The pub downstairs isn’t usually very noisy. But occasionally the band gets a little too enthusiastic with Whiskey in the Jar, and the banging carries up through the floor. Mayuki got curious one evening, and asked me to take her down to hear the music.

I was hesitant to bring her out in public again, especially among people I knew. I could just imagine the drumbeat of questions they would hit me with:

”Who is she, Shig?”

”What is she, Shig?”

And worst of all, “How is she, Shig, you sly old dog?”

But then I remembered: I live in Misanthropolis. We don’t do that sort of thing here. We stay out of people’s business.

So while I stepped up to the bar and ordered a Black Ice for her and the usual for myself, she stood in the middle of the empty dance area, eyes fixed on the band. When they launched into a sprightly rendition of Lilting Banshee, she suddenly tossed her jacket onto a stool and began bouncing and kicking up a passable jig.

And that was when I was ambushed with the only question of the evening, one that I never could have seen coming.

”Have you locked her down yet?”

The blank look I gave back must have been all the response my interrogator, a younger, brown-haired, suspiciously nondescript man, required. He took his drink to a table and sat down, his eyes on Mayuki.

Locked her down? What the hell did that mean? Was he going to install malware on her? Was that even possible? One question had made everything murky again, and the only thing that was clear was that someone else knew more about my new employee than I did. So while she enjoyed herself on the dance floor, I spent the evening nursing my drink while watching the guy carefully ignore my glare.