Eagles and Swans

Chapter 1: Children of the Street

Ruthenia was trapped in the alley behind the New Town railway station, and she was running out of ideas.

In the rain-wet slabs beneath her feet, she could feel the trains rumbling, ready to be launched into the world. Steam hissed and wings fluttered overhead, breaking the light in the alley.

Of course, the only thing that mattered right now was that there was a pistol barrel in her face.

“Look, look—what do you want?” she breathed, clenching her jaw. The noxious scent of smoke was stirred with petrichor. They stared each other down in that narrow slip of sunlight. “You want money. You want my argents—is that right?”

“Give me your pouch,” growled the brunet boy clutching the gun in his hands. But his voice broke awkwardly, and now she saw that he was shaking almost as much as she.

She forced herself to look at the gun between her eyes. It was wood and brass, and she vaguely recognised its make—an Ordiva of some sort: Cerdolian, cheap. The engineering on this piece was so atrocious she'd have turned up her nose, had she not been a literal inch from death.

Ruthenia cast her gaze about. For something. A gutter, hanging from the eaves, just out of reach. The wheels and crankshafts of her mind began to clatter.

“That’s brass,” she said, fumbling with the crook of her umbrella. She took a step back, then a second. “You could’ve used those aurs on twenty good meals.”

“I...I don’t buy my guns,” he replied, eyes flicking to the sides before regaining focus upon her face, then redoubled the force in his voice. “I said, your pouch.”

She came to a stop beneath the overhang of the roof. “Did you get yourself tangled up with a gang?” She let her umbrella dangle from her loose fingers. “I know where you’re headed. It’s not worth selling yourself for. Find yourself a job and do something good.”

“Find a job! The kings won’t let me find a job!” he snarled, jabbing the weapon at her face.

In a single sweep of motion, Ruthenia flung her umbrella up in the air, its crook catching on the edge of the gutter. Then she grabbed the ferrule and yanked down, hard.

At once, rusty metal groaned. Metal brackets snapped one by one. With a creak the entire gutter tilted, and a cascade of rainwater tumbled down upon them both, leaves and all. The boy yelped and sheltered himself with his arm ineffectually as the water doused them both.

“Idiot!” he screamed, pulling the pistol on Ruthenia. Heart booming, she snatched his arm and twisted it, and he pulled the trigger in a last-ditch attempt to halt her—permanently—but it did not fire, merely clicked as the spark attempted and failed to light the damp gunpowder.

She snatched his wrist, twisted, and flicked the weapon away. It clattered on the cobblestones.

It took a moment for the sound to register. His eyes went wide. Then he began to pant with fear, before she thrust him against the wall, stabbing her elbow into his chest.

“I’m not the idiot here,” she answered. He wheezed. “You’re right, the kings are the problem. But that doesn’t mean you should take any old gun they give you.”

“D-don’t report me,” he whimpered.

“To the police?” She shook her head. “I hate them as much as you do.”

---

“Right on time, as usual, Ruth.”

By the time Ruthenia rounded the corner into the alleyway between the bank and the bakery, the tremors of fear were finally beginning to desert her.

The source of the call—a young man with pitch-black hair—stood awaiting her, like a raven, his dark coat almost invisible within the shadow of the building.

“Den,” she said. “I got caught up in some funny business on the way here.”

“Aggressive lard soap salesman?”

“Kid with a gun,” she replied with a glance skyward. “Good thing it rained. I could’ve died, or lost my money pouch.”

“Children of the poor are everywhere these days,” sighed Den. “The kings could do better for them. They ought to, or they’ll bite back someday.”

“You think so?”

“Someday, not yet. They don’t care enough yet.” He shrugged.

There was a clatter from the crates behind Den. “Ruthenia!” shouted a bright voice as a lid slid down the stack.

“Hyder?” she barely had the chance to reply, before the brown-haired boy had clambered over the edge of the top one and down a staircase of crates, dashing towards her with a big grin on his face. Gordo’s head appeared where Hyder’s had been, and he stared at the newcomer as if expecting her to perform an acrobatic stunt.

Hyder tackled her with a hug and then released her with almost as much vigour.

“Hyder!” exclaimed Ruthenia. “What’s the hurry?”

“It’s been two weeks, and I guess I missed you,” he said, touching his neck. Then his eyes widened. “Is it ready? The key!”

“I’m a woman of my word,” she replied with a smile, fishing about in her pocket.

There was another rustle from behind the crate stack, and Ruthenia's stomach clenched at once. “Let me see it,” hissed a voice. Tante wasn’t one for pleasantries, and by the sounds of it, he wasn’t in the mood to be lenient either. “You’ve kept us long enough. Take our projects seriously, won’t you?”

“I’m taking it as seriously as it deserves to be,” she growled. “Here.” She slid the fishbone key out of her pocket and raised it on her palm. The others went quiet.

“Shiny,” murmured Hyder. He snatched it off her hand and held it up to his eye.

“I want to see it too,” added Gordo, extending a meaty hand in his direction.

While Hyder and Gordo passed the key back and forth between themselves, Tante finally deigned to emerge from the shadows, and he did so with a scowl. He stalked into their midst, and did not waste a moment acknowledging anyone’s presence.

“Let me have a look,” he muttered, extending a hand. Hyder promptly placed it in his bony fingers. The straw-haired knifeman twisted it about in the light. “This is what we’ve been waiting for? Is that all?”

“What, you don’t trust me?” she muttered.

“I do,” said Hyder. “Give the key back here, Tante. I’ll finish as quick as possible, and then we'll have lunch.”

Before their chatter had died down, Hyder had already begun to do what he did best: he began to Mask himself. At once, everyone went silent to watch him.

With his fingers, he tugged and pushed at the air around his head, as if there were an invisible piece of cloth enwrapping it.  Piece by piece, they watched his face change to that of another. Shaggy brown hair was replaced by waves of blond, immaculately-combed; expressive grey eyes turned green. All at once, he was no longer Hyder: he was the Arcane King’s younger brother, Aleigh Luzerno.

