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The breakroom of any story, used when the characters need to step off their mounts, put up their feet, and take some time for themselves, rarely becomes occupied during the climax. The coffee in the pot is still the swill brewed from that morning which has thickened to a sludgy, brown adhesive that's impossible to scrub off.

The room is a desperate twenty degrees below what the thermostat is set at because the ice machine has gone rogue after going unused for so long, so it now makes icebergs, big enough to sink ships crossing the Atlantic. Toasters rust to death in corners surrounded by mountains of burnt crumbs and microwaves spin away, plotting world domination. Their step one? To reheat pizza in such a way that it is both too hot and ice cold.

Microwaves, the devil's machina.

Meanwhile, every scene, chapter, main and secondary character is fast at work, tethered to their desks, ensuring the story progresses at a pace the reader deems acceptable. They map out the remaining plot points and detail character arcs in pastel-colored sticky notes. Last-minute edits are rushed out the door before the reader can stumble upon a usage of 'your' that should have been 'you're' an oversight which has the potential to overload all message boards.

Peneloper, much like the story she's been forced to take center stage in, finds there is no time to relax or relish in the way she's conjured her first magic without Heavensley's instruction. Instead, the Council Chamber resumes its work, which remains a mystery to Peneloper as the Council doesn't appear to do much of anything.

What they do do is brew a fresh pot of coffee in their Boyle, Bane, and Derndach Ad Agency sponsored alcove. Welda braids her hair with rotting reeds while swamp muck congeals around her feet. Occasionally, the festering pool bubbles and a noxious green gas bomb is belched into the air. This seems to have the unforeseen effect of multiplying the flies at Welda's feet until both are covered in a solid, writhing black mass.

Quinceton is less gross than his lizard-skinned co-worker. He busies himself tapping tobacco into his pipe, relegating him to the 'normal' one of the bunch, his unique blend of twenty-one herbs and spices gathered from around the layers, a mixture it's taken him hundreds of your 'human' centuries to perfect.

Rayburn Auttsley guides his chair steadily closer toward the Exit. If You Dare door, not so much tempting the fates, as he was more accurately, simply unable to stay in one place for too long unless said place happened to be the atrocious blue affront that was 1809 Melbourne Way.

Peneloper, Crispen, and Chant are wedged into desks with the intent they are to learn of their predicament because, as explained earlier, there is no time to relax. All manner of horrible, terrible, and no-good are about to collide and crescendo and arrive at their doorstep.

Before Peneloper confronts it all, Kelpner wishes to impart some wisdom on the eldest Auttsley before she sets off on a journey in which he can not follow. What comes next, if there even is to be a next, is up to her alone.

• Find A Way To My Heart •

Chant squirmed in his seat as Welda dangled a dog biscuit before his eyes. She smiled as she leaned over the Council table, intermingling the clean, filtered air blowing from the above vents with the stink of reptile and rotting food. It was enough to make Peneloper want to heave, though she vowed to keep all digested food and bodily fluids inside herself as she didn't want to make extra work for the office Sectopus.

Chant ignored his enticing antagonizer by maintaining his gaze on his desk, where at least a dozen epitaphs had been carved into the wood. Most of which began like, "Help me! An hour in and the presenter is just now introducing them. Take your chances and make for the Exit. If you Dare door. What's hidden behind it can be no worse than listening to their insipid blathering." Whatever had been condemned to these desks prior to Peneloper, were creatures of an astute perception whose insights earned them her full respect.

Wanting the whole of her first Council experience to be over, though knowing full well more meetings with them in her future were unavoidable no matter the disguise she wore and where in the world she hid, Peneloper went against her grain and did nothing. She didn't berate the Supreme whatever Welda was for messing with Chant.

Nor did Peneloper complain once, about being seated in a desk outside of school hours or  of signing away her creative rights for Penolange and Penred, which might come back and bite her in the butt in case the colors were accepted into a new rainbow.

