Completely inexplicably, a giant snake with a mirror for a face is charging through a gap in the buildings, mangling topiaries and nearly shattering a metal sign. It moves lightning-quick towards the closest thing that might sate its hunger, the girl's reflection growing switfly larger-

It's too fast. By the time she looks up, it's meters from her. By the time she can decide to accelerate, less than one. All her acceleration gives her is more time to see it still speeding toward her, even as she kicks backward. Oh no she only just got here!

When the mirror touches her, she finds herself very abruptly elsewhere. There is no moment of transition, no sense of movement. Simply a sudden discontinuity of experience.

Now, vast reaches of open sky surround her, a cold wind bites at her skin. Above, black sky dotted with stars. Around, miles away, towering edifices and slopes of stone encrusted with vegetation, and swirling clouds and mist, green-tinged from reflected light. Below, what looks like nothing more than a truly titanic flower with houses and halls built atop it and connected with spars of steel, looking like tiny dollhouses of distorted scale and painfully flimsy wires.

Aaaaaaaa—What—where— How. Okay, no time for that, falling now.

She twirls through the air, little gusts helping her reorient, angling face-first down toward the biggest and sturdiest-looking clear area she can see on the... enormous inhabited flower. Right. She can bleed off her speed once she's sure she's on target for something she can land on. Her uniform jacket and skirt don't flap quite as much in the wind as they probably ought to, and she keeps her mind accelerated to spot any sudden changes.

Those little figures are certainly running around a lot! And not all of them are identical. Some are smaller, swooping and nimble, even flying through the air, while others are confined to the surface of the flower. The mingled sounds of singing, of screams, and the odd sharp crack can be heard over the rushing wind as she falls closer. It becomes clear that the inhabitants of the flower are defending themselves against a great swarm of - dog-sized bees?

...They're not doing particularly well. Many bodies, both bee and human, lie still.

Well crap. Looks like she's landing in a fight. She unclips her orbal batons, forming sheets of wind around them to help steer as she builds more speed, aiming for a cluster of bees just far enough from the humans that she won't knock them all on their asses with her landing gusts. Maybe she can smash one or two on her way down, drop some momentum in an acceptable target?

A faint grin creeps onto her face as she plummets.

Dog-sized bees, though. That's kinda new.

The Chorister Bees are the source of the eerie singing, harmonious hymns escaping their wings instead of buzzing. Each of them has a dark, ichorous symbol carved into their back, sullenly glowing with power.

They're not particularly nimble or intelligent as individuals. It's easy enough to smash one or two on her flight downwards.

The resistance to the bees is organizing slightly as the most panicked are struck down, strong-looking leaders shout with commanding voices in a strange language. Half-coordinated volleys of gunfire lash out and rake the insects, tearing holes in them. Someone has wheeled out a gun on wheels whose six barrels start rotating rapidly, barking out a cra-cra-cra-cra-cra-cra that tears apart whatever it hits and almost drowns out the singing.

Ooh, those symbols look important. Always break the glowy bits first, she reminds herself. She twists to one side, getting her flight path out of the line of fire, targeting a group of three bees together. Whipping her arms out to either side and flattening out the fins of air around her batons, she quickly flips backward to get her feet under her, hammering her batons onto the backs of two bees to either side and dropping feet-first onto one below her.

Gotta time the gust right, she's almost down.

The raging battle continues below. Nobody and nobee has noticed her quite yet.

When she hits, the three Chorister Bees never learn what hit them. The nearest knot of resistance about fifty feet away swears in her general direction, but they're all too occupied with firing or frantically reloading their guns, or raising knives and cutlasses against the bees, or simply cowering or even screaming as venom ignites every nerve in their arm, to pay her much mind. 

She shakes squishy bee-paste off her batons, then twirls into launching a pair of windblades at a pair of bees getting close to the resistance. Ramping up her acceleration enough that bullets are at least visible in motion, she kicks off in a wind-assisted lunge toward the group, arms out to club the few she passes along the way. As she approaches she leaps into the air, uses a bee as a springboard to launch herself backwards to a sweepingly elegant and floral building, and then with another kick hurtles back through the cluster, slicing them with blades of wind formed around her batons.

She lands with a graceful roll and comes up swaying, the eerie choir of hymns echoing in her mind.

Shouts of fury and pain and the thunder of guns and pleading and prayer, are all drowned out by plainsong. It devours noise and mind. Dies irae, dies apis. Quantus tremor est futurus-

A bullet grazes her neck, missing a lethal blow by mere inches.

The strange chorus is almost overpowering in its distraction, and only the sharp pain of the grazing shot drags her back to the present. Forcing a bit of energy into her neck to stop the bleeding and lightly numb the pain (not too much, can't get distracted again, ignore the song), the girl surges back into action, whirling and slashing and battering her way through the bees in a flurry of flips and kicks. She fights to keep her focus on her surroundings, on her batons, on the speeding projectiles from the civilians' slugthrowers—on anything but the hymns. The bees bear the brunt of her frustration at this.

It is unclear how long the battle has taken. At some point it dissolved into little more than song and pain and violence. But ultimately, the chorister bees decide that they have enough, and depart as one, heavy with stolen poems and songs.

And there is a lasting silence.

In what probably sounds like a guttural, Germanic language, the girl shouts after the bees, "Come back and fight, you buzzing monsters! I'm not done with you yet!"

And then with an exhausted laugh, she drops to her knees, flops onto her back, and lies there, giggling tiredly.

"Whew, that was a mess."

There is sobbing and praying. There are shouts of outrage and anger and defiance at the departing swarm. There is drinking, and a lot of staring and muttering at the woman wielding strange weapons and powers.

And then they settle themselves and start getting to the business of cleanup. Cleaning up the array of weaponry, finishing off any still-twitching bees. Tending to the wounded and dead. A Maudlin Poet hands her a frothing mug of beer as he wanders and gazes at the carnage, muttering stanzas in three languages, none of which can adequately describe what he has just felt.

The girl takes the offered mug and sips at it, a bit shocked to discover alcohol as its contents, but continues to drink it very slowly. After pausing and pushing some more energy through the cut on her neck, closing it more properly now that she has time to breathe, she starts looking around for somewhere she can help.

The locals seem to have things more-or-less in hand. The wounded are being tended to with what seems like reasonable (non-magical) competence and supplies. The wreckage and dropped weapons are being swept up. A few overeager artists have set up easels, trying to capture the carnage before it is cleaned up too much.

It looks like there are broadly two groups. Those who seem like artists of various stripes, in clothes that are more stylish than practical, whose grips on their weapons are ill-practiced. And a group of a couple dozen tougher men and women in work clothes, if not quite a uniform, who are busily gathering bee-corpses to themselves as if they're somehow valuable.

Meanwhile, an Unscrupulous Sculptor wielding a delicate-looking handsaw, a funnel, and a bucket tries to wave the mysterious stranger over to the nearest bee-corpse, saying something in a clipped but slightly pleased tone. Alas, he speaks only English.

With a curious look on her face, she hops across toward the Sculptor. "Hello there," she says brightly in Zemurian. "Do you need help with this bee?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand you, but opportunity is swiftly elapsing. You deserve a cut of the spoils, no?"

The Sculptor digs out a little glass vial of... Honey? From inside a coat pocket. He points at it, and then at the bee. Then he brings out a large silver coin with some sort of queen on the face and swaps the coin and vial between his hands.

 "Chorister Bee nectar is valued, and with your strange weapons we can work as a team to extract it." He traces a line down a particular section of the dead bee's underside with a finger, and looks questioningly at her.

Her eyes widen at the coin, and she gestures sharply with her hand along the length of the bee in a slashing motion, and follows it by miming something opening with both hands, and finishes with a curious headtilt at the Sculptor.

Nod, nod. He holds one finger up and mimes opening something a bit more delicately. "There's a bit of a trick to it. Eh. Blast this language barrier. Hmm..."

