptional and the British have their own supply difficulties. But if the Tsaritsa determines it, we can make improvements that allow Rommel to reach the Suez Canal and even resolve the questions that the Italians have been asking on taking Malta."
"And Japan, we are currently in talks with them on their expansion lately." Pug mentioned curiously.
"Yes," he said. "We are aware of the Hull-Nomura discussions."
That landed on the American side of the table with a specific quality of silence. Roosevelt's expression did not change but something behind it recalibrated by a degree. Hopkins's pen stopped moving. Pug kept his face neutral and made a note to ask himself later how he had managed it.
"You are aware," Roosevelt said, pleasantly.
"Ambassador Nomura's proposal was on a desk in Snezhnograd forty-eight hours after it reached your State Department," Childe said, "Not through any action of ours specifically. It is simply the nature of what the Pact of Iron and Frost requires of its members in terms of information sharing, the Tsaritsa wanted this Alliance to be more unified and direct on its actions than it was before Snezhnaya's entry. For example: we share what we know with Germany, Germany shares what it knows with Japan, and Japan shares what it knows with us. The circuit is not always fast and it is not always complete. But it functions."
Hopkins looked up from his pad.
"So whatever we say to Nomura," he said, "arrives in Berlin."
"Eventually," Childe said. "With the delays and distortions that pass-through intelligence always carries. But essentially, yes."
"And whatever Berlin knows about our conversations with Nomura," Hopkins continued, his voice carrying the specific flatness of a man following a logical chain to its end regardless of where it terminated, "the Tsaritsa knows."
"Yes."
"Which means she knew the state of the Pacific negotiations before she sent you here."
"Yes."
"And calibrated her Pacific offer accordingly."
Childe looked at Hopkins with something that was genuine respect.
"Yes," he said. "That would be accurate."
"So the Pacific assurance," Roosevelt said, bringing his gaze back down to Childe, "was offered from a position of knowing precisely how vulnerable our Pacific negotiating position currently is. She knew that Nomura and Hull are talking in circles. She knew that Tokyo's patience with diplomatic process is not unlimited. And she offered to apply Snezhnayan influence to Japanese decision-making as a benefit knowing that we could not easily verify whether her influence was being applied toward restraint or in the other direction entirely."
"Mr. Tartaglia," he said, "do you know what the most dangerous thing you have told me today is?"
Childe waited.
"Not the Suez," Roosevelt said. "Not the U-boats or the panzers or the Mediterranean. Not even Japan."
He looked at Childe directly as he continued, "The most dangerous thing you have told me is that you don't have her full picture. Because it means the Tsaritsa operates on a level of information and intention that her own Harbingers cannot fully represent. Which means that whatever I negotiate with you, I am negotiating with a fraction of what she actually intends. That is not a criticism of you. It is a description of your principal."
Childe was quiet for a moment that had a different quality from all the other quiet moments of the morning.
"Yes," he said at last. "It is."
Roosevelt looked at him for a moment longer than the exchange required. Then he reached for his cane.
"Well," he said, and the warmth returned to his voice with the completeness of a man who has finished the serious part of an afternoon and intends to honor what comes next, "I have kept you talking through the noon hour and I intend to correct that immediately. I hope neither of you has strong feelings about hot dogs."
Childe looked at him. The word presented a genuine linguistic problem for approximately two seconds.
"Hot dogs," he said.
"Sausages," Roosevelt said pleasantly. "On a bun. Grilled outdoors. I am told by approximately half of Washington that serving them to guests of state is an affront to the dignity of the office." The smile completed itself. "I served them to the King and Queen of England two years ago. George seemed to enjoy himself."
Childe looked at Roosevelt for a moment with the expression of a man recalibrating his understanding of American heads of state and finding the recalibration agreeable.
Then he laughed as he replied "I would very much like a hot dog. As long as it doesn't involve chopstick, then I will like it."
"Excellent," Roosevelt said, rising with Hopkins's assistance. "Then we are in agreement on at least one point today, which is more than most people manage before lunch."
He moved toward the door, and the formal arrangement of the library dissolved behind him.
Grand Library, Headquarters of the Knights of Favonius
Mondstadt, Teyvat
The Grand Library had grown very quiet lately in the ordinary sounds that it would normally make. In its lower archive, in front of the table with the device connected to the glass container that held the seal, Albedo stood with his hand still extended toward the housing in the posture of a man who has just released something and has not yet decided whether to lower his arm. Aether sat opposite the apparatus with one hand still resting on the metal contact, feeling the last of the vibration fade from it. The seal within the glass chamber had gone dim again, the pale light retreating into the jade and gold until it seemed, once more, nothing more than an ancient contract bound into material form. Paimon hovered low beside him, so low her boots almost brushed the floor, as though even she understood that this was not a moment for drifting.
