The carriage dropped us at the airship dock.
Boarding was simple.
The dock was not.
Crates moved in disciplined lines under clipped voices and sharp hand signals. Rope strained overhead, fibers tightening, releasing, tightening again. Wood scraped wood as cargo shifted its weight—slow, grinding sounds that never fully resolved. A massive crate dragged toward a warehouse nearby, catching the ground in uneven jolts, like the earth itself resisted the work.
Voices overlapped—crew, merchants, porters—each one cutting through the others without waiting for permission.
We boarded without delay.
The airship was quiet luxury.
Polished surfaces. Cushioned seats that sank just enough to remind you they could hold you longer than you'd like. Wide windows opened the sky without apology.
"This might be the height of comfort in this world," I thought, settling in, fingers grazing the armrest once before stopping there.
Eudora sat across from us.
Not close enough to read.
Not far enough to ignore.
Just placed.
Miss Alvie took the seat beside me.
Nothing said it was deliberate. Everything suggested it was.
The ride smoothed out.
At some point, I drifted.
When I woke, the light had changed.
Softer now. Lower.
The engines hummed beneath everything, a steady pressure in the frame, in the seat, in the ribs if you stayed still long enough.
Miss Alvie was writing. Small, exact strokes. The pencil scratched in controlled intervals, like she was counting something she hadn't said out loud.
Eudora slept.
Her head tilted slightly. Shoulders loose in a way that didn't match the version of her I remembered.
Outside, the sea stretched wide beneath us.
Dark. Unfinished.
Even from above, it didn't sit still—waves folding into each other, breaking apart, rebuilding without end.
"Why did you decide not to have her killed," Miss Alvie said, still writing, "when that was your first intent on seeing her?"
My gaze left the window late.
"What?" I adjusted in the seat. "That was just impulse. Nothing more."
Her pencil paused once.
A soft tap against the page.
"Hmm. Then she's already on a path."
My eyes flicked to Eudora again.
"What path?"
A beat of silence passed before she answered.
"You've noticed the uniform shift."
"I noticed."
"And?"
"What does it mean?"
Miss Alvie's mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile.
"Crimson Lily."
The name didn't land cleanly. It hung for a second before it sank.
"What are those?"
"People stripped of standing for various reasons," she said, hand already moving into her bag. The clasp clicked—too neat for the words she was using.
A flask. Two cups.
"Normally, she would've been executed," she continued, pouring. The liquid came out dark, uninterrupted. "You survived. That altered procedure. Her death remained on the table."
She slid a cup toward me.
I looked at it.
Still. Black. No reflection that felt trustworthy.
"So she was meant to be stored until I decided."
"Correct."
She drank first.
I lifted mine slightly, smelling it.
Bitter. Heavy.
"This is rather strong. No milk?" I asked.
"Ah." She set down a small plate. Sugar cubes shifted softly. A second container followed. "You can adjust it."
I didn't move for a moment.
Then—
"You took my spear."
The words arrived flat.
The air changed anyway.
"Ah," she said lightly. "You noticed."
"If I hadn't?"
"I would have regretted it more than you," she said, placing biscuits between us like punctuation.
I took one. The edge cracked under pressure.
"Do you know Miss Li Hua?" I asked.
Her finger touched her lip for a moment.
"No."
"I am the Pale Duchess."
A pause—brief, measured.
"Death," she said at last, like she was filing it somewhere unseen. "Noted."
"Really?" Irritation slipped through before I could lock it back down. "Can I have my spear back?"
She tilted her head.
"Is this your only one?"
The spear appeared in her hands without warning.
As if it had never left.
Dark spiral shaft. Thin line of light catching on its edge.
"No," I said, taking it back. "But I want this one."
She let go without resistance.
"Black spiral. Unpleasant tip," she murmured. "Your classification is consistent."
"My what?"
"File."
She took her cup again.
"It's surprising you haven't injured yourself already. It happens often."
I didn't answer.
The airship shifted—subtle dip, then correction.
"I intend to return soon," I said after a moment. "Heiwa should be informed."
"You already said that," she replied. "She has likely been briefed."
I turned back to the window.
Land appeared.
Green cutting into blue.
Closer now.
Unmoving in its patience.
"Eudora, dear. Wake up."
Miss Alvie's voice softened at the edges.
Eudora stirred—barely. A small shift of shoulder. Breath pulling in slow.
Miss Alvie watched over her cup.
Then, almost absentminded:
"Oh. The binding flux… or flux binder."
A pause.
"Or something like that."
She set the cup down.
That had it content ripple like a calmer sea.