To Liz, he said that he had gambled on the launch of the latest 
iPhone and lost. Raymond Macintyre heard that he had been 
blindsided by aviation fuel increases that put paid to a key engine 
refit on Ryanair's fleet. He confided in Michelle Myers that he had 
tied himself into four million pounds in European options on 
Microsoft that unless Ballmer spectacularly screwed up in the next 
month would leave him hundreds of thousands down. Paul Reagan 
offered sympathy when Edward bemoaned a million pounds of 
Turkish government debt wiped out by a bondholder haircut. Various 
members of his team were left believing he had made disastrous 
trades in biotech, solar power, soft furnishings or vacuum cleaners. 


No matter how you looked at it, Edward had had a rough week. 
Except, of course, he hadn't. The secrets left in Marshall's little red 
book had expired, but he had put in a few long nights and his current 
trades—geothermal startups in Norway, Chinese infrastructure firms 
in Ghana, an Oxford outfit that had worked out how to manufacture 
buckypaper for electronic heatsinks at a fraction of the usual price, 
and for old time's sake some aerodynamics contractors who had 
recently been signed by Lockheed Martin—were ticking over very 
nicely. 


Now he was just waiting for the phone call. 


"Mr Gradley," Marshall's voice oozed from his mobile. "I'm so sorry 
to hear you've been having some difficulties. Oh, but | shouldn't 
offend your pride. You're being faced with new challenges, and new 
opportunities. Mr O'Leary clearly lacks vision—those new engines 
would have paid dividends in the long run. I'll tell him how 
disappointed | am at our next brunch. In the meantime, perhaps you 


would care to consider making another acquisition for us?" 


"I'd love to," said Edward, through clenched teeth. MacIntyre, you 
insufferable shit. No wonder you called that meeting. | wonder, did 
you know what that meant for David? Did you realise he was signing 
his own death warrant by saving me? 


Breakfast at the smaller MC&D clubhouse on Wood Lane was a 
surreal affair. BBC personalities—including several Edward had 
been quite sure were dead—and private sector TV and newspaper 
execs rubbed shoulders with international dignitaries over freshly 
baked crumpets and sticks of warmed salted butter while small 
drama and music acts performed enthusiastically. Every so often 
one of the media goliaths would politely excuse themselves and 
shamble over to the performers that had just left the stage. It's a 
glorified talent show, Edward realised; he could only imagine what 
the young people on stage had had to do to get their chance. 


There, at the centre of it all, was Jeremy Marshall, alternately 
smiling and nodding to the presenter of Newsnight and snarling into 
a slim mobile phone. 


"Too rough ... no, my dear fellow, you gave them exactly what they 
were asking for. Excuse me ... well, | didn't give the PM a bloody 
horse. Take care of her! My apologies ... yes, I've seen University 
Challenge several times... Ah, Mr Gradley." His companion 
apparently sensed he had been dismissed and wandered over to the 
next table where Sir Trevor McDonald was holding court with a 
surprisingly risqué story about his time in the Caribbean. 


"Well, plant some of Mulcaire's letters in her home. No, we didn't 
destroy them, do you think I'm an idiot? You're supposed to be the 
professional, think of something." He ended the call and looked up 
at Edward. 


"Please, have a seat. Have a crumpet—or there are cinnamon 
bagels, if you like." He clapped his hands and one of the blank-eyed 
serving staff appeared with a serving dish covered by a cloche. 
Edward shook his head. 


"Very well," he said, dismissing the young man, who vanished 
quietly and efficiently. "Now, Edward, you are familiar, | gather, with 
the Lady Alexandra Penelope?" 


"Yes. | spoke to her at the Christmas Ball." 


"Very good. Yes, the dowager countess of Swindon. How tragic, to 
be widowed under suspicious circumstances at such a—well, at her 
age." 


"Which is?" 


"Entirely irrelevant, Mr Gradley! A dashing young man such as 
yourself should have learned never to ask a lady her age. Now, as 
to the acquisition | want you to make. Since you have proven 
yourself so able to acquire items without financial outlay—and are a 
man of means these days, | understand—I don't anticipate any 
expenses will be necessary in this case. The Lady Penelope has a 
certain antique comb which you are to retrieve without delay. Oh, 
don't adopt that ridiculous expression, Mr Gradley. The comb in any 
case belongs to Marshall, Carter & Dark and was lent to Lady 
Penelope on the understanding that she could retain it only if she 
met certain conditions, which events have now rendered it 
impossible for her to do. Go to her house, get the comb. | don't 
really care how you do it. And then we can talk about rectifying your 
latest misadventures in the big wide world of finance." 


"Okay." 


