It was just light when Brendan woke up the next day. It was the same polygon of light from the crack in the blinds that he had woken to since forever. It wavered with the seasons and the weather, but it was always there. 

He rolled up the blind and looked out to the same view out of his bedroom window since he could remember. When he was young the limited sightlines felt bland, suffocating. Now he felt like he could sit here and watch the sun rise until the cows came home. 

Downstairs in the two-bedroom townhouse he had lived in since before he could remember, his mother was already up. The bamboo steamer was steaming away. Flour-dusted buns sat on the table, waiting their turn. 

It was damp in the winter and hot in the summer - there was no airconditioning - but it was home. He watched his mother hunched over the cooker. The old range hood was no match for the swirling amalgam of smoke and water vapour emanating from the half-cocked lid of the wok. The smell of freshly scrambling eggs over hundreds of stale odors from long past, layered over each other with no discernible hierarchy. 

His parents were getting old, he thought. 

"You're up early," she said. "Did you sleep well? 

His mother had always been adamant about speaking Chinese at home. Some of the other Chinese kids spoke English at home, but his mother would not have a bar of it. 

He mumbled a greeting in return, as usual. He felt ashamed of his lack of vocabulary, for giving the same monosyllabic answers over and over again in a monotonous routine he seemed no longer able to break out of. 

As he sat down to his breakfast, Brendan wondered what would have happened if he had tried harder at Chinese school, if he had not quit at the beginning of secondary school.

***

Brendan sat on a mostly empty tram heading up Briarleaf Road, safely ensconced in the grassy center median, blowing past the heavy crosstown traffic with ease. He was on the way back from an errand he had to run for Floriana. Namely, getting a box of donuts from a shop on the road to the airport that she had a soft spot for. This kind of thing made up a disproportionate part of his internship. 

The crusty old steed was what would be immediately familiar to any American railfan as a post-war, all-electric PCC. They would almost immediately notice that there were doors cut on the opposite side and that the entire design had been mirrored to suit left-hand traffic. They would also notice that it had been coupled back to back with another tram so there was a cab at each end. The more astute observers would also pick up on the fact that the design had been mirrored to suit left-hand traffic. 

Rock hard reliability and the relatively mild climate meant that despite being considerably past their projected service life, somehow there were still several hundred of the things floating around, and they still formed the backbone of the Corviston Transport fleet. Many were into their second or third refurbishment and had a decidedly zombie-ish vibe about them. The painted metal panels and bullseye ceiling lights had been replaced with plastic moulding and fluorescent lights. Brown vinyl had been replaced with quirkily patterned moquette. They were whisper quiet and handled bad track with remarkable composure for a design that traced its roots to the 1930s. The only gripe was that they screeched a bit loudly around corners, but track lubrication took care of that.

The driver slowed for the complicated intersection with Betancourt St, stopping for the red light next to the stop for the opposite direction and terminus for peak-hour services going up Betancourt St from the southern suburbs. Some of the passengers were already standing at the doors. 

Earlier that morning on the train Brendan had received a text from Adrian telling him that something had come up, asking to meet as soon as possible, from the number he had given him on their last meeting. He wondered what would become of their planned rendezvous on Saturday. He had agreed with him to wait at the stop just beyond this intersection. 

He wondered if Adrian would be able to find him from the rudimentary instructions he had texted him. He didn't seem like the type to be seen on public transport. But they would be just be going a few stops to Briarleaf, where he had said he lived. Even the CEOs popped on the tram on their lunch breaks around these parts. 

They passed the shimmering golden spire of Briarleaf One to their left. Once upon a time this had all been mosquito-riddled marshland, where the rogue refugees fleeing the incessant pack wars in the north and southwest of the island had built shanties on the margins of the old city. Infamously overcrowded and unsanitary, all of those had long been levelled, long since replaced a la Haussman, with sweeping boulevards and luxury condominiums and office buildings of the New Corviston, separated from the old Corviston by the grand expanse of Ruth Gray Memorial Avenue. The only traces that remained were the slightly awkward layouts of some of the intersections, harking backing back to trails worn into the earth long ago. The masterplan had also called for underground rapid transit, but cost concerns meant they had to settle for tram lines down the middle of every major avenue, and the subway advocates went to peddle their wares in Wythaven, where they were more successful. 

What was he doing, arranging this rendezvous with someone he barely knew? He had vowed that he would give it all up. That he would never have anything to do with magic again, that he would never have anything to do with Carleton. Now he was going back in, for what? 

But he trusted Adrian. He couldn't explain why. But he felt he was telling the truth. And he wanted to help him. That was all there was to it. 

Oh well. He had taken the plunge. It was no longer a question of whether he could keep out of the affairs of the people he had vowed to leave behind. They would catch up with him, no doubt. It was a question of how quickly he could figure out what was going on and turn the tables. 

The cars turning right from Betancourt St stopped and the lights turned green. They proceeded. Sure enough, Adrian was there on the platform at the other side, towering above the few other university students and hedge fund interns who were out and about on the streets of Briarleaf at ten-thirty in the morning. 

Brendan suddenly realised he hadn't thought of what he would say. He had a very brief moment of panic. Adrian spotted him almost immediately. "How are you?" He said, eyeing the box on Brendan's lap. "That looks good." 

"Not bad. Just running an errand. Hope this isn't too inconvenient for you." He instinctively glanced over his shoulder as they left the stop behind. Just a person who had just missed the tram. 