Ruthenia stumbled away in surprise. Being a student at one of the most expensive schools in the nation at Tanio’s insistence (and by his financing), it so happened that the royal priss was her classmate, and she could say with full confidence that the resemblance was perfect, right down to the supercilious squint of his eye.

“Well, someone’s studied the portraits well,” remarked Den, walking a circle around their friend, who proceeded to Mask his attire.

The Masker returned a characteristic grin, one that looked decidedly strange on his new face. “Do you like it?” he answered, putting on the snooty accent that all the golden-haired Arcanes had. Sniggering, he rolled the Arcane Prince’s eyes and grimaced like an idiot. Everyone was soon bent double laughing.

“These Arcanes sure do dress themselves nicely,” chortled Gordo, tilting left and right to study his friend’s new countenance.

“That’s what makes them Arcanes, isn't it—velvet, frills, and underwear on too tight!” answered Hyder. Hearing those words out of the Arcane Prince’s mouth had them all laughing again.

The uproar faded as the Masker began a final verbal run-through of the procedure with Den, fiddling with the fishbone key as he went. Ruthenia smiled as the metal pins slid in and out. It would not function as intended here, no. But slide it into a lock, and it would work magic.

Den clapped Hyder on the back. “Put on your best show,” he said. As the Masker departed onto the street, Ruthenia sniggered, trying to imagine what the Helika Morning Herald would come up with this time.

---

Arcane Prince Flirts with Toileting Classmate: A likely case of out-of-body experience, say experts

Helika Morning Herald, 14th July 491.

This morning, Arcane Prince Aleigh was reported to have broken into a toilet cubicle at the Helika ferry station and made advances towards his classmate.

The victim, Feldon Jayle, was in the middle of his essential activities when he was alarmed to see the door unlock by itself—moments before the Arcane Prince allegedly entered and immediately began to engage in suggestive speech.

‘He came in and started asking me if I wanted to “have fun”—I didn’t know what to do,’ describes Jayle, nervous from his harrowing experience.

Upon questioning later that afternoon, His Highness denied rather vehemently having performed either of these acts. The rest of his family, as well as His Majesty, King Hazen of the Ordinary, also readily backed him up, claiming he was ‘at an advisory board meeting’ and did not leave his seat at all during the time of this alleged happening.

Psychology experts have suggested that this is an instance of an out-of-body experience, during which the soul leaves the body in the person’s semi-unconscious state, and moves about independent of it. The person’s mind would register such an activity as a daydream.

‘Come to think of it, Aleigh was a little zoned out during the discussion,’ states Her Eminence, Arcane Viz Talia, mother of the Arcane Prince. ‘I did not think he would harbour such fantasies.’

More investigation will be carried out at a later date. The royal family has requested the privacy of this case.

*

Clang went her wrench, spinning across the ground and banging against another plate.

Ruthenia was laughing so hard she was going dizzy. She wiped an imaginary tear from her eye, and continued to bang a fist on her thigh, gasping between long, loud guffaws.

The giggles continued to come intermittently as she set back to work on the open train engine in the middle of the little work shed that was her home. The sky shone blue through the two windows, reflected in the glass dial coverings. She laughed as she drank out of her metal flask, thinking of the myriad jokes she could make at the Arcane Prince’s expense today; the result was a few seconds of choking and a coughing fit.

Ruthenia made good enough speed that school had only just begun by the time she’d finished work. Even with tunnel winds in her favour today, the trip would take her twenty minutes. But twenty minutes wasn’t late, to her. Not particularly.

She tossed her screwdriver into the crowded toolbox, and snatched up her bag and umbrella from the rack by the door, stretching her arms in the spring breeze.

Out on her patio, Ruthenia was halted by a proclamation of her name. “What?” she shouted, turning to the plank bridge between her shed and Tanio’s house, swinging merrily in the blue.

The blond inventor stood in the middle of it, where it sagged the lowest, fingers curled tightly around the rope handholds. He brushed blonde hair out of his eyes, waving a paper packet at her as he crossed. “Lunch!” he sang, setting foot on her wooden patio. Sighing, she held a hand out.

“Lunch” was soggy, as usual, and reeking of the sea. Trying not to wince at the smell, Ruthenia flipped her bag cover open and flung it inside.

“I hear your feedback, Ruth,” said Tanio, “and I assure you, it’s not burnt this time. You’ll know it when you taste it!”

“Thank you,” she answered, waving him away.

It took Ruthenia a solid minute of scrabbling at the air before she finally managed to get her grip on a bundle of Thread. She gritted her teeth as she did, wondering if they were right, if the reason she was having so much trouble was that she wasn’t praying hard enough to Ihir. Then she sniffed. As if she’d ever pray to that awful bird for anything.

It was another full minute before Ruthenia managed to get her umbrella levitating stably—which she celebrated with a pump of her fist. Leaping aboard, she gave the adjacent Threads a sharp tug—and off she shot into the cloud-speckled blueness, leaving the smallest home on Beacon Way behind.

The mile between home and the gate road was all green farmland, rippling on in endless lines across the tiny countryside between here and Baytown. She’d seen the workers before, leading plough cows across the earth, ever flightless.

The floating houses cast their shadows across the fields of young stalks as she passed; watermills rattled in the temperate current, their tall windy counterparts creaking songs.

Ruthenia soared past the mills and ploughs, skimming low over the wheat fields to watch her own shadow dance across them. Far ahead, the entrance to the gate road resolved into visibility, a circular hole that gaped at the intersection of four fields, marked by a daffodil-yellow signpost.

GATE 28 (WEST WIND TUNNEL)

Suddenly the gate roared wide beneath Ruthenia, howling with wind. With a yell she snapped a bundle of Threads so her flight swung into a dive through the mouth.

The sunlight lifted from her skin. Cold Thread light swallowed her whole. With the fright stoking her, she managed to tangle the Threads back about her mount just in time to swerve into straight flight again. She breathed a long sigh of relief, though her tongue quickly grew dry. One of these days that dive would kill her.