Marshall passed him another briefing document with an image of the 
comb—an ugly, twisted thing wrought in ivory and bearing a 
singularly confused version of the Last Supper, wherein at least the 
central four figures all appeared to be Jesus Christ. Edward 
thumbed along the photo, counting the participants; excluding the 
ones with haloes and short beards there were only 11 other figures. 
Now he knew what he was looking for, he realised Lady Penelope 
had been wearing it at least the last time he had seen her. 


"So, where do you keep all this stuff?" he asked, as nonchalantly as 
he could. "I'd love to take a look at the warehouse, as it were." 


SCP-574: The Dropera House 


Item #: SCP-574 
Object Class: Euclid 


Containment Procedures: SCP-574 is located within Containment 
Site-105, which is surrounded by a concrete barrier three meters 
high and one meter wide. Warning signs are posted at the edge of 
the Foundation-owned property. Once per month, a live adult pig 
(Sus scrofa) is to be placed within SCP-574. Any additional buildings 
not being cultivated for study are to be demolished by MTF Psi-7 as 
soon as it becomes feasible. 


The interior of SCP-574 is monitored by both cameras and high- 
definition microphones. Any anomalies in SCP-574's interior are to 
be reported immediately. 


Description: SCP-574 is a former factory in , United States. 
The exterior appearance of SCP-574 is metamorphic, with over 328 
distinct appearances on record. The interior contains three floors, 
with industrial equipment in varying states of decay. 


When a subject approaches within 40 meters of SCP-574, it will 
manifest a campfire near one of its upper windows. If the subject 
does not continue to approach it, several more campfires will 
appear, with human silhouettes being visible in the windows. If the 
subject does enter SCP-574, it will create several signs of human 
habitation. SCP-574 has been known to commonly manifest broken 
beer bottles, sleeping bags, clothing, and empty food cans, as well 
as concentrated deposits of ammonia, urea, and other compounds 
commonly found in urine.’ As the subject continues to occupy 
SCP-574, the floor beneath them may suddenly collapse, causing 
them to fall into the basement. Upon impact, the basement floor will 
take on the properties of wet cement, and forcibly drag the subject 
underneath before hardening. When active, concrete within the 
basement of SCP-574 has been found to be acidic with a pH of 3.5. 


Marshall looked at him, warily. "Have your eye on what's behind the 
shop curtain, eh? Maybe once you get the comb. Don't push your 
luck, though—you've already chosen your reward for this 
acquisition." 


Lydiard Manor, the family residence of Lady Penelope, formally the 
Dowager Countess Swindon, was a stately Georgian pile set away 
from prying eyes down a long, leafy private lane. Edward pulled the 
Porsche up next to the expansive lawn, framed on either side by 
leafy conifers, and walked up to the front door—a plastic sheeting 
was visible pulled over the door from the other side. 


"Side entrance," the cut-glass vowels of Lady Penelope intoned from 
the window directly above him. He looked up but could only see 
billowing lace curtains. Obligingly he crunched the gravel path which 
he suspected had been a moat and found a bay door wide open to 
the exterior, propped open with a singularly hideous garden 
ornament. It led through to an attractive summer-room, decorated 
with fine portraits of the family—the Bolingbrookes, he recalled. 


Lady Penelope stepped out from behind a rich purple curtain, 
wearing a diaphanous, floaty dress that seemed at odds with the 
wintery drizzle outside. She looked tired—certainly older than he 
remembered, maybe late thirties rather than late twenties. The skin 
around her eyes seemed loose, as though she hadn't slept for days, 
and her complexion was pallid. Her hair was loose, shoulder-length, 
and pale—a section had been pinned diagonally over her eyes for a 
fringe and he could see the cream outline of the comb holding it in 
place. 


"La- | mean, Alexandra," he said, recalling their conversation at the 
Christmas Ball. "It's good to see you." 


"So good to hear from you too," said Lady Penelope. "I heard they 
investigated David's work—how tragic! How is Maria taking all this?" 


"| don't know," he said. "| haven't sooken to her much." 


"Really," said Lady Penelope thoughtfully. "So, what brings you to 
this little place?" 


"Not so little," chuckled Edward. There was something in all this that 
was making him nervous; the air was so dusty it was aggravating his 
sinuses. Didn't she clean, or hire someone to do it? He supposed if 
she was rattling around in here alone after the death of Lord 
Swindon she might only clean the rooms she used on a daily basis. 
He had planned to flirt his way in, exploiting her apparent affection 
for him, find the comb and leave—after all, he had no intent of 
actually leaving it in the hands of Jeremy Marshall. However, the 
sight of her wearing it had drained his courage and he felt suddenly 


guilty. 
"Alexandra, it's about Marshall, Carter & Dark." 


Her expression grew troubled. "What have they said? What have 
they told you?" she said, voice suddenly sharp. 