Jean stood a little apart with her hands clasped behind her back, her expression composed in the way it always became when she was most unwilling to admit to worry. Lisa, leaning against one of the shelves with her arms folded, looked calmer than any of them, though Aether had learned by then that with Lisa calm often meant attention sharpened to its finest point.
The device gave one last thin hum and went silent.
Paimon was the first to speak.
"So," she said, in a voice pitched carefully between hope and alarm, "that was either very good or very bad."
Albedo lowered his hand at last.
"It was contact," he said, "Which is already better than silence."
"That," Paimon said, "is not actually the comforting answer Paimon was hoping for."
"It is the truthful one," Lisa murmured.
Aether kept his eyes on the darkened seal. "She was there."
"Yes," Albedo said. "Briefly. But clearly enough."
Jean took one step nearer the table. "Can you stabilize it again?"
Albedo rested his fingertips lightly against the housing, feeling for heat, resonance, and whatever else only he seemed able to notice in such things.
"Not immediately," he said. "The field opened, accepted the seal as a valid anchor, and then withdrew before I could force a second exchange. That suggests the connection on Alice's side is mobile, narrow, or both."
Paimon folded her arms. "In normal people's language?"
"In normal people's language," Albedo said, "my mother is doing something complicated at speed."
"That," Paimon muttered, "somehow explains everything and makes it worse."
Lisa smiled faintly, "It usually does, dear."
Aether finally looked up from the table. "She said the route was almost ready."
Albedo nodded as he spoke, "And that matters more than the interruption itself. If she has a receiving point prepared, then she has solved the harder half of the problem."
Then the device light up as Alice's voice could be heard through static crackling. The glass container flared with warm jade light and the left contact sparked with a small blue discharge that made Lisa straighten from her shelf without appearing to hurry. Albedo had his hand on the housing before the second spark. The static resolved in stages, each one cleaner than the last, until Alice's voice came through with a clarity that had nothing of distance in it.
"Still there. Good. The window reopened faster than I expected. Albedo — left contact, half a degree clockwise."
He adjusted it. The static dropped by half.
"Better. Now listen. All of you, because I am not going to repeat this."
Paimon's boots touched the floor. She was looking at the device as if it owed her something.
"The route is ready. Relay point in the elemental field forty kilometers south of London, near a village in Kent called Lyminge. Clean, stable, confirmed for eleven days. There is a contact waiting in the field that I have gotten to know, a man named Aubrey. He knows what you are and he will not be surprised by anything reasonable. He will take you where you need to go from there."
"And from Kent?" Aether said.
"The British first. They are close and they have people who will understand what you are telling them. From Britain, the Americans follow." Alice paused for a moment where Aether almost thought that maybe contact was lost, "I will tell you more when you arrive, but what you bring them is not nothing, Traveler. It is the difference between them understanding what they are fighting and not understanding it."
Jean stepped forward. "Alice. The risk..."
"Jean," The warmth in Alice's voice sharpened slightly, the warmth of someone fond of a person who is also not going to be redirected by them, "The risk was the moment the Fatui signed the Pact. Everything since then is consequence management. I am very good at consequence management."
Lisa made a quiet sound into the back of her hand.
"Paimon."
Paimon straightened. "Yes."
"When you land, stay low until you know the area is clear."
"Paimon can do that," Paimon said, with the gravity of someone making a commitment they intend to honor.
"Good. Albedo, the seal will be spent after this. One use, as designed. Do not attempt a second transit without it. Also tell Klee I found a cuckoo clock in a place called the Black Forest. She is going to absolutely love it."
"I'll tell her," Albedo said quietly.
"Alright." The signal tightened. Alice's voice shifted from planning into something more operational. "Aether. On my signal, release the housing and step back. The transit opens from your position. Ten seconds before the window closes. Paimon makes sure to have a good grip on Aether as I have connected it to him being the main person to be transported."
"Paimon can do that," she said, and took hold of his arm with both hands in the manner of someone who has decided that if they are going somewhere inadvisable they are going there with a firm grip.
"Good," Alice said. "On my signal, release the housing and step back. The moment you feel the arc open, don't stop, don't reach for anything, don't wait. The window is ten seconds and I need all of them for the calibration. Understood?"
"Understood," Aether said.
He looked at Jean. She had done everything available to her and had arrived at the part that was not hers to manage, and she was holding that with the specific stillness she used for things she could not fix and would not pretend were smaller than they were.
Lisa had uncrossed her arms. She was watching the device with the sharpened attention that Aether had learned over months to read correctly.
Albedo stood with both hands near the housing, ready.
Paimon tightened her grip on Aether's arm.