One finger, pointing at himself. Two fingers, pointing at her. Gesture of grabbing a small portion and a large portion of something, taking the small to himself and handing the large to her. Raised eyebrow.

The girl smiles brightly and nods. Holding one of her batons near the tip, the rest of the length along her arm, she forms a very short windblade and cuts the bee open along its underbelly with a swift but careful motion, aiming to follow the same line the Sculptor had indicated originally, keeping to just a quarter or less of the bee's total depth.

When finished, she looks over to the man again, a hopeful expression on her face.

Rather beautiful weapons, all things considered. Guns are all so brutalist and functional, thunder and noise and defiance. Not elegant in the least.

Anyway. Prod, prod. He peels back the carapace-like shell a bit and carefully extracts an... Organ. A hard, slimy thing, which he holds over the funnel and carefully saws open, draining a viscous stream of nectar, and gives a satisfied nod and a greedy smirk.

"Very good. I'll handle the filtering and whatnot, if you can bring me more?" He gives a wide gesture at the field of battle.

Eager to put her kills to use (and make money to survive in this strange new world), the girl runs off and grabs another bee, dragging it to the Sculptor and splitting it open carefully, before repeating this process as many times as she can find unsplit bees.

Good division of labor, this, and hopefully it'll net her enough coin to buy a language book or something, along with some kind of shelter and food.

They fill quite a few buckets in this way. The Unscrupulous Sculptor flexes his hand and sighs, and nods, smiling, at her when the last bee has been claimed. Others are doing the same thing, elsewhere.

"Profitable. Now, I have little idea what to make of you but at least the language of commerce is universal. Deutsche? Latine? Français? ...Español?"

She smiles at the collected nectar, pleased with their total haul. When he starts naming languages, however, she tilts her head again in that same quiet curiosity, clearly not following him.

He shrugs and shouts at a passing singer, offering a cupful of nectar in exchange for enough empty bottles and gourds to house the lot of what he has collected, which the singer accepts and takes off at a run to fetch.

The mystery girl crouches next to him, watching the goings on. So much bustle and business, people running and fetching things to and fro. Will the nectar-paid passerby bring back something useful? No idea, but it's interesting to find out.

A thought strikes her. "Hailey," she says, gesturing to herself.

The current bustle and business seems to be a sort of return to normal after the attack, for the most part. Aside from the gleeful processing of dead bees and some redistribution of the departed's personal effects.

"...Clarence. Clarence Collier." He flips his silver coin in the air again, catching it in one palm, and points at it. "Money. Sovereigns." He gestures at the nearest bee-corpse. "Chorister bee." At the precious fluid, "Nectar. Chorister bee nectar." He sings a simple ascending scale. "Singing. Nectar for singing. Good money."

He gestures towards her batons and, though it pains him to disturb his reserved image so, makes a whooshing noise and gives her a questioning and surprised look.

Hailey nods, listening intently to his labeling, resisting the lingering adrenaline-drunk giggle that threatens to spill out of her. He's helping her out and teaching her things, don't laugh, don't laugh, even though the whoosh puts paid to that serious expression.

She holds up one of her batons and says "baton", then puts just barely enough energy in it to light the spherical crystal embedded in the end with a blue-green glow and says "Orbal baton, Orbal energy", making a sparkly, explodey, jazz hands motion with her free hand near the crystal at the second part.

She clips the baton back onto her back, holds her left hand palm-up in front of herself, and makes a tiny whirlwind, her face a small moue of concentration as she does so. With her right hand, she gestures a swirling motion pointing down at the vortex and says "wind", then points sideways at her left hand, moving smoothly from her hand to the vortex and back, saying "energy, wind energy, orbal energy."

The Unscrupulous Sculptor cannot hide his shock. He takes a step back and mutters nervously.

"...Orbal, Correspondence? Sigils? No, no... A Power of some kind... Higher piece of the chain? What mysteries the sky doth hold..."

Sigh. He does charades to get the words for 'less' 'more' 'yes' and 'no' 'want' and 'talk' across.

During this process an Erratic Linguist shows up, attracted by the sound of new words, and very eagerly demands all sorts of vocabulary and sentence examples from Hailey. She stammers in English, but handles tidbits of foreign tongues flawlessly. The Sculptor is happy to step back a bit as the Linguist learns to construct sentences in Zemurian and tries her best to demonstrate English in turn.

Hailey amusedly demonstrates numbers, strange grammar constructions, common grammar constructions, and various bits of vocab, focusing to keep pace with her new Linguist friend acquaintance. "I fell from the sky. We stand under the sky."

Doubt lurks, though. Ugh. Why isn't she better at this? She's in a whole new world and she doesn't have time to be fooling around with not knowing who's a threat what she can't say how to get around. Maybe she really is as good-for-nothing as they said.

She haltingly tries a more serious sentence herself, "I— Is... best way... learn talk? Learn... world?"

(The singer returns, and the Sculptor transfers the collected nectar from the buckets into dozens of eclectic containers, paying the singer a small amount for their trouble.)

"Red honey," Clarence comments firmly. "If you wish to learn quickly, red honey is the best way."

The Erratic Linguist's hands twitch nervously. "I-I really don't think- This l-language is etymologically unrelated to anything I have ever s-s-studied, something very strange is g-going on. Giving red honey to s-such a person would be..."

Snort. "As if this 'orbal' did not show that already? I am a connoisseur of that particular sin. The effects on the recipient do not last, and I daresay it is the most expedient thing."

"Orbal could be t-t-technology. I d-don't know enough to ask yet." The Linguist clears her throat. "Fastest way to learn, red honey. He say it is best way to learn. I say, no, best way to learn, read books and talk to people."

They disagree. They agree that it's the fastest, but disagree that it's best. Why? Cost? Risk? Idealism about learning? What would risk to her matter anyway? How does it even work? "Why not red honey? Why think not best? What is red honey?"

The Linguist grimaces. The Sculptor smiles an indulgent smirk.

"When you eat red honey, you see what others have seen. You hear and smell what they have heard and smelt. You feel what they have felt. It is an intense experience, but I feel it would good for learning in rare cases such as this."

"It hurts." She tightly stabs her fingernails into her own arm and grimaces in pain to get the word across. "Hurts. Hurts the other person a lot. It is unseemly to discuss this too openly," The Linguist bites out, leveling an accusing glare at the Sculptor.

Hailey's mouth opens and closes soundlessly a few times. This is a terrible idea. She's not sure she processed that correctly at first, and rechecks what she heard in her mind. "Takes their..." she fumbles for the word and resorts to Zemurian briefly, "knowledge? Takes their mind? Hurts giver when eaten?"

This. Is a complicated question to think about.

"Yes? I-I fear not full knowledge, about this, hard to talk."

"Why, the artists here step forward willingly for extraction and are paid richly for the trouble... They even seek it out, some of them. Privation drives inspiration."

"Hurt makes better art, he says." The Linguist wrings her hands together. "Red honey is bad."

"It is only pain, and temporary. Not the loss of self some of the exotic horrors out there can cause. True, a few never quite recover, but they all knew what they were signing up for."

"Red honey is also illegal." How to demonstrate that word? She charades handcuffs.

"In Albion, perhaps. Not here. Do you see any inspectors here? Besides, you're only saying that because you want to extract a whole entire language from her."

"Wouldn't you??? But no, you should go away from this man, Hailey. Take your nectar and come with me."

Hailey looks back and forth between them as they argue. Not permanent harm? That's better. Especially if people volunteer. But she shouldn't be considering this. She is though, she really is. One more way she's awful. What's that gesture? Handcuffs? Does she mean it's illegal? But he says not here? Is this some kind of frontier?

What are they saying at the end there? Are they talking about her language? Is that why the Linguist is concerned? "Would still teach you, even if not need you for this," she says to her.

"Would red honey teach other things? Risks, small things, not seen easy... What word..." Hailey is clearly struggling with the language, and when she grows frustrated with this she rattles out in Zemurian, "I don't know what I don't know. I don't even know what questions to ask to figure out what I don't know. You don't know what I don't know either. Would this fill in those gaps, the ones I don't even know exist because I don't have the context to even see them until I fall into a trap?"