As the granite tunnel reached level, a distant loud howl entered earshot. Ruthenia felt the thrill run across her skin while the pressure built up behind her.

The twin rows of Thread lights in the ceiling ended just a few yards ahead. Hunching low, she gripped her umbrella tight and hurtled down the remaining length of the gate.

She shot into the West Wind Tunnel perpendicular to the current. At once a sharp gush of wind slapped her side, tossing her like a limp paper doll into the flow of the underground airway. Air roaring about her ears, she clung on with all her might, pulling her body as close to her fluttering umbrella as she could while the whooshing air continued to throttle her.

The Astran Wind Tunnels were as wide as a cathedral was tall, arching overhead and curving below, cradling a thin river in its base. Tarnished pipes striped the walls, among which other gates intermittently opened, pouring other commuters into the stream. Empty round windows passed overhead, through which circular beams of light streamed, setting the stream below aglitter.

The trickle was low today, but when summer bloomed in full vengeance, she knew it would flood to at least quarter the tunnel’s height. On good summer days, she sometimes verged the surface, watching the koi swirl among the reflections, in their own secret city, foraging amid discarded metal and lost jewellery.

The gale took her westward, and her watch ticked where it hung from her neck, welcoming the balm of the afternoon.

She eventually landed on the eighteenth level of the Central Circle School’s northern tower about twenty-five minutes past noon. At the marble archway, she was greeted by Mr. Nychus, who only shook his head, as he always did, baton slung over his shoulder, and gestured for her to enter. With a nod and a “good day”, she dashed off down the staircase.

The staircase plunged into a vast hallway that echoed her footsteps back to her, and the shadow brought on a chill. She watched the marble pillars flicker by as she ran, the chill deepening.

Ruthenia burst into the classroom as Mrs. Ariera was reaching the climax of another scolding, looking as irate as a raptor ready to rip its prey in two. The blackboard was a mess, and at the centre of the battlefield of white chalk numbers was scrawled a question on lift and drag calculations.

The woman’s hand hung in midair. “Miss Cendina,” she said, dangerously soft.

“Good afternoon,” Ruthenia answered. “May I sit?”

“No,” the Physics teacher said. “Do you have any idea how late you are?”

“Half an hour.”

“And do you know why that is a problem?” she said.

Ruthenia shrugged. “I don’t need to be here.”

A mutter had started up. She caught glares from the right side of the classroom. Ms. Ariera seemed to reel momentarily with rage, struggling to keep it caged inside her. “You think yourself quite capable of managing the Flight Physics syllabus without me, don’t you? You think your intelligence exempts you of having to show me some basic respect?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry for my lateness, then.”

“You’re sixteen, Miss Cendina. How do you expect to survive and flourish in Astran society, the filthy scrap you are? Did your parents never educate you in good conduct?”

Oh, Ihir, now she’d done it. “My—parents?” shouted Ruthenia, a hot lump of anger rising in her throat. “No, they never did!”

Every conversation in the room was simultaneously extinguished.

The two stood, glaring and bristling as if they might pounce any moment.

Then Mrs. Ariera clenched a fist, and let both hands fall. “Alright, I forgot. I’m sorry.” She jabbed the stick of chalk at the board. “You are excused if you can solve the question on the board.” She held the chalk out for her.

Stepping forward to take it, Ruthenia’s eyes leapt to the question at the centre of the swirl of numbers. Consider a glider with trapezoidal wings, of the dimensions shown in the diagram...

Rolling the chalk between her fingers, she bit her lip, memorising and manipulating the numbers in her head. Then she stepped up to the board and wiped a section of the scribbles away with her palm, coughing at the dust.

As she wrote, the stick of chalk clicked and scraped, suddenly the sole noise in the room. Then, with a final flourish, she drew the double-underscore marking the end of her solution, and caught Ms. Ariera’s eye again. “Am I excused?”

Her pause ended with the inevitable. “Well, yes,” she murmured, looking at least somewhat appeased. “Back to your seat, Miss Cendina. Now, do the rest of you understand the solution?”

While the class gave a collective murmur of “no”, Ruthenia sank into her chair and shoved her bag under her table with her foot.

“Great work,” said Alacero from her left, making a fist in encouragement.

On her other side, Calan only groaned. “Talent is wasted on people like you,” he said.

“I’m glad you think I’m talented,” she replied, upending the contents of her bag onto her desk.

---

Chapter 2: The Pride and Folly of Swans

Preface 01: The Story of Lilin, Goddess of the Horizon, author unknown.

Ihir has many sons and daughters. They were born of His love for the land and the sea, but this love is not of the form to which humanity is familiar. They are to Him as subordinates, and love, as in the eyes of all gods, was obligation.

Of all his sons and daughters, Lilin was the first to learn the rules. Whenever the palace was quiet and the sky still, she peered through the gaps of heaven’s floorboards, and saw the humans on their fields below. She watched them race through the stalks and join hands on the barren land, lighting flames and laughing in circles.

Laughing. Lilin wondered at this odd sound. Why did she never laugh? She thought, perhaps, that heaven did not know what laughter was, not Father Ihir and not the gods of old.

So she made a promise to see this world for herself, and when Kala and Hela of the Gates were looking the other way, she slipped down the marble stairway, and soared away upon her wings to the land below.

It didn’t take long for her absence to be discovered. In His horror, Ihir sent His guards out to search for her—and when they reported that they had seen her flying in the world of mortals, He was furious.

After her He flew himself—catching her in midair in His merciless beak. She screamed to be released, but He did not relent.

“I gave you a home, and a world—and yet you would deceive me to flee it!” bellowed He. “Since you love this world so much, you shall never leave it again! Creature of the ocean, I chain you to the sea forever—and may these chains never release you for the rest of eternity!”

He did not consider a more merciful sentence, not even for His daughter, and she did not think of pleading for one.

And so chained she was, to a rock in the sea. And Lilin cried but a single tear, for she did not understand the word “forever”. She only knew the humans, who were temporary, who rose and fell like spring and winter. She believed that there would be an end to it, because there was always an end.