No, for once, she trod the path of least resistance, finding the terrain rocky and unwieldy, with too little shade for such a sweltering, humid day. And all of her acting accordingly, was so this meeting could conclude as quickly as possible.

Crispen seemed to share her thoughts, or perhaps he just gleaned hers and then, finding them agreeable, acted accordingly, though, after Peneloper's display of what Chant had dubbed, 'rage-magic,' Crispen seemed too distraught at having read her mind.

Yes, she'd had those thoughts. The thoughts that shall remain unspoken, though they conveyed no unsavory sentiment or anything really worth her being embarrassed over. Peneloper's thoughts had been naturally curious. Wanting to be hugged like Genesis? To be cradled in someone's arms like some rare, irreplaceable existence? Who wouldn't want that?

It was normal, as equally normal as Chant's lace-thonged, red-light district thoughts birthed after he dove headfirst into the world of the female orgasm.

Besides, the overhearing of Peneloper's thoughts had not been her fault. Unlike her poor test scores and below-average grades, and the creation of Penred, she remained 100% blameless in this circumstance. Having witnessed nothing but the contrary over the years, Mother Auttsley and that howler, Arthur Howell might argue otherwise.

She'd told Crispen to magic up some discretion and keep out of her head and it was his refusal to do so that led to him overhearing something that had caused him, the boy at the epicenter of a thousand swoons, who caused more havoc than a Black Friday at a mall where coupons were accepted on top of the already slashed, how-do-they-profit-off-these low, low prices, to blush. All things considered, maybe he should have taken her advice and minded her privacy. And now he sat beside her, him the boy of crows, Potter Oaks resident magic incarnate, resorting to the ways of all boys who lacked the tools to cope appropriately: avoiding all eye contact with her and abstaining from any body language that would make one assume he knew of her existence.

Peneloper leaned back in her own seat, crossed her arms, and smiled for she knew as much as he might want to pretend she wasn't there, he couldn't stop overhearing her.

With that in mind, she began revving up her thought process, Crispen Heavensley, her telepathic target. Orgasm, she thought. Then, remembering that word had little sway beyond the world of Chantham Luric, she thought of all she loathed about school. The way they loaded you with books yet gave you no ample space to store them; how running a mile with no zombie in close pursuit and screaming for brains was beyond ridiculous; how taking something green and frying it did, in fact, negate its nutritional value; how trigonometry had nothing to do with anything and was probably a made-up word--

"Miss Auttsley," Kelpner said. Peneloper turned, and found the whole of the Council, her father included, wincing. "Your thoughts are damaging to us all." Her father shrugged.

Chant leaned over. "You weren't thinking weird things again, were you?"

"Yes-s-s-s-s," Welda smirked. Pond scum bubbled from her lips before dripping onto her chest. "Very weird."

As Chant began to blush, Peneloper's father was quick to interject, "Not that kind of weird, Luric."

Chant relaxed and turned his gaze toward his desk.

"Now then--" Kelpner stood, reached across the desk, and prodded Gideon's star with a pencil. The star, the glimmering ball of light when cradled in Peneloper's hands, that showed her the ever-changing constellations and called out to her in whispers, lie dead. A darkened, deformed lump, nothing extra about its ordinary. Just a plain hunk of space junk as it teetered back and forth on jagged edges. "This star," he frowned, "is worse than I imagined."

Crispen snorted as he dug his pencil into the desktop, defacing Council property with the air of the true delinquent aristocracy. Principal Gale would have been proud, and probably would have offered to front the bill for Crispen's first tattoo. "Ironic how you can see all and couldn't have predicted this."

Kelpner tensed. As though sensing his colleague's growing displeasure, Quinceton paused from fiddling with his pipe to clap the youngest (or oldest, depending on how you took your time, linear, circular, or the ever-growing popular 'crazy straw' theory which told of time going not one way, but all ways, all the time) member of the Council on the shoulder. "By George, good fellow. Certainly, it can't be that bad. The world threatens to end..." He stroked his whiskers. "What? Ten, twenty times week?"