She stops, breathing a bit hard.

The Linguist mutters and scribbles notes.

"I don't know-" Sigh. "Maybe? If someone asks for your soul, don't agree. Don't stare at the stars if you're away from land... But I sincerely doubt I could list all such dangers. And there are many."

"My... soul? What is soul?"

The Linguist looks uncomfortable. "Soul is... You. Soul is your happy, your sad, your... Know what is good and bad."

"My... me?" Oh no she probably means soul.

Giving away her soul is a thing? When did that become a thing? Oh, right, just after she got eaten by a mirror-snake-thing — which is nothing like any of the monsters she was training to fight, why couldn't it have been a normal monster, even the Chorister Bees were closer to normal — and wound up in this bizarre place.

"And you know these things, these danger? Can't list; can bring to mind in context?"

This place could kill her inside of a week if she wasn't careful. Or worse, apparently. Souls. They're a thing.

She fixes each of them in turn with a look. "Would red honey teach me these things?"

"I believe so," the Sculptor nods confidently.

"...I- Maybe. If you get it from a worldly one."

She turns to the Linguist. "I need this. I can't let myself die when I've only just gotten here, and your world will kill me if I don't know all these things. I'll still take time to teach you Zemurian. I'm so grateful for your help already, and you're one of only two people I know in the entire world."

Turning back to the Sculptor, she asks, "Can you make sure honey from one who knows things?"

"Yes. We can get it from someone particular. To know the subtle dangers inherent in the world... Red honey from adventurers and sky-sailors is rare, precious. Perhaps a settler would do?"

"Ah, so you're involved in that business, not just a user." The Linguist's disdain is obvious.

"I won't argue about it with you. We each hold dear our opinions on this matter," he replies serenely.

"I will follow you to make sure this man does not do strange things to you."

The Sculptor starts gathering up the bottles of nectar that surround the group. "Two of three of these are yours, by the way."

Hailey takes the bottles appreciatively, then frowns. "Hm. Where do put these for now? Where find bag to carry?"

She also gives the Linguist a nod. "That is good, please do."

They can acquire various artful and stylish bags and other containers from hungry artists trying to sell their work easy enough. Chorister bee nectar sells well. 

After that, the Unscrupulous Sculptor leads the pair of them across Titania's massive top petal to a staircase down to a lower frond, and from there a short ways further across the artist-colony, to a glass-roofed greenhouse that is rather pretty but seems almost unremarkable compared to all the other architecture.

The sculptor explains how they sell it as he goes over. "For those who wish to consume red honey here, for inspiration, we provide a comfortable room that locks from the inside." He charades 'lock'. "You should have a drink of water," (gulp-gulp) "And be generally rested, then find a comfortable position before your first spoonful. Each spoonful lasts half a dozen seconds, but it will feel like longer."

Lock. Huh. She's not going to be present enough to look after herself for the duration, is she? Being seated and hydrated makes sense enough. She nods firmly.

The Unscrupulous Sculptor lets his small, stiff smile expand a bit. He selects a small, neatly labelled jar with a deep, almost bloody red color from a cleverly hidden shelf full of other small, neatly labelled jars, accepts a somewhat larger jar of nectar from her share in return for it, and leads her to the 'private sitting room'.

The Erratic Linguist says, "...I will stand in the hall and review my notes and wait."

When they reach the private room, Hailey takes a good look around. She checks the lock to be sure it works in a familiar — or at least comprehensible enough — fashion and acquires a beverage.

Nope, she's definitely not nervous at all. Here she is finally trying drugs, turning out just how her relatives thought she would.

The room is a comfortable lounge with a dark wooden table, carpet you can lose your toes in, and a subtle striping pattern on the walls in cool colors, lit by recessed lights and with a plush red velvet armchair.

The lock is a sturdy looking thing with a deadbolt and a keyhole from the inside only, with a small 'C&H' engraved in it. Seems like a perfectly good lock. Both her new acquaintances.are waiting just outside.

This is a very nice room. The chair is particularly fitting, in a funny way. She locks the door, drinks some water, and gets comfortable in the chair. It's just as comfy as it looks. She dithers about making sure everything is in easy reach, but not close enough to knock over accidentally.

She spoons out one dollop of red honey and gazes at it for a moment, filled with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. This is probably not a decision she can take back.

Then she eats it.

She is a young lady named Isabelle Smith, at work as an editor for Anders & Anders Financial and Political Newsletter. Every detail of the office is bright and vivid, from the smell of soot and paper to the feel of the typewriter under her fingers to the sea of lights from the city outside the window. There is a sort of rushing, dreamlike quality to the experience. Vivid and enthralling, yet speeding by and detached. An implicit understanding of the context comes with it.

The latest article is about the devaulation of Rostygold compared to Echoes and whether this represents a long-term trend or just a short-term disturbance and what it means for London's relationship with the Devils. She has an idle thought of distaste and disquiet - They truly are from Hell, or at least a place called Hell, with all the unpleasant implications that brings. She reads the article over twice, understanding perfectly every word, and sounding them out in her head. It doesn't flow, and requires rephrasing. Ultimately, she trims it into acceptable shape for a quarter-page sidebar. Her fiancee won't be happy about that, he'll moan and complain to her later instead of letting her just focus on the date, but whose idea was it to become a writer anyway? His.

She finishes up work and walks towards a tram stationby the light of lanterns underneath a near-black sky dotted with distant stars. She keeps her hand on a hidden Derringer, weaving through mostly-empty streets. You hear stories about all sorts of ill fates, from plain muggers to urchin gangs to the face-stealing Snuffers or dream-invading creatures of Parabola... When the tram arrives she has a pleasant and distracting chat with a Rattus Faber lurking under the vehicle's little steam engine - apparently he has a deal with the tram owner, cheese and safety from the rat-hunters in exchange for maintenance. 

She arrives home to find her fiancee studying some sort of book. On the page is a large...  Sigil that hurts the eyes slightly to look at. He's with a woman she's never seen before, pale and blonde and shapely and wearing a dress cut daringly low, inviting a surge of jealousy. There is an open bottle of Greyfields shroom-wine. Voices are raised. Accusations are leveled. The strange woman openly flirts with her fiancee in front of her, and her fiancee flirts back, rambling something about 'the importance of his research', and she reaches for the concealed pistol - but turns and flees the apartment instead. She is devastated, simply devastated. Does she even actually know George? Was he always just using her? She remembers lots of little favors, strange requests, strange acquaintances of his...

They were going to marry in a month or two, but now what? Now she's going to go find Alice and have a good cry. Or maybe a rant. Her friend will know what to do about heartbreak, probably. Perhaps chocolate will be involved.

And then she is herself again, sitting in the comfortable lounge, a fading taste of direly sweet and deeply savory honey on her tongue. A heavy spoonful (of an admittedly fairly large spoon) seemed to last half an hour, somehow compressed into half a minute.

How could he—who was that bitch—should've killed him—wait she'd never seen him before—wish she had a friend like Alice—always did like Rattus Faber—she was a bitch but she was gorgeous—finance makes more sense now—favors like that are why trust is so hard—George reminds her of—

What. The hells. Was that.

Wow. The girl in the chair takes a moment to assess herself. Is she Isabelle or Hailey? She drinks some more water, then steps over to the attached bathroom. In the mirror, she sees auburn hair, green eyes, and pale skin. Hailey.

She tries to talk. "Hailey Topferin. I'm from Erebonia. I've never been to London." Her voice sounds like Hailey, but in a mix of Zemurian and English.

Languages are going to be complicated for a bit, huh.

She refills her water and goes back to the chair. Only way out is through.

She takes another spoonful.