---

The sun rays began to slant, and the clock-tower clanged out everyone’s favourite melody, welcoming the most anticipated period of the day: tea break.

Ruthenia woke from her Literature nap just in time to see the last of Mr. Caldero’s grey coattails vanish through the door. She blinked the haze of sleep from her eyes as a rumble of wooden chairs began on cue, a thunderstorm of voices thickening around her.

It was five minutes before the classroom emptied out. Only then did she sweep her crumpled notes onto Alacero’s desk and unearth Tanio’s sandwich from beneath them, now squashed beyond recognition.

She glanced about the classroom: not much of interest was taking place, particularly in the absence of half the class, except on the right side of the classroom where the Arcanes sat. That side of the room was awash with polite chatter while a single person amid it—a person whom she saw to be the Arcane Prince—shielded himself from the attention with a book.

Ruthenia laughed out loud. “You certainly seek fun in the filthiest of places, Your Highness!” A surge of laughter answered, most from her side of the classroom.

She strolled breezily to the desk by the door as the laughter died down behind her. She could only see the back of Hollia’s head from here, her silken blonde hair draped over one shoulder.

She found the girl poring over a particularly thick stack of notes, so engrossed that she did not clock the newcomer’s presence until Ruthenia smacked the tabletop with her palm, startling her out of her reading.

“Ruth!” she gasped, before her face brightened. “I thought Miss Ariera would write you a slip for sure!”

“You know that won’t happen.” Ruthenia fired her a grin, but lost it when she realised that Hollia was not smiling back. “What, do you think she will?”

“Aren't you scared it'll come back to bite you?” said Hollia, weaving her fingers together with a self-conscious glance to the side.

Ruthenia frowned. “Oh, come on. She's just a teacher. She exists to make our lives hard.” Hollia did not answer. Ruthenia drew back, frowning. “How’s the aviary?”

The girl’s gaze grew distant. “It’s spring migration soon.”

“I...hope this one goes better than last year’s.” Ruthenia attempted an earnest smile. Hollia could only purse her lips and nod mutely. She felt a lump grow in her throat. “Well, um, take care, I'll see you around.”

Before she could make things any worse, Ruthenia exited the classroom, heaving a sigh. As she strolled down the length of the corridor, she wove between other students, staring absently over their heads at the curling relief patterns in the ceiling. The sun glowed through the arching windows, setting flecks in the granite aflame.

“Ruthenia!”

She straightened and blinked the glare of the far window out of her eyes, turning to find four figures behind her. The one at the front of the group, red hair blazing, she instantly recognised.

“Hello, Orrem,” she said.

He beamed as he approached, the way racers did at the stands before the start of the flight. “Good job,” he said, his voice like the sun, and his friends nodded and grinned in assent. “How’d you get so good at math?”

“I traded my flight skills for it,” Ruthenia replied with a small smirk.

A laugh passed among his entourage. “Care to join us for the break, genius?” called the brunet beside Orrem, shooting her a smile she registered as wanting something more.

“Not really, no.”

“Why not?” The brazen boy's grin retreated into a dazed stare.

Just then, the tower swayed. She felt the floor swing beneath her. Around her, classmates stumbled and yelped, grabbing at pillars and window sills for balance; a couple were bowled over and cried out as they fell to their knees. Ruthenia crouched low and watched Orrem do the same, waiting for the tremor to pass.

It did, half a minute later, and as it subsided they began glancing at each other. “Earthquakes don’t do that, do they?” she heard one mutter, hand to his chest.

No, earthquakes didn't shake airborne buildings. Other things did, however.

There were unsettled looks all around, and then the clique lost interest in Ruthenia, resuming conversations about recreational flight and their weekend plans as they departed, disquieted by the interruption. Orrem was last to leave; he took one last look at her, before shrugging and joining the rest of his crew.

---

Soaring through orange sky, Ruthenia swerved clumsily into a landing at the platform before the milkshake stand, skidding a few feet and ramming into the counter. The stand-keeper smiled patiently, sweet as spring, brown curls fluttering in the wind.

“You’re getting better,” she laughed.

Ruthenia made an exaggerated pout. “Don’t tease me,” she said, frown giving way to a grin.

“Honey milkshake?” asked the lady, already arranging the ingredients on her table before she had nodded. “How were your classes?”

“Dull,” she answered, folding her arms on the countertop. “I was half an hour late. Ariera was snarly as a naga about it. Then she asked me about my parents.”

The woman placed a full glass of milkshake on the countertop. “That’s rough.”

While Ruthenia gulped the honey milkshake down, the stand-keeper capped her bottle of syrup and slid it into its compartment in the storage chest. She cast a glance at the setting sun. “Slow day,” she said. “I almost lost this bottle when the tremor hit.”

At this, Ruthenia’s head perked up, the rim of her glass encircling her nose and upper lip. “You felt it too?” she said, voice echoing inside the near-empty glass.

The woman nodded as she tossed the remaining water inside her jug out over the fence behind her, onto the field below. “The whole stand swung,” she replied. “Things rattled. Good thing I’ve made sure to tie it down tight.”

Ruthenia put the empty glass on the counter and approached the island’s edge, opening her umbrella and overturning it for a makeshift boat. The meadows below shimmered with golden sun as she climbed into it.

With a sigh she made off. She sailed across the brilliant sky, which glowed bright as a pool, the bellies of the clouds the bright orange of carps. Her eyelids drooped in the balmy air as she caught the gentle breeze, drifting over an ocean of grass.

She stopped by the news stand for a copy of the Helika Afternoon Herald, paying her three cupres and snatching one off the rack while moor birds squawked behind her. Once she had rejoined the lazy aboveground traffic, she flipped it open. Sure enough, there it was, in a tall, thin article on the front page.

Meteorological Disturbance Detected: an impending catastrophe?

Ruthenia frowned. If the Afternoon Herald already knew about the problem then the scientists must have detected it at least a day ago.

[...] The Central Circle Library was among the worst-affected by the phenomenon. An assistant sustained head injury from a falling encyclopedia. Thousands of books fell from their shelves and several important books were damaged.