Welda slumped and rested her head in her hands. "And it never does-s-s-s."

"Wait," Peneloper said. "You seemed distressed by the world's insistence to exist."

Welda nodded, knots of her black hair spraying the desk with murky water. Three plump leeches wriggled in front of her before she took one in her fingers, opened her mouth and dropped it in. With a slurp more befitting a forkful of pasta, Welda swallowed. Chant lurched forward, cheeks puffed, face a hazy green.

"Don't spew chunks in the Council's chamber," Crispen warned. "Or they'll call in that mop squid, Midas."

Peneloper eyed him. "What? You don't like the Sectopus?"

Crispen, still refusing to look her in the eye, shook his head. "You did?"

"I only witnessed a few of his gurgles," Peneloper shrugged, "but he seemed decent enough."

"He lives in filth."

"To better understand filth."

Chant flopped back in his seat and swallowed. "Rarely anything you both say is helpful anymore."

Crispen tapped his fingers against the desk while Gen cooed, his head tucked under a wing as he rocked on Crispen's shoulder. "This is why pets should be neutered." Chant growled, his face tensing to harsh, angered angles, though Peneloper caught his hands slinking between his desk to cover his crotch. "Always makes them less whiny."

Genesis peeled open his eyes and gave the air a good flap. "By the way, Dog," In true dog fashion, Chant bared his teeth, "would the loss of your genitals be all that lamentable?" The bird poked Crispen in the shoulder. "You did say he had no discernable use for such things, yes?"

Crispen snickered and as much as Peneloper felt it her duty, as Chant's best friend (a title she secured after months of unrelenting badgering and mind-numbing optimism) to stifle the chuckle she knew was crawling up her throat, she couldn't. As she understood it, some things were beyond her control. Peneloper chuckled and Chant grew furiously blushed, as though all the world's supply of pink crayons had been exhausted on his cheeks, forehead, nose, ears, and neck.

Genesis swiveled his head and gave the situation a once over. Though he lacked eyebrows to raise, a feather above his eye fluttered enough to mime a decent imitation. "Have I misspoke?" He hopped closer to Crispen. "I don't understand why the Dog seems so droopy now when a moment ago he seemed filled with such fight. Can talking of one's genitals really sour the mood so quickly?"

Crispen stroked the bird's wing. "What I said to you was in jest and might be a little...embarrassing for the eldest Luric to hear."

Close-lipped, Chant continued staring, as though his eyes were lasers and he the scientist conducting an experiment to see how many holes could be burnt into his desktop.

Her guess? No more than two, though she could be off by one, give or take. After more seconds of silence slipped into the air, Peneloper finally spoke, "Chantham Luric, this is no more embarrassing than having your thoughts read by every person in the room." She leaned in, got a whiff of his scent, warm, recently used dryer sheets and sandalwood, spiced with just a hint of vanilla from Mrs. Luric's puddings. "I'm sure you'll put your-" she gulped, "-genitals to good use someday."

Pleased and patting herself on the back for her A+ consoling abilities, Peneloper straightened up and tapped a finger on the desk.

Chant's eyes flicked to her and he shook his head. Through gritted teeth, which surprisingly hadn't been ground to the jawbone yet, he said, "Don't ever refer to my genitals or their future use ever again, Nells."

Peneloper nodded. Yes, that seemed best. Perhaps this exchange had been hijacked by the sheer weirdness of their surroundings and had veered into territory best left unexplored. "Noted."

"Miss Auttsley-" She piped up at Kelpner's voice. "Might we get back to the task at hand?" She slumped forward. "Now you say this star reacts to you?" She nodded. Kelpner motioned her forward. "Might you demonstrate?"

Chair legs screeched along the floor as she got up from her seat and strode over to the star. Though it had been dim and shone with no more life than any rock, on her approach it began to glow. By the time she had placed it in her palm, it burned with a steady white light. The Council leaned in, and watched with intrigue.