She is on an industrial platform, spars and plates of steel sketching a skeletal arm of the new London, reaching further out into the sky. The growing mountain-city floats in the sky, slowly taking shape into a marvelous jewel of civilization. The Bazaar cheated the Empress when she sold old London, they say, and the new one is beholden only to Her Majesty's Government.

But such thoughts are distractions she can't afford right now. Two whole barrels of Hours have fallen to the industrial path with a crash, the power of bound time unraveling and aging the wood and ropes carrying them in an instant, sending the loose time falling until it landed here and formed a weft of unraveling time.

Hours, properly woven and refined, can make a day of work pass in an hour, or make one young again. She must be forty five now, but feels as spry and healthy as she did at twenty. But loose hours could trap her in an eternal moment, age her by decades, or something worse.

The bite of time is already rusting through the newly-laid street, and it's just her, Archie, and a Rattus Faber calling herself Clink. They're cut off.

It's an intense and exhausting and terrifying day of work without proper safety equipment, as the three of them build a scaffold reaching across to another under-construction spar. The steel groans as time continues to eat at it where the Hours fell. Workers on the other spar build their own bridge, meeting in the middle.

As the nearest Suns are dimming, the whole structure shudders. It's about to give way! There is a panic filled dash with Archie across the rickety improvised bridge, Clink clinging to her toolbelt. 

And she slipped and is gripping the steel with one hand and

Another hand grabs her arm and hauls her up. They made it. She sags in relief, flopping over Archie who rescued her at the last moment.

Overwhelmed in the moment, she kisses him deeply. Dead tired, running on an adrenaline high, covered in grease and sweat, Archie kisses back. It's wonderful.

The other crew gets them sorted soon enough, even as a skeletal street tumbles down into the abyss of open air until it suddenly becomes weightless according to the weird nonsense rules gravity obeys in this place. She thinks she'll sleep in Archie's bunk, today.

This job's too dangerous—this job's just dangerous enough—the Hours feel oddly familiar—Archie saved me—so that's why they like it—nnnnf.

Hailey takes a moment to fight down her blush and drinks some more water, carefully reminding herself of herself.

Then another spoonful.

She's on a boat on the sunless sea, staring at the cold stone gates. The Empress opened the Avid Horizon and now wants to rebuild the empire beyond it. The promise of money and youth as reward for the dangerous behavior is enticing - what else does she have to live for? Editing financial newsletters was simply too boring after a while.

The Sun is making the Empress regret her overreach. Its dictates were ignored, its light turned poison to Man, corrupting, maddening. Far worse than the distant light of faraway stars, which is usually only a danger out in the open sky. It curdles steel and unwinds Time. Only stained glass is an acceptable defense. And then there's a sudden, booming, echoing sense of something terrible happening - screamed in a language that does not use sound - and the sky. Darkens. Confused, awed, and terrified Londoners stumble into the streets to stare at the dimming star in the distance, and the gaping, ragged hole in its body. They should be cheering at the victory, but few are.

She is on a rickety locomotive wending its way through the Reach. Everything she has ever tried in her life fell away from her sooner or later. A comfortable editorial job, the friends and youth and money from her work in London, her homestead, her husband, the prospect of children. May as well go to Titania, and try to create something beautiful before her life is taken by one of the thousand nameless dangers in the sky.

The Clockwork Sun was the most ambitious project yet. She never did know the high-level plans, the mysterious mechanisms at work on the heart of the grand machine, but it's painfully clear that something has gone terribly wrong. The artificial star, churning and clanking and rotating as a mechanical titan, has turned on its creators. Prolonged exposure turns flesh and steel and stone to vitrified crystalline glass.

She is dreadfully bored. Sitting in a bar in Port Avon, morosely regarding her drink. She couldn't stand the Ministries, too stodgy and rule-bound and persnickety. She doesn't want to be a sky-sailor - she has read the survival statistics for those, the many and varied horror stories in penny dreadfuls. What is a good medium between the two extremes? Drugs? Crime? Homesteading? Art? Licentiousness? Bah! For now she will burn away her money and time with the former and the latter.

The flora of the Reach is erratic. Their entire crop has sprouted into sudden gigantism, a forest of thick, thorny branches and vines. Nothing edible anywhere in sight. Perhaps they can kill a Cantankeri with some clever improvisation of weaponry, and subsist on whatever fragments of meat lie beneath its hard shell. Probably not. They'll have to work hard to clear it all and buy food from passing traders with their meager savings...

She is - oh my, Archie is rather skilled with his tongue. Warm bodies cuddled close for warmth in a rustic bedroom. Hands playing all over her, love, love for the dependable, funny, utterly undaunted when he needs to be, Archie. Maybe she'll get pregnant again, maybe the baby will make it to term this time- Mmmm.

She is discussing the Blue Kingdom with an acquaintance in the bar. The realm of the dead? Truly? What does that mean for Christianity, then- Ah, but he is not a priest. Perhaps she should go find one, but priests are precious and rare these days. It sounds even less friendly than distant dark Eleutheria, filled with light-hating ancient things, though.

She is standing at the highest reaches of the Brabazon Workworld, staring down at the labyrinth of industrial might before them. It will employ tens of thousands, and produce enough goods to satiate London's teeming masses - and then some. She points out particular factories and cranes and loading bays to her crew, smiling as they remember what a pain that particular task was and joking about how the other crews must have cut corners to meet the deadlines.

She was too slow to realize it, but the thing living with her is not Archie anymore. It was probably that fungus they burned. Fire is supposed to cure all ills, but the fungus of the Reach is devilishly tricky. Now his head is misshappen, his eyes distant, his personality shifting even as he continues cooking dinners. She doesn't eat them. She surreptitiously goes into the basement to load her shotgun...

Faster her mind whirls through the memories, flash after flash, spoonful after spoonful. Chasing freedom and activity and purpose—what is her life worth without—that's what we get for rebelling—freedom in the dark—all falls down—that's what she gets for her freakish ways—what hath thou wrought—she should've expected this—what next, what next, always another what next—of course booze doesn't fix it—nothing else fixed it either—hard on the farm but worthy—oh Archie—yes more yes—more things in Heaven and Earth—this is a long way from either of them—how satisfying to have built this—did it together—clearly can't have nice things—should've known better—oh no Archie—

And then there's a girl. More than she was before, more life crammed into her, more pain, memories not her own. Isabelle deserved better, she thinks. Isabelle built this place, she lived and laughed and cried and loved, and she deserves to be remembered for it. A single tear rolls down her cheek, the first she's cried in years.

She slows her breathing, drinks her water, and heads to the sink to wash her face. A hollow look greets her in the mirror. Are all lives out here so brutal? Are they all so rich with feeling? Are they all so hard-lived and long-loved? No way to know. But she'll remember Isabelle.

Hailey checks her gear and unlocks the door, filled with stolen recognition as she steps into the hall.

The Erratic Linguist stops her pacing and rounds on her. "Are you okay?"

The Unscrupulous Sculptor, Clarence, is not in the hall.

Is she okay? Nothing's the same, to be sure, but...

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm... More than I was. But I'm still Hailey. Still the Erebonian girl, still the daughter of Bracers. We can still take time to teach you Zemurian."

She gives the Linguist a soft smile. "Thank you for the concern, the care. It's more than I deserve."

"You are Erebonian? You are a Bracer? Well that's an interesting claim isn't it, that it's more than you deserve. Quite a philosophical weight, judging what one deserves. How well do you understand English now? I was uncertain about this plan... I know people who have acquired skills through red honey, but..." She shivers.

"I am not a Bracer, but both of my parents were," she corrects. "And far better than I ought. I think my word choice picked up a fair bit of hers in the process, but that's a small price to pay for the range of hazards I've seen through her eyes."

A faint frown twists her lips. "My parents were the good ones, though the relatives who raised me paid their memories no respect. I'm just a troublemaker of a girl who doesn't know when to quit."