Theologists have confirmed that the source of the disturbance is a large gust propagated through ether, affecting only the Threads. Discussions are already being conducted with Bel experts.

This event follows several reports of inexplicable sounds in the Deeps, from which these ethereal gusts originated. The sounds are said to resemble the bowing of a large, untuned chordophone.

Over the past week, at least three ships have been reported to have vanished in the same area.

Such activity has not been charted for thirty years. Authorities warn that a disaster might be forthcoming, and that all should prepare to enter precautionary flight until the situation improves.

Ruthenia could barely ignore the trembling of her hands. Threads weren’t usually affected by natural phenomena. It was what made the country so safe.

She flipped through a few more pages, before flinging the papers into the canopy of her umbrella and steering homewards.

---

“Ruth! You’re late!”

Tanio's greetIng to Ruthenia was to wave a hissing gas lamp at her face. “Stop that!” she yelled, swinging her arms at the blinding light.

“Well, why so late?” her boss repeated, extinguishing the lamp so the only light in the vicinity was the faint glow of the first level windows. “I don’t fancy my only assistant crashing into an unmarked island and losing use of her arms. Especially considering she’s such a terrible flier—”

Leaping out of her umbrella, Ruthenia shoved him aside with a hand. She unlocked her work shed and found the lever switch on the inner wall with her fingers, slamming it down with a fist. A stream of light blazed across her patio planks.

The shed’s red wood walls glowed cosily in the light of the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Her desk stood beneath the right-hand window, and her messenger lay on it, glowing dim blue to indicate an absence of new messages. On the left was a cluttering of storage shelves and stacked boxes, the other window obscured behind them.

She tossed her bag onto the rack and kicked her shoes off, before heading to her wardrobe to excavate a good set of clothes. Unfortunately for her, the only shower on the premises was on the second floor of Tanio’s home.

The inventor’s house was everything one might expect an inventor’s house to be. It was top-heavy, the second floor overhanging the first in a physical feat made possible by Thread. The shingled slopes of the roof culminated in a gigantic turbine that creaked back and forth on the windiest days.

The bathroom was a terrifying place, full of rattling pipes and hissing joints, with a drain that gurgled like a sea monster every time it was fed. The centrepiece was the shower tank: a converted engine boiler fixed to the wall by means of metal strips, beneath it a furnace and a bag of coal behind a pair of hatches. And naturally, temperature calibration was a nightmare.

On occasion, showering became a barbaric torture routine involving nakedness and near-boiling water. Tonight was one of those nights.

After her bath, Ruthenia dressed up in the bathroom and stepped out in a cloud of steam, standing at the top of the stairs with her towel about her neck, hair cooling in the air. The dining room was empty and the lone lightbulb glowed down on a single roll on a plate.

She soon found Tanio out on the porch with a roll in hand, legs dangling over the edge of the platform where it plunged into the darkness, one arm curled around a railing baluster. He sat hunched, face hidden from view. The back of his cotton shirt was lit by the glow from his living room window.

Ruthenia joined him at the porch’s edge, beef-and-lettuce roll in a plate on her lap. They gazed out at the world beyond, lost in the night breeze, inky black save for the thin golden light of Helika City on the horizon. The roar of the river below the house was the only audible sound.

She took a bite out of her roll, staring on at the dim reflection of Tanio’s porch light on the river’s surface. “Get a cookbook,” she muttered, before spitting a chunk of charred tendon out over the rails. “Charcoal isn’t exactly delicious.”

Her boss laughed. “Only idiots need cookbooks,” he replied. “I’ll perfect the recipe soon enough.”

Ruthenia groaned. “Could you perfect it faster? You’re gonna kill me someday.”

“You’re not dead.”

“Give it a month, and we’ll see.”

Tanio’s laugh was claimed by the gales. They resigned themselves to the silence, briefly.

“Heard the news?” he said then.

“About the Deeps? It all sounds mighty strange. What’s happening out there?” Ruthenia glanced towards the east, but the eastern coast was too far to be seen from Beacon Way.

“I feel the cause is something living.”

Ruthenia raised an eyebrow. “There’s not much living out there,” she murmured.

For another fifteen minutes or so, they sat there eating, exchanging casual conversation on the topic of work, then of her poor conduct in school. Tanio left soon after; he claimed to have a design to finish—most certainly the meat grinder he’d been rambling on about at the dinner table all week.

The girl was left watching Helika’s blinking lights alone. She prayed he knew what he was doing. She would be the first to find out.

---

Chapter 3: Astra the Beautiful

When she entered Tanio’s house for breakfast the next morning, Ruthenia found her boss in his favourite armchair, feet up on the coffee table, face buried in the pages of the Helika Morning Herald. She passed him by without so much as a greeting.

The man had left her some eggs on the dining table. It was one of the only dishes he wasn’t utterly inept at preparing, but she seasoned it with copious amounts of pepper and sauce just to be sure.

It seemed Tanio had lit the bath coals a while ago, and with just the dying embers to heat the tank, the bath was only slightly too cold.

Tanio was reading something else by the time she returned: she quickly recognised it as a copy of Internal Systems, authored by the one and only T. Calied. The aforementioned T. Calied happened to have three books out in print, and they were selling better in Sonora.

The aforementioned T. Calied did not offer Ruthenia so much as a glance as she slipped out of the house and across the bridge barefoot in the cool morning air. Frogs croaked by the river, and the wheat rustled.

With a hand on her doorway she reached for her umbrella where it hung from the bars of her all-purpose rack.

A gift and a message, her mother had called it, the day she had given it to  her. What kind of message? That she shouldn’t get caught in the rain?

Unhooking it, Ruthenia stepped back out onto her patio, raising her gaze to the green hills in the distance, and the faraway houses peppering the air above it. Clouds bloomed across the sky like ripples on a pond.

She lifted her umbrella so the Threads could catch hold of it, and it barely took half a minute this time. It was easier when she felt this excited to leave and the destination didn’t matter. She slipped on and adjusted herself—then, swinging forward,  she thrust herself into the air, towards the clouds above.

