The Legate of a Child's Heart takes his Post

Ham Duo sighed—a long, theatrical exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of thirty-six years of unspoken secrets.

"Alright," he said. "You want the story? The real story? The one I've been promising since Messer Dimitri's death trap of a sanctuary?" He glanced at Bill, then at Splock, then at Delia, who had abandoned her pigeon-watching and was now producing a piece of chalk as though it had been conjured from thin air, and was beginning to draw smiley faces on the asphalt with the kind of careful attention that suggested she might, at any moment, be judged by the universe for accuracy and moral correctness. Each line she made was deliberate, each curve of the smile forming under her tiny fingers as though the weight of joy itself depended on her hand maintaining perfect control.

"You're going to get it. The whole thing. Every last detail. For the first time in three decades, the mystery of the flamenco dancer's outfit will be revealed."

Splock's expression remained carefully neutral, but one ear twitched—the barest flicker of interest. "I am... prepared to receive this information. For archival purposes."

"Sure. Archival purposes." Duo grinned.

Delia, having apparently completed her preliminary sketches of comically happy faces, now sat on the curb with the solemnity of a small monarch surveying her kingdom. Her legs stretched out before her, tiny shoes lightly scuffing the rough asphalt as her finger traced perfect circles in the dust. Each circle was a miniature declaration of order, happiness, and the absolute inevitability of cuteness. Mr. Bunnikins rested in her lap like a venerable, floppy-eared knight, one ear caught in the morning sunlight and glinting as if it were forged from gold. She glanced down at him now and again, murmuring tiny, serious instructions: "Keep still, Bunnikins. This is important. Make it perfect."

She paused to examine a particularly large circle, her brow furrowing ever so slightly—a motion so small it might have been missed by any ordinary observer, but which, in fact, seemed to warp the very air around her, lending gravity to a simple morning on a Brooklyn sidewalk. Then, with a careful adjustment of her dress and a tiny tilt of her head, she leaned forward to add another smiley face, her pinky raised slightly from the ground to avoid smudging her previous work, and hummed a quiet tune about sunshine and gentle breezes, as if the universe itself had composed an accompaniment to her artistry.

Bill leaned against a lamppost. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was smiling. Not the tight, desperate grin of survival. A real smile. Easy. Free. He glanced down at Delia now and again, noting how her tiny, deliberate movements seemed to command the attention of the world, as if her chalk-drawn smiley faces were small talismans of order and joy in a universe that often had little patience for such things.

"So," Duo began, "you remember the setup. Messer Dimitri's sanctuary. The formal dinner. The guests with their scars and their decorative women. The blue-skinned guy who might have been an alien or just really committed to a theme. Splock here playing manager, Tesora playing... whatever she was playing. And me, waiting in the wings, literally, for my cue."

"The piano," Bill said. "You were the pianist."

"Stumper Rosewoodie, master of the silken strings." Duo struck a pose. "Catchy, right? I came up with it myself. But getting to that piano was not simple. Oh no. Because Messer Dimitri's sanctuary was not the kind of place you could just walk into. Not unless you were on the list. And I was not on the list."

Delia looked up, her small head tilting slightly, ringlets bouncing as though each one were an independent observer of the unfolding drama. Her enormous, luminous eyes tracked Duo with a seriousness that seemed to weigh the moral content of every word. She clutched Mr. Bunnikins closer, pressing the floppy-eared rabbit to her chest like a shield of virtue, while her tiny pink shoes dug faint impressions into the asphalt as though she were anchoring herself to the very reality of heroism being described.

"Were you a bad guy?" she asked, voice small but perfectly pitched, each syllable ringing with the gravity of someone who understood, on an elemental level, the cosmic importance of distinguishing right from wrong. Her fingers twitched slightly in the dust, poised over a new chalk circle, but she didn't resume her drawing until Duo had answered, as if the universe itself demanded that she listen first.

"No, sweetheart. I was the opposite of a bad guy. I was the guy who shows up at the last minute to save everyone. Those guys are called heroes. Remember that."

Delia nodded solemnly, a motion so slow and exacting it seemed to stretch time itself. Each ringlet on her head swayed gently in the morning breeze, catching sunlight like tiny gilded threads. Her eyes glimmered with comprehension, absorbing the concept of heroism in all its dazzling, paradoxical weight, and then, with deliberate care, she returned to her drawing. The chalk rolled beneath her tiny fingers in arcs of precision and artistry, each line and curve imbued with the quiet authority of someone who understood that even a smiley face could carry the weight of moral truth.

"The problem," Duo continued, "was the guest list. Invitation only. Plus ones strictly vetted. No exceptions. And the theme that night was—" He paused for dramatic effect. "—Fiesta Flamenca."

Bill snorted. "You're kidding."

"I am not kidding. The decorations alone were enough to make a sombrero weep. Fake cacti everywhere. Papier-mâché peppers hanging from the ceiling. A mariachi band that only knew three songs and played them all at once. And the dress code? Formal flamenco. Which meant—"

"The outfit," Bill breathed.

"The outfit." Duo nodded gravely. "I had to acquire a flamenco dancer's costume. And not just any costume. It had to be convincing. It had to pass inspection. Because Messer Dimitri employed people whose entire job was to stand at the door and judge whether you were fancy enough to enter."