"That sounds like half the sky-captains I've ever seen, and they're what keeps civilization tied together in the sky. Hazards, indeed. How foreign must you be, I wonder? Erebonian is never seen before. I can tell because- Ah, because of what sounds it prefers and how you are structuring things. Languages evolve. This one has no relative I know of, though perhaps the library will show me something of it."

"Zemurian is the language, Zemuria is the land, Erebonian is the nationality, Erebonia is the nation. I am Erebonian, I speak Zemurian," she corrects. She repeats this in English. "What you say of the evolution of languages... It's not something I've studied in school, maybe we would've covered it later in the... curriculum, but it makes sense when you describe it. I'd love to know what you find in the library. Might have a clue toward where home is from here."

A wistful look crosses her face, softening her perpetual wariness. "Keeping civilization tied together... I hope I can live up to that kind of contribution. It reminds me a bit of the role the Bracers Guild played back home. They had branches all across the land — not just in Erebonia, but in neighboring countries as well — and they were the neutral party, the ones who stood apart from the in-fighting of the nobles and looked out for the civilians. Of course, the nobles wouldn't stand for that, and had most of the branches closed."

As if a freakish disappointment like her could hold anything together...

"A separate power structure from an entrenched upper class being removed, how surprising. But an international commission of some kind, hmm? Interesting. Be careful if you ever visit the Royal Society-" (The university for the modern age, her stolen memories tell her.) "-In Titania we're more, shall we say, flighty, and more about art than history and anthropology and the practical sciences. There would be thousands trying to monopolize your time and understanding there, though."

"If anyone gets to publish a paper or three about my language and whence I came, it's you. You've demonstrated some measure of concern for my well-being, and something about the Royal Society gives me the impression that they'll be far more impersonal about it."

Whence? Since when does she say whence? Since Isabelle gave her a language, one supposes.

"I suppose the Sculptor wandered off, our business done? Guess I have some decisions to make about where to go from here, and what my next steps ought to be."

"I get the impression all he cares about is Sovereigns. -Oh, I haven't told you my name. It's Cherie. I don't exactly like the 'Erratic' 'descriptor, but it is, well, accurate. Zemurian is good but I will be want something else soon. It's just how I am."

"It's good to make your acquaintance, Cherie. I wonder, everyone seems to have an alternate name of some sort. Is there some significance?"

Nothing seems to rattle out of her thought-thievery at first glance.

"It's a- Hm. Cultural affectation? Famous, important, or accomplished people often have additional titles to show off their accomplishments. Eventually it sort of spread, and now it's fashionable to have a title in the form adjective-noun no matter who you are. You have some amount of control over your own. Her Eternal Majesty was once - not anymore - referred to as the Traitor Empress. There are various theories about the origin! A brief fascination with a historical period of the nation of Nippon on the old Surface, where one changes names after achieving power. The seekers of the Name on the sunless sea made it a good idea to not spread your own too widely. An idea briefly spread that the Devils have some power over you if they know your name, which we now know to be utterly false. For Devils in particular, at least."

"Huh. I suppose I should shape it around what I expect to be doing then, or how I want people to think of me. And that's its own set of issues. I don't think I could settle down very well, even if well paid. On the other hand, communities like this clearly do need protectors."

"Titania is far from the big guns and professional soldiers on purpose, really. London's authority doesn't quite reach here, not fully. And we like it that way."

Hailey nods slowly. "It's understandable. As much as additional fighters could help, they'd not be worth the cost in regulation and restriction the Crown would impose. And independent fighters are harder to find. The stationary life doesn't call me though, I think, even though there's good to be done here and freedom this far out."

"Best find yourself a locomotive to join, when you're ready to move on, then. Hiking down the stem will get you nowhere fast. I'd like to learn as much as I can about your language first of course!"

With a nod and a shy smile, Hailey responds, "Yeah, I really ought to pass by the station, see what's available. I don't think I'm ready to head out quite yet, though. I'd definitely like to spend some time seriously teaching you more Zemurian, and maybe you could show me around Titania?"

With a glance to her bag of bottled nectar, she chuckles softly, "And of course I probably ought to turn this into a less sticky and more liquid form of wealth."

"Oh, of course! I can't promise I'll be an attentive guide but, yes. I think some of the poets have a cooperative for that. They pay you up front and take a cut and sell it to sky-captains when they come around. I suppose it's convenient that the Chorister Bees leave us wealth when they take blood..."

"Always good to spot the silver linings, yes." Huh, that's a new idiom. "To the cooperative, the station, and then to somewhere you're comfortable sitting down to learn some more Zemurian?", Hailey asks the Linguist as they make their way out of the building.

Nod, nod! The Erratic linguist asks for more vocabulary on the way, gets distracted comparing Spanish and German and French and muttering about the connection between Latin and Greek, excitedly hugs a slightly drunk friend of hers they run into along the way, and then they're at the cooperative. Someone is standing on stage now, reading a mediocre poem about the beauty of danger in a tone that is supposed to be deep and slow and melodic but is mostly just slow. A Bespectacled Writer arranges the details - and Hailey now has two hundred seventy-eight Sovereigns. Not a vast fortune by any means, but not a bad sum to live off of for a while either.

Convenient of her stolen memories to come with a sense of how much this money is worth. Hailey nods along with various poems, provides vocabulary, and shares what little she knows about the etymology of her native tongue. Poetry's never been her strong suit, but some of these are interesting, and it's especially interesting to see how the people live and act.

The station is easy enough to find, and is torn between two different architectural styles, both seemingly half-finished, as if the groups supporting each had begun their project and then left to argue about which way to complete it. Dark wood and red brick walls and victorian windows on one side, flowing metal lines and bright stained glass evoking vines on the other.

The more competent bundle of men and women from the earlier battle are there, guarding a stack of crates and a pair of mechanics working on the locomotive. A Scarred Captain tells her they're leaving as soon as repairs can be effected, probably this evening, and they're low on space, but perhaps she could buy passage if she's interested in going somewhere that's not covered in b____y artists.

The station is fascinating, but the Scarred Captain's attitude rubs her the wrong way. Insulting the people who'd helped her? Insulting Cherie? "I'd rather work for my passage as a fighter, and with someone I could actually respect, not a—", and here she dips into Zemurian for a particularly vulgar word combining meanings of lazy slob and willfully ignorant catspaw. "Pardon me for not wanting to spend my hard-earned coin on… you."

Hailey turns and strides away, a scowl on her face.

"You put on a show with those whatever-they-are but do ya know how to load and clean a Cotterell & Hathersage model 1905 'Beulah'? How to wear a sky-suit, calculate weapon trajectories? Do you have your sky-legs? Ability to actually follow orders in combat, seeing as engine-combat is surprisingly slow and takes everyone working together to win? Ah, why am I arguing." He scowls. "Waste of time. Best for both of us if you go."

Yes, obviously she's going to have a lot to learn, but an oaf who insults everyone isn't worth studying under. She scowls and continues out of the station, reminding herself that she shouldn't start a fight.

"Well, that was educational," she says to Cherie with a forced smile. "Shall we find something else to do?"

"'Course. I'll show you the wonders of Titania!"

Over the evening and next two days Cherie leads her through wine, linguistics, poetry reading, people who want to know about her country's art and her weapons and clothes' designs, discussing history, appreciating art, linguistics, stargazing (a bit transgressive, almost taboo, maybe slightly dangerous!), coffee, linguistics, strolls in the flower's gardens, a dense and impenetrable argument about gun calibers, and linguistics discussions.

Cherie lives up to her 'erratic linguist' descriptor at one point and has a small fit that involves ranting in a patois of greek, arabic, and german and reorganizing a corner of a library according to 'semantic value'. Cherie's friends assure Hailey that this is nothing to worry about as long as she's not hurting herself.

Early in the afternoon on the third day in Titania a bulging, blocky grey locomotive can be seen leaving a thick smoke trail through the sky as it swings around the rear of Titania, making for the station at the tip of the titanic orchid's highest petal. Artistic types of all descriptions wander in the general direction of the platform, if they have business there.