"I live in Briarleaf. It's fine." Adrian made the seat look tiny in comparison. "I might just go home and run a bath or something." 

"You don't have to teach today?"

"My next class is well after lunch. So I've got plenty of time to kill." 

"It helps to be moving," Brendan explained. "They can't track you as easily. If they are tracking you, that is. Much safer than being in one place."

"Oh, I don't think they're onto me yet," Adrian said. 'I still get people asking if they've got my name right in the staff room sometimes. To be fair, it's mostly the older folks."

"They've already inducted you into work experience, so they're probably keeping tabs on you." Brendan looked at the cars overtaking them as the tram slowed down for the next stop. They were now in the the financial district, the centre of business in Corviston. The people getting on and off mostly wore suits, like Adrian, so he blended right in. "Sometimes they're already onto you before you even know who they are. Like in my case. I think we'll be okay." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I was a chosen one," he said, somewhat enigmatically. "So what was it that came up?"

"Well, these were being passed around the staff dining hall this morning. Apparently we're all expected to attend." He held out a gleaming ticket, printed in heavy card. One side was pure jet black, with the faint outline of a golden crescent moon, and C R E S C E N T  C I T Y spelled out in gold lettering along the bottom. Brendan flipped the card around. There was a short blurb. You are warmly invited to an exclusive event. The future of sustainable living...

Brendan's eye was drawn to the familiar Carleton font and shield in the corner with the other names printed neatly down the right-hand corner of the card. He felt faint. The image of the school gates came up in his mind. The gates he had passed through daily for five and a half years. 

The other names were also notable. Marshall and Berger, an architectural practice whose principals Floriana was friends with. The official seals of several packs. The date listed was a Friday in two weeks. A full moon. Ah yes. The old full moon trick. 

"You got handed this?" 

"All of us teachers were given one." 

Brendan studied the crescent moon motif on the front of the invitation card. It was holographic, changing with shifts in perspective. There was a very subtle pattern to the black background, which he hadn't picked up on before. Brendan couldn't quite put his finger on why it seemed so familiar. "So this was what you wanted to show me?" 

"Yeah." "I don't know. I guess we'll find out on the night. I can invite one person along, apparently," Adrian said. 

"So you're asking me to help you." 

"Well, who else would I ask?" 

"I don't know. It's definitely risky. They're going to freak out if they see my name on the list." 

"If you say no that's fine. I understand." He looked a little ridiculous in the confines of the tram, even among the prescence of other similarly attired people. 

"I can't be that person. They know me." 

"They won't know we know each other." 

"But that doesn't matter. They know who I am. Just my presence at the event is going to set off alarm bells." He racked his brain. "But I guess this has to do with urbanism stuff, so Floriana might be there."

"Floriana?" "My boss at my, er, internship. We do urban planning and stuff. Or really-" Brendan lowered his tone - "we lobby Corviston Transport on behalf of her many, quite powerful friends. One of which co-owns the biggest firm on the list."

"I get you." 

"She'll know about this. I bet you. Anyway, she's friends with the architects-" he pointed to the name on the invitation card- "...that's it. I'll see if I can get a media pass from her. If I'm going with her then I can probably get waved through. A lot less scrutiny that way. I'm just a journalist or something, covering the event for their good friend, Floriana. Nobody's going to look into that." 

"But wouldn't they question it? If they see your name on the media list?"They're not going to question it, don't worry. Floriana, is like Berger's best friend. They've known each other since university. I got this. If I appear under her name in the thing, nobody will question it. Remember? Halberstam hires the packs to do his dirty work. And no Alpha is going to hurt David Berger, because he makes their dreams come true." 

"They're that practice that gets blood money from the packs?" 

"There's dozens of them now. Every alpha has some kind of money-laundering big build now. But yeah. Berger was the pioneer." 

They were approaching the centre of Briarleaf now. They passed the entry portal for the M1 tunnel. Cars were forming a line under the midday shadow of the towering glass-fronted condominiums. Luxury boutiques lined the sidewalks. The tram slowed down, rattling over the track switches as the two tracks split into four at the interchange stop for the centre of Briarleaf. Most of the people around them were getting ready to alight. 

"Well, this is my stop," Brendan said, getting up from his seat, holding the box of donuts. 

"It's my stop too." Adrian got up as well. "You need a hand with that?"

"I should be okay. You live near here?" Brendan knew he lived in Briarleaf, but he hadn't expected he lived in Briarleaf, Briarleaf. 

"Yes." Adrian pointed vaguely, up at one of the apartment buildings. Brendan couldn't be sure which. 

They stepped out onto the platform, following the other alighting passengers into the underpass under Briarleaf Road and out onto the bustling sidewalk. People streamed out of the Briarleaf Station concourse, attention securely on the phones in their hands. 

"So Saturday?" Brendan continued. "Is that still on?" 

"Yeah. I do need to show you something." There was something about the way Adrian's brow was knitted. 

"Sounds cool. Meet you at eight?"

"At the bookstore again?"

"Actually, I know a better place. Down at the park, at the carpark next to the lake."

"I think I know where that is. I kind of saw it on the way there last time." Adrian recalled a brief glimpse of the park on the road into Diggory, a flash of trodden greyish grass and murky brown water. "It's the one next to the gazebo overlooking the lake, right?"

"Yeah. That's it.""OK. See you there.""If you need to call me next time, call me on this number."

 Adrian handed him a slip. It seemed like an awfully old-fashioned way of doing things, but as Brendan had learned in the last few years, old-fashioned was best sometimes.