Sky gave way to emptier sky, cornfields to rivers and scatterings of old ground houses. Astra was half meadows and hills, and for a distance this was all she saw. These grew in frequency and number as Ruthenia passed from the outskirts into the New Town proper, where the houses stood packed together on criss-crossing roads, smoke rising in black columns from their chimneys.

A train whistled far beneath her, the chug of its engine joining the melange of noises that characterised the New Town. Half a mile to her right ran the tracks of the Transnational Railway, which left Astra on bridges to Sonora in the west and Aora in the east. A green train was thundering towards the station, gleaming in the morning sun amid a veil of clouds.

Descending through the soot and smoke, she hurtled down the carriage road with eyes narrowed against the wind. The drivers peered out of their windows as she flew; she dodged between shophouses and swerved around the street corner where the Union Bank stood. The Threads began to snap as she made the turn, and she felt her heart leap into her throat, hands grasping frantically at the wind until they tangled in a bundle of Threads and she could pull herself steady again.

On the other side of the bank lay the alley. It looked so different from above; the crates and piles of scrap wood lost their meaning. It stank of acrid chemical ash and rubbish piles. Her friends, who had set up a makeshift table from planks and scraps for a board game, noticed her before she had landed, abandoning their pieces of stone on the chalk grid to greet her.

Ruthenia tipped and arced downward in an ungraceful landing; Tante was there to greet her with a cigarette-blackened grin, arms behind his back, a telltale trail of smoke wafting from behind him.

“Glad you came!” he said. “You just never know with Ruthenia, these days.”

“Hey, I’ve been terribly busy,” she answered.

“Oh, no, I’m not blaming you,” said the knifeman with a twitch of his eye. “Hyder’s the one who cares, anyhow. He’s got a gift for you.”

Ruthenia’s brow furrowed as she turned to Hyder. His head perked up, and his mouth opened. Then he raced off to his corner of the alley and began rummaging through his crate. When he returned, he was holding something awfully familiar in his outstretched hand.

It was an Ordiva revolver, of the same manufacturer as the one she’d been threatened with just a couple of days ago. The wood was branded, as with that one, and there was a noticeable kink in its barrel.

“Think you could fix this?” said Hyder.

She snatched him by the shoulders and shook him. “Don’t even think about it!” she yelled.

The boy stared with wide grey eyes. “But—it’s a—what’s stopping us from—”

Ruthenia wrenched the revolver out of his hand. “I’m stopping us, that’s who!” she snapped. She stared at the object in her hand. Where were these New Towners getting these accursed things?

“Look who’s been eating up all that Arcane anti-gun nonsense,” drawled Tante, licking his lips. “Two years gone, and—”

“That’s not it!” she shouted. “Do you know what a gun is?”

“It’s power,” answered the knifeman, watching the Ordiva like a snake waiting to strike. “Power that the Arcanes want taken from us.”

“If this had been working, Hyder could’ve killed me if he’d so much as wanted—”

Tante narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you trust us at all?”

“That’s not what I mean—” Ruthenia bristled. “It just never really sat right with me, your obsession with guns—”

“—if you don’t want it, that’s your business. But don’t go telling us what to do!”

“They were designed to kill, Tante, and I don’t want to enable you—”

“—‘Cause that’s what Arcanes do, ya know? They take your things and tell you it’s for your own good—”

“Well, if heeding them will help me not die then maybe I would, maybe I would listen—”

“—You’re not siding with them, now, are you?”

“Of course not!”

“The New Town will bite back. Like a hungry naga it will bite back. And the kings will bleed.”

“They're not the ones who will bleed.”

“Not without guns, they won't.”

They stood glaring at each other for many uncomfortable seconds. Then she sighed. “Fine, Lord Tante. I’ll see what I can do,” she growled. It couldn’t do a thing as long as it wasn’t loaded. “But don’t forget that I warned you.”

Tante sniffed. “I won’t have to remember.” Den shook his head. Hyder stood wide-eyed and mute. Gordo had long retreated to his corner.

Gingerly, she brought the gun’s grip up to eye level. The brand on the wood showed its company and specifics, but not the factory where it had been made. Its barrel had been bent out of shape by either a rather aggressive assailant, or the blunt force of being flung at some hard surface. Not just terrible engineering, but terrible metal as well.

“Well, it looks like something I can hammer back into shape. We’ll see how long it lasts.”

Tante grunted in satisfaction. “Always knew you could be counted on,” said Hyder, with an appeasing grin. But she was long past the age when that smile would’ve assuaged her annoyance. Instead, she yanked at the grip until it popped off, and began shaking  the black powder out onto the stones.

“Ruth, stop that,” Tante growled, reaching out to catch the powder as it fell out. “Do you have any idea how many argents you’re pouring away?”

“Good luck trying to sell this much,” she answered, letting the rest sift into his hands.

The five proceeded to enjoy lunch under a bridge over the River Colura, the very same one that ran under her home. Lying a couple of streets from their usual hideout, the river split the New Town in two and wound across half the island, emptying into the Aora Strait at Baytown.

Sitting in the muddy grit beneath the bridge, they chomped away at their breaded chicken salads, passing stolen packets of herbs between themselves.

Then, with a quiet, rusty creak, the bridge began to sway.

Tante’s head perked up. “Is this what they were talking about?” he said. “Den said there were...Thread-quakes.”

“They were mentioned in the Herald,” answered Den, glancing at Tante. “I felt nothing.”

“You never feel anythin’,” answered Gordo, and Hyder laughed. Tante was too busy staring at the structure overhead, every muscle pulled taut as if he expected it to come alive and pounce.

Ruthenia finally tore her gaze from the railings of the drawbridge. “You’ll be fine as long as it’s just Threads,” she said. “It’s those pompous moneybags who should be worried.” There were nods and self-satisfied grins all around. Then they went back to their salads, considerably less talkative than before.