Who knew there was so much nuance to wine? (Isabelle did.) Linguistics continues to be interesting. Some of these people aren't good poets, but they were passionate about it at least. Erebonian art turns out to have a lot in common with German and Norse styles. Her batons are made of a special alloy designed to be conductive to Orbal energy. Stargazing being transgressive is a bit odd (no it isn't), but being transgressive with a sweet and clever girl is really great. The gardens are gorgeous. Guns are weird, but she pays attention since she'll probably be handling them on whichever locomotive she joins. And she's finally running short on vocab that comes readily to mind.

It's been a delightful visit, and Hailey feels she's hopefully found a lasting friend here in Cherie, but the excitement on her face is unmistakable at the sight of the grey line of smoke through the sky. "Shall we go see the new arrival?"

"As you wish." Cherie comments in Zemurian, sighing. "Still wish I had a better idea just what Orbal energy is, but I can't claim you forever and to try would be an offense." Cherie tips her hat. "If my opinion of the captain or the engine would be helpful I'd be glad to come up there and see you off."

"Much appreciated. And maybe after I've got a better idea of whether it interacts with anything else here, we can come up with some ideas for Orbal energy experiments next time I visit Titania?"

"Perhaps, perhaps. I'm not really the engineering type. And it's not like we have delicate instruments and heavy hardware here."

The engine is a slightly hulking thing, a long curving bulge at the front, criss-crossing tooling marks on the sheer metal walls of the machine, looking almost too wide and fat as it ponderously aligns along the platform and slowly rolls in to a stop.

"A day's shore leave in Titania!" The captain announces as he exits the locomotive. Well, presumably he is the captain, what with the red coat, badge, and fancy hat. Less well-dressed crewmen follow behind him. "Art and music and gardens. Just make sure you bring your guns in case of Chorister Bees, lads."

Hailey nods to herself, murmuring "Bracers Onward" under her breath before striding confidently up to the probable-captain. "That, Sir, is a very cunning hat. And you just missed the Bees by a few days. Good to be armed anyway, though. Could I have a moment of your time?"

"A good piece of haberdashery is not to be underestimated, so thank you. I have an entire day to spare as you may have heard, what could I possibly begrudge giving away a moment? Captain Pelignore, at your service."

She smiles, hands clasped behind her back, and responds in kind. "Hailey Topferin, a Breezy Adventuress looking for work and passage." As she says this, she touches a finger to the end of one of her batons, pulsing enough energy through it to make a comparatively tame whirlwind about herself.

"I admit that there's much I don't know about life aboard a locomotive, but I'm willing to learn, and I have my own unique skills to offer."

"-Well, that's still below my quota for things I've never seen before today. How did you do that with the wind, exactly?"

Hailey unclips her batons from her back and holds them up, forming a tiny ball of swirling energy at the tip of each. "I am from somewhere rather further away than you've likely traveled, a nation called Erebonia, and where I come from we each have a kind of energy in us, which we call Orbal energy. S'basically like magic, and can do various elemental effects. Channeling that energy through specially made tools, like my batons, makes it possible for a person to do complex things. I specialize in the Air element, and can use my batons to do things from jets and enhanced leaps, to windblades both fixed to my batons and launched outward at an enemy. I may figure out additional tricks to do with Air, or other elements, over time."

"In terms of how that's useful to you, I can likely accelerate projectiles, maybe make them more accurate, near-certainly get back to the locomotive if I fall out (perhaps to jump out and kill a thing), throw windblades at a thing for additional damage, and maybe hold the worst of the cold out in the event of a breach, though that would be rather tiring if I kept it up for long."

"Oh, I've no doubt you could make yourself useful one way or another. I have a fairly full crew complement already, is all, so it bears thinking about instead of being an automatic acceptance. I try to avoid fights, terribly risky and wasteful things, battles, but sometimes one simply can't. Is Erebonia on Old Earth? Is Orbal energy dangerous?"

"Erebonia is not on Old Earth. I'm not entirely sure where it is relative to here. Orbal energy is perfectly safe, unless you get in the way of an active attack. And yes, I agree that fights are generally better to avoid in most cases."

"Mm. You're new and strange to me in several ways. This is, shall we say, worrying. New and strange things are sometimes better left alone, you know? Still, I think we can probably come to an agreement - work for passage."

"Work for passage sounds about right to me. I'd appreciate some reasonable share of the profits for things I help with, enough to cover some temperate measure of shore leave and any incidentals. I don't tend spend much, though: food, shelter, a few books, and an occasional visit to a cafe while in station."

"All permanent crew get room and board and equipment provided plus a salary of three Sovereigns per week, and proportional bonuses after successful voyages. If you're of particular help dealing with some manner of menace that will merit a bonus, sure. We typically spend five to ten days between stops, a day in most stops, and return to major ports once every month or two, spending more time in port then. You might wish to find a more adventurous captain - I don't intend to give you much chance to show off this 'orbal energy'. You know, fights, avoiding."

"I'm not particularly desperate for fights. I just feel rightest in motion, and need to see a lot more of this strange new world I find myself in, and think I could be useful. I very much prefer to be useful."

Is her voice trailing off a bit at the end there? Couldn't be.

"Locomotives link the skies together, tying these distant communities in a web of travel and trade. We're essential to civilization in the sky. And there's no danger of feeling useless onboard a locomotive. There's always more work to do. No idle hands on a locomotive underway, as a general rule. Except for paying passengers, of course."

"Then that's where I need to be."

She glances briefly at Cherie, eyebrow subtly raised, silently asking her opinion.

"You're not with the Tacketies, are you?" Cherie questions.

"I assure you, I'm an independent trader seeking my fortune. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You're a smuggler, then," she tries.

"Would I be so foolish to quail under the lightest questioning if I were? I am surely doomed the moment the Revenue Men look upon me."

"...I like him!" Cherie declares.

"Great. Now, I have to find someone. Somebody here put out an order for stained glass at very good rates..."

"Oh, that's probably the Painters Collective again. I'm sure they'll be along shortly, and then you can fly off with my friend. Who deserves to seek whatever she wants in her life."

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing." Cherie winks at Hailey.

Hailey pulls Cherie into a fierce hug. "Would that I could settle down peacefully with a friend like you. But alas, the rails are in my blood. You'd best still be in one piece when I get back, or I'll steal a locomotive and storm whatever mad place passes for an afterlife in these parts."

Releasing her friend somewhat reluctantly, she turns back to the captain. "I'd be glad to join up, if you'll have me, then. Where do we start?"

"I'll have to show you around the engine if you've never sailed before. After I take care of my business. Chat with the crew, see what engine life is like in the meantime, if you like?" He gestures at the disembarking sky-sailors.

"I'll look forward to it."

Hailey nods firmly, and with a last wave to Cherie she glances over the sailors, looking for any that seem particularly interruptible.

"Cor, what a pretty place this is, why'd you want to leave it?" The round-faced stoker waves at her. He seems young, and was staring wide-eyed all around at Titania a moment ago.

Hailey steps over toward him. "That is is, but I can't stay still for the life of me. I'm sure there are other pretty places to be seen out there in the sky. What's it like, living on an engine?", she asks with a smile.

"Well, it's kind of cramped and there's a lot of work. It's pretty loud. The food's plain. Its scary sometimes. But the views are amazing and we're almost a big ol' family, you know?"

"Getting a sense of belonging, and still getting to travel? That sounds pretty great, honestly."

"Right? I heard bad rumors about sky-sailing but the Amicable Captain takes care of us. Haven't lost anyone since I joined, though I got rattled pretty bad by an exploding pipe a few weeks ago. They kept me off-duty until I was better."

"Sounds like a good bunch, and a good Captain."

"You're gonna sign on? Let me tell you about the Good Deal. That's the engine's name, see. Her boilers are big and slow, not hungrier than most, but notably slow to get up to steam and come down from it. It can bite you if you're not careful, captain calling for steam and it's gonna be five minutes before he can get it. Need to learn to anticipate things if you're a stoker. Hey, Gloria, c'mere!"

