When I described my conversation with the Dandelion Knight, I cut out early. That's good scriptwriting, of course, but there are things we said that you really ought to know. 

"You know I can see the Champions," the Dandelion Knight says. "Do you believe it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why I can see them?"

"No."

"Do you know why you don't see them?"

My invective at this point is neither original nor amusing enough to repeat in company—shut up, Sandrine, this is serious.

"You don't see them," the Dandelion Knight glacially explains, "because they exude a chemical that makes you not pay attention to them. What's the problem with that?"

"Are you seriously trying to teach me how Champions do fucking magic? I don't know."

"It's a chemical floating through the air and attaching to a tiny little bit of flesh deep inside your nose—it's like a smell. You have almost no way of knowing where a smell comes from, especially if you're standing still. So why don't you ignore everything when a Champion is around?"

I wait.

"You don't ignore everything because the chemical evokes shaped patterns of brain responses that act on your visual system. Champions have a particular pattern of facial markings they use to identify one another. You selectively ignore anything with those markings. Get exposed enough and you actually build up a habit of ignoring the markings even absent the chemical—which, incidentally, is why you only rarely see Champions from far away instead of absolutely all the time—"

"Great. What does this have to do with rescuing a helpless little boy from a remorseless ex-militia predator?"

"What mutual acquaintance of ours has a fixation on a certain set of visual patterns that you'd really like him to ignore?"

Again, a series of highly derivative oaths, though this time in a tone of appreciation rather than irritation. Or, well, admixed with irritation. Then I actually try to work out some of the implications. "So... he won't be able to see children?"

"We can mute the ignoring effect, and restrict the modality to visual so he doesn't ignore what they say. He'll find them unmemorable in appearance. Not salient enough to activate the really bad attractors. And if he tries to chase one, he won't have an especially good idea where they are. Useful fail-safe."

Don't judge me for asking the question I'm about to ask. You're thinking it, too, if you have a shred of decency. Remember, this isn't in the past for me, this isn't a fait fucking accompli, this is Aurcryn-Jon in green motley calmly explaining to me by gaslight that he's going to keep a predator from his helpless prey for good—for life—with nothing but a magic potion. So don't judge me when I tell you my next question was, "Could I spare your research budget and downgrade to your basic fatal blunt force trauma?"

And he tells me, I almost weep to remember it, "Sim needs a mother and a father, or the closest he can get. He's going to have a lot of responsibilities when he grows up."

I somehow manage to contain my rage at this statement. Instead of screaming, I say "So you see me as the spinster type, do you?"

Even the Dandelion Knight doesn't want to touch that one. And so we make the plan—for the Blue-Roofed Room, the distraction, the syringe.