---

“Have fun today!” Ruthenia almost missed Gordo's shout while she fought to set her umbrella levitating on the Threads.

Rising out of the alley, out of the smoke and noise of the New Town, Ruthenia gulped in a breath of fresh air. The sunlight burned on her face, and she shot off towards the nearest gate, one hand on her umbrella, the other shielding her eyes against the light.

Sailing through the traffic of the West Wind Tunnel, she stared into the stream at the bottom, watching the circles of light ripple in the reflections below. Beneath the glittering surface, one could make out the rusting remains of objects that had fallen from the belts and pockets of commuters. There were shattered watches, cogs and hands spilling across the stone bed, rust-eaten wheels, and chains. Then there were pieces of what could have been jewellery, and cupre coins glinting. Between them swam the Wind Tunnel koi, pushing the bits about, their bodies glittering.

“This is a strange place for you to be, isn’t it?” she whispered. The carp’s eyes darted about as it drifted between the knobs and chains, but never once to her.

She raised her gaze from the water, feeling the wind howling through the tunnel, echoing overhead like the sound of a choir through a cathedral. It brought a pleasant chill.

She rose again and caught the wind, rejoining the rest of the Wind Tunnel traffic. Windows whizzed past her in flashes of light. She gripped her umbrella tighter and shot off into the blue.

Her detour back to her shed on Beacon Way was for one purpose only: she tossed the gun out of her bag and buried it under wrenches in her toolbox, glancing about to check for incoming blond inventors and blowing out a sigh of relief when none came to catch her red-handed.

Now, with all her daily errands run and no other busines to attend to, Ruthenia figured there would be no harm in attending her classes. She returned to the air upon her umbrella, still suspended from before, and because the wind was in the opposite direction from her destination, she took the aboveground route, floating over the fields and then in and out of the shelter of Tunnel gates as soon as she reached it. Out of gate 53 she shot at last, and with the school on the horizon, she ventured to check her watch.

Ruthenia grimaced. It was one of those days. She was almost forty-five minutes early.

With a shrug, she let her flight turn northeast, towards the centre of the Central Circle, where an inverted granite cone levitated, rotating so slowly the motion was almost imperceptible. Leaping off onto the rooftop right by the entrance ladder, she snatched the umbrella out of the air and clambered down the ladder, hooking it on her elbow.

The dim cold enveloped her, and with it the scent of old paper and mildew. Inside the great cone was a smaller one, almost perfectly slotted into it—a stack of balconies that did not move, upon which the browsers stood, reaching for the books on the shelves of the rotating outer structure. 

Or at least, that’s how things typically looked. Today, entire shelves on the uppermost tier were empty. She saw a library assistant scurrying by with a stack of books in her hands, newly-bound. The tremors had certainly done a number on their collection. She strolled on towards the next ladder down.

Being a protected building, the Science and Engineering collection continued to thrive in the third-bottommost tier, despite the religious Ihirin nuts’ most furious lobbying efforts. Ruthenia scoured every shelf of the tier for books on compact engines, and came away with a bounty of just three. Not that that came as much of a surprise: they were a relatively new innovation from Cin, only just touching Astran shores to the protesting voices of the devout.

Never too early to learn how to build them, however. Ruthenia gave each of the stodgy volumes a quick flip before selecting the one with the best diagrams. She clambered back up the steep staircases, to find the librarian-in-residence shelving new books in the Ancient History section on the fifth tier.

“Could you register this?” she asked, lobbing the book at him.

The librarian let out a strangled cry, tripping over his robes as he dove for it. For some seconds he clutched it close like an infant, eyes wide behind his glasses. With a deep sigh, he opened the borrowing registry along the seam of a bookmark, and copied the title of her book into it. “Name?” he said. She furnished it. “Ruthenia Cendina. I know that name.”

She froze and turned to him, but he didn't seem interested enough in this thought to chase it. Snatching the book out of the petite man’s grip, Ruthenia exited the library the way she’d entered, lifting off into the blue noon like a dandelion parachute sailing between chains of Central Circle sky houses.

---

Chapter 4: The Eagle Takes Flight

“Put away your books. I have a treat for you today!"

A quiet conversation bloomed in the corner as Ms. Arina strode into the stifling classroom and set down her books.

Ruthenia knew what those classmates knew: that a treat, in Ms. Arina's parlance, was never a good thing.

“Quiet when I talk!" she snapped. "Now, over the next four weeks, to account for a third of your grade, you will all be completing a practical Weaving assignment." The disappointment was palpable in the silence—the surprise, none. "Mind that this is no ordinary assignment. You will work together, in pairs of your choosing, to craft a performance. That performance will involve the movement of a sheet of paper through the air in precise patterns, by means of Weaving. Through investigation and cross-reference with the appropriate literature, you..."

The class was swept up in a high-strung mutter before Arina had completed her current sentence. “Calan! Psst!” Alacero called sharply across Ruthenia's desk, and her two seatmates were instantly embroiled in a whispered discussion.

Ruthenia already knew who she would be working with. It had never been anyone else. Drumming her fingers, she turned to stare at the back of Hollia’s head, willing her to look this way.

When a few seconds had gone by and the girl hadn't yet noticed, her shoulders grew rigid. She began clawing at the back of her left palm, grinding her teeth. Had Hollia known before the class? Had she already agreed to do the project with someone else? Had she been waiting for this chance to leave Ruthenia? But it couldn't be—what did Hollia stand to gain? She was the best student in this class—

She leapt in her seat when her friend finally turned to wave, obliviously beaming. Ruthenia let her shoulders sag, gesturing at herself and then at Hollia, to which the girl nodded.

"In addition to this performance, you will each return a report," Arina's shrillness cut through their wordless exchange. Hollia perked up, attention usurped by the teacher once more. Bowing her head to make way for Alacero and Calan's conversation, Ruthenia began sketching solutions to their paper problem, Arina's voice a buzz in the back of her thoughts. "This report will describe, in detail, the problems you encountered and how you went about solving them with Weaving. You may only solve your problem with Weaving—"

She rolled her eyes, drawing resolutely. It was always about this, Weaving, Weaving, Weaving with these Flight Physics classes, as if that were all there was to flight.