He calls over a Bruised Gunner to join the conversation. They'll happily talk about locomotive work until the Captain finishes his business, does Hailey have any particular questions?

She does! What sort of fuel? Does airflow in the engine play a role? Do winds affect projectiles? What are the most common hazards in general? How long are their duty shifts? What's the bunking situation like? Where are the best places to see outside the engine? What do they do when they're off-duty on the engine?

Most anything that burns, though coal is the most consistent. There's a complicated system of air intakes and heat exchangers that draws in air outside the engine and takes it into the furnace. The winds can affect projectiles, but it's only really a problem if you're doing very long-range gunnery or you're in a storm or something? Navigating narrow passages, various sky-enemies that the Captain runs away from unless absolutely necessary, the risk of collisions or getting lost or running out of food and fuel. Duty shifts are seven hours a day with a bit of overlap to account for meals, and a rotating night-shift. There's eighteen crew, including the captain and her. They sail for sixteen hours a day. Everyone has their own bed but not everyone has their own cabin, also the cabins are about the size of a closet. The Bruised Gunner points out her porthole window. Her favorite place they've visited was Polmear & Plenty's Circus, but the other guy preferred Port Avon - it's idyllic, bucolic, peaceful. They play cards, drink and chat, sometimes sing, or get on with their own hobbies like reading and drawing.

Is ammunition ever in short supply? What do they fire? Could they perhaps experiment to see if her windy tricks — here, see a smol whirlwind — could enhance range or force? That seems like something to try before it ever becomes necessary. She's not actually worked with chemical-fired slugthrowers before; they seem really fascinating. Running away definitely seems like a smart policy, though. What sorts of things did they have at the Circus? Would they mind teaching her their card games at some point?

It'd only get that if they went looking for fights. Cannon shells are big pointy metal things filled with explosives and propelled by more explosives, and the captain also has a mine-layer that spits out remote-controlled explosives behind the engine, to discourage pursuit. The Bruised Gunner is quite intrigued by wind powers, and speculates that it could be productive. Air resistance is responsible for range limitations, you know. The circus is kind of run down and disappointing, actually, but nothing was trying even slightly to kill them - a rare treat - and the acrobat twins were very impressive. Sure, she can learn all the card games! Gambling is permitted as long as one is discreet about it and doesn't gamble themselves into debt.

Ooh. Explosives are great. Discouraging pursuit seems very sensible. Hailey's very eager to try experiments whenever winds up working out for them, assuming the captain doesn't mind. She'd suspected air resistance was a limiting factor, good to have that confirmed. And acrobatics are great! She can do some acrobatics herself, though she cheats a bit. She'd love to see the acrobat twins if they pass by the circus. And gambling for debt seems silly. Gambling for interesting favors or stories or even just small change seems more fun than debt.

She'll probably have to endure lectures in gun safety. Gun safety and ear protection is very important.

...A lookout who has been listening in chimes in with his suggestion about what sorts of 'favors' could be bet. The Bruised Gunner laughs. The stoker who first approached her blushes. The Bruised Gunner suggests they go and find a bar.

(The Captain has vanished from the dock by now.)

Gun safety seems like a good thing to have lectures about. Semi-tame explosions used to throw explosive slugs are worth making safe. Well, safe for us. Enemies don't get the privilege of that safety.

And Hailey blushes lightly, but refrains from comment.

There's a bar down by Bloom Bower, where wine is served alongside beer and cider and paintings of the beauty of the Reach line the walls and anyone who likes can take a turn singing and playing music. They can spend time there, telling more sky-stories. Stowaways, being accidentally boarded by Tacketies, a barrel of Hours starting to unravel in the hold and rushing to chuck the whole thing over the side before it got any worse, convincing the captain to get a slightly better cannon for the engine...

Wow! These are great stories, and it sounds like the engine will be a fascinating place. Hours continue to sound weird and inspire curiosity; hopefully she'll get to see one at some point. The Tacketies sound like an odd bunch, and worth learning more about if they're going to be an ongoing issue. Hailey can share stories of her fight with the Chorister Bees, and one or two other monsters she fought in training at Thors Academy.

After a few hours, a couple rounds of gambling, and some drunken art criticism attracting the ire of the local poets, the group suggests heading back to the engine, as a cheaper place to sleep than trying to find a bed in Titania and maybe to start showing Hailey around the place.

Hailey thinks this is a great idea. Conveniently she's got all her worldly possessions: a small bag containing the few clothes she bought on Titania along with a notebook and pen.

Well, here's the locomotive! It's... Pretty big, actually. Approximately house-sized. Wide enough for two corridors running along the length with a room in between, and a small lower crawl space for water tanks and piping and crankshafts and wires, and a small, narrow upper level for some slightly low-ceiling single-bunk cabins and a lookout station. The bridge and two weapon cubbies are at the front, then a cargo bay that stretches far to the side and front that is responsible for the wide bulge in this engine, then a galley and kitchen, then some cabins, then the engine room with all sorts of engineering equipment. Various nooks and crannies here and there serve as extra storage space. The engine has Bronzewood plating over much of the outer hull, making it reasonably resilient to impacts and the like.

Hailey gives the Bronzewood a flick with her finger. That name sounds like some kind of tree that produces extremely durable wood.

It looks like wood, but it's brown and shiny and feels/sounds like metal.

Huh. That is absolutely, delightfully bizarre. Is one of these bunks available, perhaps, or is there somewhere in particular she should stow her bag? And what's up with skysuits?

"Oh, it's freezing cold and there's no proper 'down' off the engine, away from islands. Sky-suits keep you warm and tethered to the engine, and protect you from the starlight, so we can do emergency work on her exterior, or salvage things. Cap'n doesn't like doing salvage, though. Says it's too risky most of the time."

"Well that's just fascinating. And possibly an area where I may have a comparative advantage, given that I can just gust myself back toward the engine, as long as you don't pick up too much speed without me. I assume the risk in salvage is at least partly of drifting away?"

"Partly. But trying to salvage wrecks is dangerous 'cause they might break apart, or something might still be inside them."

"Hm. That's... That's worth still considering, I think, because I can probably protect myself from something landing on me. And I'm a bit harder to kill than the average person. But it's something we'll have to look over from multiple angles, I expect, because there's likely plenty more I don't know."

"Do I just find an empty bunk, or is there some process?"

"Just find an empty bunk. I think there's five left, one right next to the engine rooms that gets too warm, three upstairs, and one that's... Bad luck. If there's arguments, Cap'n intervenes and gets grumpy about it."

"Where's this bad luck room?" she asks with an easy grin.

"You don't want the cursed room. People who take it end up getting hurt. And things break in it."

"I'm hard to hurt. And desperately curious. And the only possessions I remotely care about were designed to be combat-rugged enough for ongoing use by teenagers."

They glance at each other. "...Well, if you're sure."

The 'cursed' cabin looks totally ordinary. It's right across the hall from the galley. The bed shows signs of being repaired - part of it is shiny and new.

Repaired bed might be comfier, for all she knows. With a glib smile, she sets her bag on the bed and stows her things properly. Once that's done, and after re-checking that her batons and ARCUS are securely clipped to her back and hip, she heads off to find someone to see about some hands-on training.

A pair of engineers are cleaning and inspecting things in the back of the ship, and will talk about the duties that keep a locomotive in good order happily enough. Stokers and deckhands, lookouts and drivers. There's a lot to learn.

"We don't expect you to get it all first day, of course. You'll have someone spell things out for you at first, and you'll pick it up quick enough."

She smiles at that. "I'd try, if it came to that, but I do appreciate not needing to have it all memorized immediately." She makes a point to ask questions and engage with the process, the better to understand the reasons behind what they're teaching her.

The workings of a locomotive are complicated. They stick to simple explanations and laying out the jargon, like 'clearing knots' to rebalance the steam pressure or 'spoiled fires' for a problem in the furnace. This is the proper way to store lamp oil. Here's a trick to quickly slam the bulkheads shut, in case of emergency.