"No, no," he said. "it's just that I've gotten myself into a bit of a bind, 
and you might be able to help." Her expression was replaced with 
one of all smiles and she gestured to the staircase on their right as 
they left the summer-room. 


"Why didn't you say? I'll help in any way | can. But let's go 
somewhere in a bit of a better state, shall we? I'm sorry about all the 
mess, | just haven't been keeping up appearances, I'm afraid. 
Upstairs, first room on the left. I'll get something to drink.” 


Edward ventured up the dark flight of stairs—all the doors were shut 
and he had to feel his way along until he found the frame. Opening it 
he found what had once been a great master bedroom—a colossal 
bed with an overhanging lace curtain and ornate frame, great 
wooden drawers and a writing desk in the corner. This room had 
been dusted but was still in a sad state of decline—damp patches 
were peeling the wallpaper and cracks appearing in the ceiling. 


"Here we go," the Lady Penelope said, closing the door behind them 
and brandishing a bottle of red wine. "Chateau Margaux, ninety-five. 
Not the oldest vintage but it's one | enjoy." 


She poured out a measure into crystal glasses—Edward sat at the 
writing desk and took an exploratory sip. 


"So Edward," she said, delicately, "what was it you hoped | could 
help you with?" 


She walked towards him, brought her face near his, letting him scent 
the frankly excessive amount of perfume the blonde seemed to be 
using. 


"Oh. No, | mean, Alexandra, | think you've got the wrong idea—| 
was hoping to ask if | could borrow that comb..." Her eyes flashed. 
This close he could see how made-up she was, how the skin 
beyond the foundation had lost its elasticity—he mentally revised his 
estimate to early or mid forties. 


"You don't want the comb," she said, an element of pleading 
entering to her voice. "You want me, don't you—you came here 
because you've fallen in love with me." 


Edward's mind reeled. What the hell was this? He hadn't even made 
any hints in that direction; had, in fact, decided to ask her plainly if 
he could borrow the antique comb for a day in the hopes of 
recovering the codex. Her personality seemed to have changed 
utterly since their first meeting at the chapterhouse. 


"You don't love Maria, that unfaithful bitch," Lady Penelope 
continued, her voice suddenly raw, croaking. "You've only wanted 
me." 


She took hold of his arm with surprising force, and to his horror 
Edward felt the cold of her seep through his suit and into his flesh. 
She pushed herself against him, so horribly unlike anything alive, 
and he knew she was the presence that had met him in the dark. 


"You killed David," he whispered. 


"He was in your way—in the way of what you wanted—he was 
yesterday's man," she said, voice cracking. "Please, don't hate me. | 
don't want you to hate me." 


And under the cloying perfume, he smelled it, as her face pressed 
up against his, makeup rubbing off on his collar, his skin—the smell 
of meat that had gone bad, rancid, and as he grabbed her arm to try 


and lever her off, her skin began to slip off the underlying muscle. 
He screamed. 


With strength he didn't know he had, he gave her an almighty push, 
dislodging her grip from his arms. Screeching like something 
possessed she toppled backwards and hit the floor with a horrible 
sucking sound. He didn't wait to see if she recovered; he ran 
through the house, out to the summer-room. The door was locked 
from the inside. He scrabbled around, couldn't see a key. Not 
knowing why he did it, he grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a 
Complete Works of Goethe, and hurled it with all his might at the 
French window. It shattered and he hurled himself through the gap, 
running raggedly back to to the Porsche. 


Edward drove, taking turns at random, for as long as he could, and 
when he was too weary to continue driving, he parked and curled up 
on the back seat in his five thousand pound suit. He dreamed, and 
his dreams were a horrible, confused mess of everything that had 
happened to him. 


His father had died, he remembered, and in the terms of his will he 
had left everything to the son who surpassed him first. In the dream 
Edward had two brothers and a sister, though for some reason she 
had been left out of the will. Somehow they were all at Cooper 
Drake and were working side-by-side on different deals, except he 
knew something they didn't; Jeremy Marshall stood over his 
shoulder, whispering in his ear, and in the way of dreams it was all 
dire nonsense, about throwing sugar into people's eyes and doors 
that opened into other places and investing in a liquid that turned 
anything into food, and he prospered while his brothers grew poorer. 
And Maria was there, no, he was at her house, but she was made of 
glass and he had to stop her breaking because you only get one, 
and she was so cold to the touch, her skin just sloughed off the bone 
until there was nothing there but a skeleton made of glass. 


And now he was a child again, about twelve or thirteen, and he was 
at an outdoor chess club, and he suddenly realised in a flash of 
lucidity that this was a dream, but it was also a memory, this was 
something that happened and which he had forgotten. Someone 
cast their shadow over the table, and he looked up to see a tall man 


with wavy blond hair and perfect teeth, and cruelty in his blue eyes.