Rules of the Found Object Society:
1. Interfering or tampering with the vessel of your voyage is strictly prohibited. You are a passenger ONLY. This rule will be enforced to its full extent.
2. Absolutely no photography or cellular or recording devices of any kind are permitted. Cell phones must be handed over and secured before entry.
3. Posting on social media or discussing the Found Object Society with anyone who is not an employee or fellow member is strictly forbidden.
4. Members must wait a minimum of seventy-two hours between voyages.
5. Do not loiter in the waiting area.
6. A member who appears to be intoxicated, high, or otherwise impaired with any controlled substance will be asked to leave.
7. No refunds will be given for any reason.
Vessel? Voyage? Passenger? Rules that will be
enforced? Greta’s never been good at rules.
“Greta Davenport,” the bouncer says.
He’s standing behind her, his body emitting heat like a furnace. She turns around, embarrassed at being caught in what feels like a private act of stroking the wallpaper.
“Yes? Sorry, I shouldn’t be touching things,” she says.
He looks bemused and shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Touching the wallpaper is fine.” His face shifts back to serious bouncer face. “Just nothing else beyond this room.”
“Oh, um, roger that,” she says.
Roger that? Big Daniel Craig has her tongue-tied, talking like an idiot. Ha,
Big Daniel Craig.
“Your phone, if you please, Miss Davenport.” His hand extends toward her, a shovel in the air.
Right, rule number two.
“Sure, of course.” She takes the iPhone out of her purse and pauses, rethinking giving up her umbilical lifeline.
He waves his fingers at her. “Miss?”
Greta relents and places it in his palm. Part of her thinks he may crush it into dust in front of her.
“Much obliged,” he says. He goes back to the area by the phone and spins a combination lock that’s camouflaged within the wallpaper.
He opens the safe and places her phone inside. Greta cranes her neck to see how many other phones are in there, how many other patrons there may be in the Found Object Society tonight. It’s hard to see, and he closes the safe quickly, giving the numbers a spin. The safe disappears into the debauchery of the wallpaper.
“Miranda will be out in a moment to take you back for your voyage.”
“Voyage. I see that on the sign with the rules. What does that mean? And what’s with these rules and the enforcement stuff?” Greta says.
He scratches his cheek with a liverwurst-size index finger. His eyes dart over to a curtained section of the wall. “Yes, Miss Davenport, that’s what we call it. A
voyage. And, uh, as for the enforcement—”
The drapes part and Big Daniel Craig shifts his body to attention, changing his tone.
“—that’s for Miranda to tell you about, miss, not the likes of me.”
A woman Greta assumes is Miranda emerges through the oxblood-colored velvet. A jaw-dropping Oaxacan goddess birthed in front of her—the diametric opposite of the bureaucratic and lackluster Eileen.
“At long last, Greta Davenport. I’m Miranda. And yes,” she says, giving the bouncer a steely look, “please direct any questions you may have to me.” She holds out her hand.
Greta is so flummoxed by this gorgeous creature standing before her that she’s tempted to genuflect and kiss her hand instead of shaking it. Reaching for Miranda’s hand, Greta is painfully aware of how unmanicured and rough her nails are. Miranda’s fingers are elegant, delicate as bird bones. Each digit is adorned with a ring, each one more eye-catching than the one before it; bands of gold and platinum, dolloped with gemstones.
The one on her thumb freezes Greta. It’s an elaborate tree, a network of branches woven from gold, a multitude of emeralds for leaves, a snarl of roots that extend past her knuckle, the thickest root in the center, made of saffron-colored topaz and forming an arrow that points toward her wrist.
It’s the same design as the foamed milk of her latte.
Greta keeps her grasp and looks up at Miranda’s face. Could she be the delivery driver? The profiles are alike, but the similarities end there. Greta’s mind is trying to make connections where none exist.
“That’s quite a ring.” Greta taps the pad of her thumb on top of the bejeweled tree.
“Thank you.” Miranda extracts her hand and smiles.
Greta’s surprised that Miranda’s voice is unaccented. She had assumed the
Miss whom Big Daniel Craig was speaking to on the phone in what sounded like a foreign language had been Miranda. Her mistake. Miranda’s dressed to the nines in voluminous layers of blood-orange silk, crinoline, and muslin that wrap around what must be a spectacular body. There’s a bustle in the back and either she’s naturally wasp-waisted or she’s wearing a corset (an actual freaking corset). Like a sugar cone, it pushes her Goldilocks “just right” bosom up and over the fabric. A long gold chain hangs down between her breasts, the pendant disappearing among the cloth and soft flesh. Even standing still, her clothing rustles and murmurs. A breeze in the forest.
“Have we met before?” Greta says.
Evading the question, Miranda says, “I’m sure you’re eager to begin, Greta.” She parts the velvet curtain from where she emerged. “Shall we?”
“Enjoy your death, Miss Davenport,” Big Daniel Craig says with a smile, and waves.
Copyright © 2026 by Michelle Maryk. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
