Thorn fills her pack with everything that fits in it, then waves goodbye and takes the table and chairs out the door. The jug of chorister honey is last to be plunked down outside.  

Eva waves goodbye, and closes the door after her.

She takes the tuning forks and the metronome out of her pack, and lays them out on the table next to the jug of chorister honey. She puts the number sixty combo down next to them. 

She packs up the beacon again; then she reaches into the bag and pulls out the burger and fries therein. 

She could have gone far more exotic on this. Really shifted things around. But... she wanted comfort food, not something radical. It's just a burger that will help her learn faster. 

She chows down. She drinks a slurp of Chorister to go with, then forces herself to finish eating the burger and fries. 

Then she starts the metronome, sounds a tuning fork, and sings. She sings until the Chorister wears off, or until she's interrupted by something or someone she's disturbed.

She slowly acquires an audience of cats. One at first, then half a dozen, taking up watchful positions on worn furniture and windowless windowsills in the abandoned house.

That is somewhat unnerving but it's already happening. She'll continue singing to the cats.

Eventually, the cats start to look bored instead of watchful. Two wander off. The others aren't looking at her exactly anymore. One investigates the new furniture.

She lets out a breath, and continues to sing until at last her Chorister runs out.

Then she heads back to the city, content with a few hours' time spent. She stops by the Clatter Rats on the way back, a thought having occurred to her. 

The address they named appears to be an old warehouse with rusty shelving and scrap piles and a few rusty old tools...

...Until a voice squeaks out, "Oi, you mice, I recognize 'er and I'm pretty sure she's not a cop, come on out!"

Rats pop out from nooks and crannies to look at her. The rat with the aviator goggles and dart-crossbow from yesterday scurries up near her on some kind of duct along the wall.

"What's your noise today? Didn't get your name, I was kind of busy. I'm Three Grease. Oh, and we got our repayment just fine, by the way."

"I'm Thorn. My noise today is - you say you do miniature mechanical marvels, yes? What about a larger one like installing an engine into a locomotive?"

"Rattus faber are quite known for our mechanical prowess. Depending on the details, that's a maybe, or maybe we can find a rat who'd help out."

"A Jemmy into a Spatchcock, the heavy lifting not your problem."

"From Abraham's?"

At the nod, he clambers up a pipe and has a rapid, jargon-heavy conversation with four other rats.

"Dependin' on how heavy the lifting you mean, we can do that for sixty sovs. You'll need to be there all week and not muck anything up."

"I'll have to see about contracting some reliable people for the heavy lifting. But it's a hell of a deal compared to the price Abraham's would charge. I'll get word back to you once all the pieces are lined up - might take a month or two."

She waves goodbye and goes on her way. Lenora mentioned a bank, and she's not exactly comfortable with her gold sitting in her pack alone at the inn. She needs a safe-deposit box. So she'll go and see if she can find a bank.

There are two banks worth the name in Victoria Market. A grand edifice simply named Hallidge's, and a more humble one called New Winchester Secure Investment Bank

She'll go to the more humble one.

They'll rent her a safety deposit box for 1 Sovereign per month. Would she like to open a checking account as well?

She would like three months of a safe-deposit box and a chequing account. 

Without paperwork from City Hall or a stable address to refer to they have no way to let her claim her box or account again if she both forgets the security code she can set up and loses her keys, is that alright?

That's perfectly fine. She'll start her chequing account with a deposit of twenty sovereign.

Alright! And here's some cheques if she wants them. They don't have much in the way of fraud protection except the bank's assurance to delay payment of questionable claims and investigate, though.

She'll take the cheques, and her keys, and lock away her gold in the safe-deposit box. 

Now, to Abraham's Engineering to inquire after pricing on different scouts. 

There's a guy who sells trained bats of indifferent quality for around twenty to fifty Sovereign. The bats are sort of cute from the right viewpoint, fuzzy, have three-foot wingspans and somewhat sullen attitudes and fairly voracious appetites for treats. A scout is not absolutely essential for every engine, they clarify, but certainly helps a lot. Especially with exploring. Better scouts are a specialty good that they have no immediate advice for, the very best supplier of them - Mr. Menagerie - is constantly travelling the Reach and never in one place for long.

She thanks the seller, and asks directions to the Promise of Days. Which she follows. 

It's a pub, but a nicer pub a street away from the engine yards, where they can still be heard but not as overwhelmingly. Old pistons gleam on the walls. The shelves are crowded with mementos from across the sky. The clientele raise their voices to be heard above the comforting clamour of the railyard.

There are a few interesting patrons in right now. A masked man, a professorial-looking man, a posh-looking woman with fancy hair, and a scarred woman with a harpoon at her side sit together at a table that looks older than the others. The other patrons all tilt their hats as they pass the four, clearly respected seniors. The rest of the drinkers are in ones or twos, variably fancy uniforms and hats blending together somewhat.

She doesn't make the mistake of walking up to a table full of bloods and asking them the time of day. She settles in alone at the bar, and looks at the menu, and listens.