"Ready?" she said, quiet enough that it was just for him.
"Ready," he said.
"Three."
The seal brightened as a jade light going from dim to vivid, the gold inlay catching it.
"Two."
Jean did not move as she had her hands behind her behind and mouthed, "Good Luck" to Aether.
"One."
The seal went very bright and very still, the stillness of a mechanism completing the last action it was built for.
"Now."
Aether released the housing and stepped back.
The archive dissolved into darkness around him as Paimon kept her grip on Aether very tightly as they were completely enveloped in black and then disappeared from the Library.
Somewhere on Earth
For a minute, Paimon and Aether could hardly see anything but darkness around them besides each other. It was like being in a ball of darkness with no light at all, the only thing that they could hear was the whistling of wind as if they were moving at very high speeds. This continued until slowly, they could see sunlight around them. The structures started to appear around them slowly until they could see everything around. After a minute, Paimon let go and lowered herself down to the ground for a moment remembering what Alice told her about floating.
"Say, this doesn't look anything like a field? This is a city really….Maybe we landed directly in Kent instead and just have to start walking to find Aubery somehow," Paimon exclaimed as she examined everything around them
Aether did the same thing as he noticed that they were in some sort of large open space of stone. Evferywhere on the ground was stone and some lamp posts here and there, he noticed that some sort of carriages were moving on these stone pathways and these carriages were moving by themselves. Many people were passing them in different outfits as they talked and converse, but they were talking a language that Aether could not understand.
One couple passed them as they talked in their language and immediately Aether knew something was not right as it sounded similar to how that Meyer talked to his comrades back in Fontaine. He started to look more at where they were, where he noticed that right above them was a grand arch with six stone columns spaced out. Aether walked forward where he could get a better look at the top of it. On the top of this standing arch platform was a statue at the center of it, the statue was four horses pulling a chariot with a female with wings holding a staff. The staff at the top had a a ring on it with a straight even cross inside it and top of the ring was a eagle with its wings out. Aether did not know why but that cross gave him a bad feeling that this was not Kent at all or anywhere near it.
"Aether, come look at these white columns here? They have something at the top, but can't see what it is." Paimon called out as she stood in front of a tall white pillar that was almost as tall as the arch.
Aether turned around and walked up, where he could see the pillar and noticed that there was not just one but many that lined both sides of the street that almost seemed to have no end. He looked up to one of them ahead, where he noticed each side was weel cut and at the top in gold colors was a another eagle with a ring holding a cross in it. However, this cross inside the ring was different and instantly told Aether everything that he need to know.
"I don't know what Kent looks," Aether thought ias panic tightening cold in his chest, "But this is definitely not it."
The cross inside that ring was that same crooked one that they had learned to recognize from Nahida in that dream, the U-66, and the film that was played at Fontaine.The symbol carried by the men allied with Fatui. Eventually, even Paimon saw it and went pale.
"Oh, she said, "Oh no."
"Paimon, we need to move now. Calmly." Aether said, "And no floating."
"Paimon is not floating," Paimon said.
They continued walking down the avenue as they pasted men talking to one another and noticed that they were wearing the same grey outfit that Meyer were with minor differences. Paimon and Aether did not say a word as they continued to walk to until they reached a alley where it was silent and no one was walking at.
"Aether, what are we going to do?" Paimon said as she tried not to yell it out, "Paimon has no idea what Kent looks like, but she doubts that this is it. We are in that Bad Loud Mouth Toothbrush Man's country for sure. Paimon's only been here for a few minutes and already she wants out."
Aether glanced back toward the mouth of the alley, where the broad avenue still carried its steady flow of people, cars, and uniforms. From there the city looked almost orderly enough to be mistaken for calm. That, more than anything else, made it dangerous.
"We keep moving," he said quietly. "We stay off the main roads as much as we can. We do not use any elemental power unless we absolutely have to. And we do not let the Fatui see us."
Paimon hugged herself tighter.
"That's not a plan," she whispered. "That's the beginning of a disaster."
"It's enough for the next five minutes."
Paimon opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. For once, she knew he was right.
Aether leaned just enough to look out of the alley again. The language rolling through the avenue was the same clipped, harsh speech they had heard from Meyer and in Nahida's dream. The men in gray-green uniforms passed in pairs and clusters, caps low, black boots clean, their belts and insignia catching the light. Some walked with women in dark coats, while others smoked as they went.
They walked silently for about 30 minutes down the street where they made a few turns from their starting location until they came across a building that looked like a smaller version of the cathedral in Mondstadt. A dome rose above the main structure instead of a spire, and the square before it was not filled with the openness of Mondstadt but with a restrained, watchful quiet that felt strange even by the standards of the city they had already seen.