She rubbed her thumb against one of the star's points and it quivered under her touch. The constellation of Taurus rotated before her eyes. Each tiny star danced and dazzled, reminding her of her time with Gideon, experiencing the light among all that dark.

You've remembered me, the star whispered.

Peneloper nodded. Gideon. Gideon Darquish. A most treasured friend from my past.

The star pulsed with a bright red light. It grew hot in her hands, not warm as it had been, but searing. She heard it scream. Help me. Help me. Help me. Help me. He's too strong. Too strong. Pretended. Pretended to be...and... Peneloper strained to hear the star's dying last words. The screaming rose, a deafening, pleading shriek, accompanied by something else, a white noise, interference.

"Nell, let it go."

"Miss Auttsley, I concur. The star is about to-"

You were right. No good. No good. He wants his throne.

Something hit her arm and the star went flying across the room. Before it could collide with the wall, it burst apart into thousands of glittering shards that rained upon the ground. She whirled and saw her father standing at her side, grimacing. "What it'd say to you?"

Peneloper touched her skin, felt the fading warmth and something inside her chest clenched. "It asked for my help."

"And will you?"

She paused and took a moment to stare up at her father - his sloped forehead, slender nose, and strong jaw in profile. The stubble, the creases under the eyes, the slightly deflated nature of his cheeks, the sunken, swollen flesh under his eyes. He turned to her, eyes boring into hers. "Will you?"

"I-" There were so many things she ought to know before she committed one way or the other. What was the star? Why did it explode? Who or what was pleading with her? But, deep down, she didn't find the answers to be all that important, like on any of her school exams. And unlike her school exams, this was a question she knew she could ace. "I'd like to if I'm able."

Her father's fingers ruffled her hair. "Good girl." She pushed his hand aside and he chuckled. "When this is all over, I'll get you a scoop of mint chocolate."

"Double scoop," she corrected. He raised his eyebrows. "And a chocolate-dipped waffle cone this time, extra whip."

"You've certainly added to your list of demands."

"Well, I figure the danger ought to be reflected in the spoils." She returned her father's smile as Crispen strode past her and stood before the shards of shattered star. He looked upon them solemnly and smeared a glittering rainbow of them across the floor with the toe of his sneaker. Genesis flew up behind him and pressed his head into the curve of Crispen's neck.

"Mr. Heavensley-" She spoke tentatively and took soft, steps towards the boy of crows. He stiffened at her approach but didn't turn to face her. "Are you-"

"Was it bright?"

"Hmm?"

He gave her a sideways glance. "Was what the star showed you bright?"

She nodded. "Bright, warm. Constantly changing."

Crispen scanned the wreckage. "That lines up with my memories."

"You've seen the star, too?"

He turned toward her and gave her a small smile that made her heart turn to glass and shatter. "A long time ago," Genesis parted its beak and gave a pathetic squawk, "it told me it loved me."

"Ah," she said, hoping to land upon some words that might make the boy in black look a little livelier. "To be loved by a star, how wonderful."

"It wasn't a star, Miss Auttsley." He glanced back at the dirty floor and put his hands into his pockets. "That wasn't a star. It was a piece of Gideon's heart. A piece he only wanted you to see."

Ah. A glimpse at a sibling's heart, that quick, elusive warmth that gets lesser over time. To have had that and lost it, she could only imagine. The butterflies that always came alive when Crispen was around, seemed to stand around in solidarity, shuffling their feet as they hadn't had it in themselves to take to her insides and flutter around. For what may have the first time in their acquaintance, Peneloper stilled. An urge to reach for him, caused her fingers to shoot out sporadically, but she kept her arms tethered to her sides.

Genesis, on the other hand, swept both his wings around the boy's neck and nestled his beak just below his ear.

"Thanks, Gen," Crispen responded.

"Ahem."

Behind them, doors flew open, and riding the stale gust of wind now circulating in the room, chaos made its presence known.