Oh, she likes him. 

"Thorn. Dreaming of a sky-engine in the way that ends with a full account of prices for everything you'd need to own one. Also, I was told by a guitarist that you might be able to help me learn how to sing. I tried Chorister honey for the first time yesterday and I think I fell in love." 

He laughs. "Oh, the joys of Chorister Honey! If only it wasn't so unfortunate to gather, it'd be cheaper. The way I heard it, the best way to get an engine is to inherit it from a former captain. One way or another. Who was it who recommended me, Clyde? Granger? Or maybe Yates, that silly young man with the beard."

"I didn't get a name - the guitar player at the skyfront tavern. I think it was perhaps because I sang a song they hadn't heard before."

"Probably Clyde, then. Go on, let's hear it, anyone can sing even if most everyone could use more lessons." He turns around and starts rummaging through a cabinet as he talks.

This is harder without the Chorister bouying her up. It takes her a moment to find confidence in her voice, and a few bars before she finds the tune, but she manages a decent version of her song from the pub. She's even able to sing her improvised words again: her quartz pendant is a  perfect memory of her, after all.

A short way into the song, "Aha!" -And he turns around again with a large honeycomb, heavy and golden in a big glass bowl.

He sets it down on the counter, listens intently, and starts humming along after a few verses.

"I can't tell what the influences are! It has some recognizable pieces of style common in drinking songs, the kind of thing that makes them easier to sing along to, but the rest, the details? Neither classical nor Baroque nor folk, not even Empyrean or Elder! Excellent. Where did you learn it, do you have more?"

"It's a hand-me-down, traditional in my family, of which I'm afraid I'm the last in the High Wilderness. There's a few others like it: the originals were in a different language, I'm improvising English lyrics. If you'd like to hear one..." 

And she launches into a rendition of another Sigilite drinking song, this time in original Sigil cant. She's sung this one hundreds of times: it comes out confident and clear, if not exactly always on key.

He holds very still during the song, and claps politely at the end.

"Right! Good confidence! That's key to music in my opinion - you must know you can sound amazing. Can, with practice, not already do. Let's start on the basics in my music room, see how well you take instruction."

He brings the bowl with the honeycomb along as he heads deeper in the house.

She follows, smiling at having apparently passed the first test, "be interesting." 

He starts teaching, by example and instruction both. The lesson is erratic in topic but seems effective. The Manic Dilettante, Javier, is not the best singer in the world but he is at least a solid and highly enthusiastic one, if occasionally distracted by asking what the Sigilite words mean. He keeps fidgeting with the bowl of Chorister Honey but doesn't say anything about it.

Though she's naturally contrary, she wants this very badly. She follows instruction eagerly and with a minimum of cursing.

She provides translations. Berk, Cutter and Blood slide into her vocabulary. She refrains from speaking about the Lady or Sigil as a whole. 

Finally: "Thank you for the lesson. How much do I owe you?" 

Javier is perfectly happy to curse when cursing seems called for. He starts stringing together Sigilite sentences and grammar. He starts playing the guitar as an instrument for her to follow, then drums, then a harp, then piano, then his own voice in challenging, complicated patterns - and now she mustn't overwhelm, backup singing is a valuable skill! -And after that...

"Nothing today. It was a trial! An audition of both student and teacher. In future I think eight shillings an hour ought to be fine." He holds up the bowl of honey. "My instruction - You can use some of this when you're ready to actually benefit your learning from it. I got a bargain and will give it to you for what it cost me. When that is, I shall leave to you to judge. Also, I confess I am not much for schedules."

"I'm not much for schedules either, but if we could average an hour each day that would be good. I like you as a teacher; we fit well together. And eight shillings an hour sounds like a steal. The honey I'll leave as a test of my own patience, I suspect. Thank you for your time!"

"Have fun and burn bright! Show up whenever and we'll see if I feel up to a lesson then!"

Back to his hammer-sculpting he goes.

She supposes it's time for her to explore the edges of the city. Is there somewhere she can set up her beacon without being observed by anyone?

The edges of the city quickly decay into overgrown sprawl, thick cords of vines and trees and other plants rending stone and steel and glass alike. Some of it seems to be claimed by the homeless picking through for anything of value, by gangs of children claiming places as bases of operation, by stubborn 'suburban' dwellers who seem to live here legitimately, or by more ordinary gangs of adults as a place to hide things and conduct deals. But there's plenty of abandoned places, and after several hours she can find an area that seems unclaimed and an old house that's still reasonably intact, about half an hour's walk and considerably lower elevation from the city center.

Lovely. She marks the spot mentally, and returns to her rooms at the inn, where she picks up her pack again. From there, to Victoria Market, where she purchases a soul and five sovereign's worth of Hours and stuffs them both in her pack; and then back out to the abandoned house. She sweeps the property for anything suspicious, then sets down her pack in a corner of one of the rooms. 

She digs down to the very bottom of her pack and pulls a squat, chunky device free of its black bag. Setting it down with the cone tip pointing upwards, she taps in a sequence: the device unfolds, digs feet into the floor, and flashes a green light. 

She snaps her fingers, and a door appears.

She picks up her pack, and marches through.

There's a woman who looks much like her sitting at a desk on the far side. She's less scarred, and bears no tattoos, but the face is the same. 

Thorn bows shallowly. "Eva."

Eva laughs. "No need to stand on formalities, Thorn. What've you found?"

"A bustling magical frontier, still untamed, with many curiosities that might be of interest to the OTC. They were selling souls in the marketplace."

"What do you mean by that? Souls can be very different things depending on ambient mana; there's a reason why we need the crystal to fixate ours."

"I thought you might say that, so I brought a sample." She unslings her pack and retrieves the bottled soul.

Eva stands up and comes around her desk in order to have a look at the soul. 

"Fascinating. I'll have to get Grey to take a look at this; it doesn't seem to be sentient, but..."

"Always best to check, definitely. I also brought you these." She hands up the geodelike Hours from her pack. "Some form of unrefined time, if I'm not mistaken. This world might be a good Chron source."