Then they heard voices again, but they were loud and harsh in that German language that the two could not understand.Aether stopped as he examined the scene at the steps of the church entrance on top of a set of stairs. At the top of the church steps stood an older priest in a dark coat, the white collar at his throat. Around his neck was a gold necklace with a gold cross that was more straighter than the crooked one where the upper part of the cross was higher at the top. Aether could not make out the hair of the priest as on his head was some sort of black recentuglar hat with a black fuzzy fur ball on the top. He was not alone as two plain clothes men had by each arm. They wore lounge suits with ties, black leather coats, and a fedora hat on them.
"Wir wissen, dass Sie Juden verstecken. Es wäre also besser für Sie, wenn Sie uns sagen, wo sie sind, alter Mann." one on the right yelled.
Aether did not understand the words, but he understood enough from the tone. It was accusation, demand, and threat bound together in the same voice. The man on the left gave the priest's arm a sharp jerk as if to punctuate the sentence. The priest staggered one step and regained his footing at once. The priest did not resist.
The man with the papers snapped them once in front of the priest's face and said something else, shorter this time, more vicious.
The priest answered in German, his voice low and even, "Dann wissen Sie weniger, als Sie glauben."
That seemed only to anger the man on the right more.
Paimon's grip tightened on Aether's sleeve.
"No," she whispered at once. "Aether, no. Paimon knows that look. Don't do the thing."
Aether did not move at first. Until the priest was shoved to the stone floor of the steps, which knocked off the priest's hat and Aether could see the greying hair of the priest.
Aether had enough of watching as he decided not to reach for his sword or anything that could tear a hole down the whole square. He lifted one hand and let a gust of Anemo answer in the smallest, tightest, most controlled burst that he could manage.
Paimon made a helpless sound as if to stop him, "Aether…."
The gust struck both men at once like an invisible hammer and sent them flying. The one on the left with papers went sideways into the church rail with a crack of shoulder against stone, his hat flying from his head as the papers burst from his hand and scattered white across the steps. The one that was yelling lost his footing entirely and as he went flying by spinning sideways and crashing into a lamppost with his hat flying off.
The priest, still half on the steps from where he had been shoved, looked first at the two men on the ground, then at Aether, then at Paimon. Then one of the fallen men was already trying to rise, where the priest made his decision instantly.
"Kommen Sie!" he snapped, then, seeing no understanding in their faces, changed at once into careful English, "Come with me. Now. Quickly."
Aether did not waste time asking questions. He went up the steps two at a time, Paimon hurrying after him with both boots on the stone and looking deeply offended by the entire arrangement. The priest snatched up his fallen hat as he moved and led them across the landing toward a narrow side door built into the church wall.
The priest unlocked the door, shoved it open, and motioned them inside.
They entered a cool stone corridor smelling faintly of wax, damp paper, and old dust. Their footsteps echoed once, twice, and were swallowed by the thick walls. The priest moved quickly, not like an old man at all but like someone who had long ago learned where speed mattered and where it did not. He turned at the first junction and opened a second door into a compact office lined with bookshelves and dominated by a dark wooden desk.
The priest shut the door behind them, turned the key, and only then allowed himself one full breath.
Then Paimon started floating with her hands on the sides of her head, "Paimon would like it to be noted that Paimon said not to do the thing."
"You did," Aether acknowledged.
"And you still did it."
Aether then noticed that the Priest was still looking at them. Up close, he was older than Aether thought from the square, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, with tired eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Then the priest saw Paimon floating and had some form of surprise behind his eyes. Then he removed his spectacles, wiped them once with a folded handkerchief, and put them back on.
"You are not German or a Nazi," he said.
"No," Aether answered.
The priest nodded once, "I had gathered."
Then priest's brown eyes shifted to Paimon, "And she is floating."
Paimon stopped mid-complaint as she chuckled lightly with her eyes closed, "Paimon can explain that."
"I imagine you can," the priest said. "Though I think I would prefer the explanation after I am certain the men outside are not about to break down my door."
He studied her a moment longer, not with fear, but with the careful attention of a man refusing to reach too quickly for words like miracle.
"I am not yet prepared," he said quietly, "to decide whether Heaven has sent me a messenger, a warning, or merely two travelers with very unusual timing."
Paimon blinked, "That is… actually more reasonable than Paimon expected."
The priest set his hat down on the desk.
"My name is Father Heinrich Brauer," he said. "You have just assaulted two Gestapo Agents in broad daylight in Berlin. Before I decide how much of my remaining life to lose over that fact, I should like to know who exactly you are."
Aether and Paimon looked at each other for a moment as they both nodded at each other in agreement, where they started to tell Father Brauer their story.