There's also some questionably sage advice thrown in. Things being neat and shiny is nice, but a too-clean engine can be a bad sign too - it means other things aren't getting attended to as much as they should. Never trust a flower that can talk.

She'll make a note of those tips, most of which seem quite useful, and the rest of which seem either worth checking anyway, or like the sort of madness that's looking like it's just an occupational hazard of her new world.

The Captain shows up again during this lecturing.

"Everything look good, lads?"

"Aye aye, so it does!"

"Teaching Miss Hailey the ropes?"

"Exactly. I don't know what job you had in mind for her..."

"I was thinking general deckhand, at first. How are you finding the engine, Hailey?"

"Quite nice! Welcoming and fascinating and busy! I like it!"

"I'm so glad to have another vote of approval. Could you come to the bridge with me for a bit?"

"Certainly." She follows after.

The bridge is a mostly-open space with three seats before sets of controls and dials, and a wide view out frontal windows. The glass is thick, with sturdy-looking bars segmenting and reinforcing it.

"Thought you'd appreciate a view from the bridge. We're not departing quite yet, tomorrow morning. And your wind powers might be helpful for maneuvering, and for ballistics. Is now a good moment to talk about that more?"

"Oh my, that's delightful!"

After a short time gazing out and enjoying the view, she turns to the captain and nods, "Yes, I was thinking along similar lines. I don't know as much as I'd like about maneuvering an enormous engine rather than a single girl, but the underlying principles should be similar at least. I know less about ballistics, but I have a few guesses and I'm eager to learn about both. Now is a great time."

Well, navigation before gunnery. Here is a lecture on how the winds tend to behave in the Reach, and how it affects the locomotive. It is capable of some fairly sharp maneuvers in emergencies or combat, but it takes a while to build up steam and momentum, or to turn. Sometimes there are billowing wind-currents that make it difficult or impossible to head one way along a section of sky, or speed you along in the other way. Does she have a 'feel' for wind, can she tell which way it's blowing from inside the engine, for example?

She can't sense anything more than anyone else about about air she's not actively affecting, and doesn't get much more when she is. She can affect the air in two basic ways: shaping it or moving it (these being different modes of her batons that are triggered by different grips and energy flows). For navigation, moving it is more relevant (unless he ever wants wedges or airblades or spikes for ramming or side-swiping). With exterior access, she could effect a very sudden turn of the engine, or a significant speed boost, by bracing herself and shooting a large jet of air away. For that matter she could also stop them suddenly if she shot a jet forward. Doing any of this has a cost in fatigue. She'd estimate engine-scale jets to be tiring on a scale of running flat out for about twice as long.

"Something for combat or emergencies, then. Not to save on fuel costs. There's only so much we can do while docked, and the Titanians will be upset if we fire the guns, so actual experiments will have to wait, sadly..."

"Tragically sensible of them, to be annoyed by docked locomotives firing weaponry near their pretty flower-island."

"Quite. Mm... How far away from yourself can you influence the wind? You think you can use it on cannon shot, could you sort of... Follow the shot out into the sky? What other physical principles could you affect, I wonder?"

"Hm. I suspect I can manage one or two hundred meters of useful force. I can't project force from anywhere other than at or near my batons, and the force drops off increasingly steeply over distance. If I was trying to assist with cannon fire, my naive strategy is to make a tight corridor of mostly-forward, slightly-inward wind, timed to start just before the cannon fires and release just after impact. Best guess is that that would help control the accuracy and add some acceleration. Remains to be seen if briefly accelerating my perceptions before the cannon is fired saves energy over keeping the corridor up longer, but I think it might. And it'll be useful if there's anything else we need to react to, so keeping some degree of acceleration up in combat may be a good idea as a general principle."

"One thing that comes to mind... I don't know if you have any swarming predators in the Skies here, but at one point I handled a swarm of bats that had surrounded me with a large pressure wave."

"As I practice and hone my abilities, my overall capacity will improve, and with it the amount of force I can produce. What'll also improve, though, is my... synchronization with my tools." She holds up her ARCUS, which looks like a brass pocketwatch with an exposed crystal or two, then clips it back to her waist. "My ARCUS provides some additional fancy tricks that I'll be able to figure out as I refine my control and can run my energy through finer patterns and in larger amounts. They're likely to all be Wind or Time, but other than that I don't know what they could be. Elements can be used rather more widely than the mundane concept of the terms they're named for. I've heard of Wind, Water, and Space all being used to heal, for example."

He peers at the 'ARCUS'. "Hmm, something to experiment with. Target practice while maneuvering? I try not to run the engine like a military vessel, though." He shrugs. "Choister bees are as close to a swarm as I've ever faced, and you handled them adroitly, per rumor. Now, time... Possibly troublesome. Have you heard of Unrefined Hours?"

That... is an interesting question to have to answer. A few of her stolen memories involve Hours, though. Hm. "I know a bit about their uses, but not how they're made. Never handled them myself, but something about them rings of familiarity."

"Oh, they're mined out of the ground. Strange sort of thing, but lots of things are. If your mysterious abilities can affect time, Hours might probe to be interesting experimental subjects. But I will have to insist that such experiments take place off of my engine."

"Given what I know of that can go wrong with hours, I wholeheartedly agree with that precaution, and probably then some. I'd probably have to try to feel one to get a sense of what I can do with it, though; it's hard to speculate."

"That sort of thing is utterly fascinating - I have tried some fuel supplements with mixed results before - but at the same time getting too experimental can be... Hazardous. My navigator has a great-aunt who pretends London never left the Zee, preferring to exist in drawing-rooms and windowless studies, her interests parochial and historical. She says this decision has brought her great comfort. Some people are like that, but if we were we wouldn't be here, no?"

She laughs. "No indeed, we wouldn't be here if we needed that overabundant level of caution. I'm sure we can find some wayward bit of rock nobody will miss and do our experiments there. I'm mostly sure I can keep protect myself if there's a volatile reaction while I'm feeling one of these things out, but far less about anyone else, so I think perhaps I should avoid handling any until we have time to experiment in such a location. Just in case something slips. Once I know the feel of them first-hand, I'm sure it'll be fine, but... Better safe than sorry, especially when it involves lives and resources other than my own."

"There are plenty of unoccupied rocks to go around, at least."

Hailey nods and smiles, remembering her plummet past a few toward Titania just a few days ago.

The rest of the evening passes by smoothly. There's a little late-evening singing in the galley and a few crew have bought small art objects from Titania and most of them are happy to question her about where she came from and otherwise chat.

In the morning people are a little hungover but tolerate the Captain's double-checking of the vessel, inside and out, as they prepare to embark. The captain is happy to show her the ropes for a bit, but he has work of his own to do before long and she's left with the shy stoker and loud gunner she was drinking with yesterday. The gunner offers to show her how the cannon works.

And after that pleasant evening, Hailey follows along through the double-checking and the departure prep, and then is eager to learn all about the cannon.

Cannons work like thus and such! They can't fire it without the Captain ordering it, of course, but here are all the controls and gubbins.

The day is uneventful and there are various light locomotive-related tasks to do. Verdant cliffs and crags pass, vegetation absorbing the locomotive's churning engine noise. Once they pass away from the wide-open area around Titania the path becomes considerably narrower. Their destination is the Leadbeater & Stainrod Nature Preserve. Hailey can hand tools down to someone working in the crawlspace to fix a minor issue on the mining drill. At lunch during the changeover between morning and afternoon shifts, a bunch of people are wondering what Chorister Nectar is like, the Captain having purchased a fair chunk of it. They play cards, without any bets. The Bruised Gunner flirts with a Pensive Engineer over porridge, who barely seems to notice.

Then she has the afternoon off. The Captain finds her.

"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to hear a bit more about whatever power related to time you have. We're likely to find a source of Hours sooner or later and I'd like any potential experiments to be well-informed."