But she knew what they were dodging around, the buried sin—the sin so great it couldn't even be spoken of.

A twinge pierced her. She swiped her pencil across her sketch, trying to gash the paper. The tip of the lead cracked off. But no one seemed to notice, and they continued to listen and write.

It was hard to keep her eyes on any one spot in this afternoon heat. Ruthenia couldn't be bothered with paying the teachers and the school more thought than they deserved, so she let the broken pencil tip drop to the paper again.

She came here for Tanio's sake. It was Tanio's money that had put her here in this school for snobs, and she would honour his efforts by attending her classes. But every minute here, she came so much closer to cracking, to spilling over.

"You will spend the rest of today's class forming pairs and creating a list of possible solutions to the assignment problem. Please, begin." At long last, the teacher released them from her lecture, though it would be a while yet before they were truly freed from her. Chairs rumbled across the floor even as she spoke, and the classroom was swept up in a furor of discussion and argument.

From her seat, Ruthenia stared at the back of Hollia's head, but Hollia was already talking to Telis. Her stomach clenched. But then Telis stood up and left, and Hollia turned to wave at her. Only then did Ruthenia shuffle out of her seat.

She dropped into the now-deserted chair, slapping her sketched plans onto the desk. “So, how about, you do the Weaving,” she said, “and I do everything else?”

“I'm fine with that, if you are,” Hollia answered with a polite smile. “When will we meet to work on it?”

“How about this Sunday, in my shed?” Ruthenia answered.

“Sunday? I can do it.”

While Hollia bowed her head to scribble the details of the arrangement in her organiser, Ruthenia swung her legs up onto Telis' desk and closed her eyes. The class continued to bustle with chatter around her, lulling her to sleep.

---

For every Astran student, Practical Flight was either one’s favourite subject, or the most painful.

For Ruthenia, it was both. Today they would begin learning the most dangerous beginner's skill—the roll—and as dangerous skills went, those with unstable mounts found them five times as painful to learn; those who could barely Weave, ten times.

This would be a long class.

The only consolation was the evening that set the backdrop for this lesson. Drops of gold and orange had begun to seep into the sky as the class commenced, the garden around them abloom in rainbow shades upon the first swell of spring. Gripping her glinting bicycle by the handles, Ms. Decanda wheeled it out onto the lawn, all smiles.

It wasn't that Ruthenia couldn't demand to sit it out; Decanda had no qualms about students making their own decisions about their ability. It was that she was alright with it, that she didn't care for the pretence of obedience. Her earnestness was like a dare.

“Mister Delor,” Ms. Decanda said, pointing at the student who had long become her honorary demonstration partner.

"Yes, ma'am!" Orrem lifted his head with a grin. His racing eagle, Astero, beat his wings out across the grass.

“I take it you’ve done this before?”

“A number of times, ma’am,” answered Orrem.

"Well, show us!" she declared, waving for him to rise.

Orrem leapt onto his eagle's back and gave him a practised heel-spur, as he had a thousand times. His experience showed as they ascended, amid twenty gazes, a single roaring beat of Astero's expansive wings, sending a breeze blustering in the crowd's direction. Ms. Decanda pedalled with similar ease, gaining momentum till her bicycle lurched into the sky after her student. She shot to the other end of the courtyard, swerving around to face her class.

“Now, as with every other technique!” she shouted down at the rest of the gathering, “everyone will discover their own unique method of rolling on their mount! It is a reflective process, one that will be expedited by sincere attention to your mount’s strengths and weaknesses!”

“My mount has nothing but weaknesses,” Ruthenia muttered.

“Now, you will see the differences between the way I roll, and how your classmate does. Alright, Mister Delor, fly at me, as fast as you can.”

Orrem’s eagle made a final loop around the courtyard, passing each tower in turn. In a clean swerve, it broke from that arc, hurtling straight at the flight instructor in a blur. Around Ruthenia, classmates raised their voices in cries of alarm.

Those shouts turned to cheers as Ms. Decanda’s bicycle lurched into a steep angle and Orrem’s eagle gusted past, feathers brushing the wheels, setting them spinning. Even Ruthenia found herself quietly clapping. She was hard-pressed to hate him. He was, at the very least, very good at what he did, and if he was well-to-do it was because he had earned it.

One of the few who did.

The sun glared through the gap on the clock-tower side and lit the courtyard orange, turning the two fliers into silhouettes. The bicycle swung straight, and before Orrem had turned back, Ms. Decanda was shooting like an arrow in his direction.

He gave a shout, but threw himself bodily to his right, arms looping about Astero's neck as his wings folded and he twisted, going horizontal while the teacher streaked past in a gleam of metal.

The eagle plummeted a foot before his wings unfurled once more, completing his spin and righting himself. The entire class erupted into applause while they made a final lap and swooped back down towards the field.

“Your rolling needs a bit of work,” admitted Ms. Decanda with a slap on the boy’s back, “by professional standards, that is. But a roll like that will earn you top marks from me, if that’s all that matters.” Nodding to send him back, the flight instructor turned to the rest of her class. “The rest of you—practise for ten minutes, and then find yourself a partner to practice with. Sooner if you’re confident.”

Ruthenia felt her stomach twist itself into knots as the class scattered across the field, all grins and whoops. She glanced down at the umbrella curled tightly in her fist. "Stupid umbrella," she growled.

Not ten minutes into the class, Ruthenia was twenty bruises bluer than before. She’d lost count of the number of times Ms. Decanda had had to Weave her to safety, each time with an increasingly furrowed brow.

“I shan’t hold your hand through this, Miss Cendina,” she said. “You must learn to cooperate with your umbrella.”

“But—it’s an umbrella, I can’t roll on this—”

The teacher gave her withering look. “I’ve seen students roll on tree branches,” she said.

“Maybe they weren’t useless Weavers—”

“No excuses now, Miss Cendina. I want to see you work hard.” The woman gave her two ineffectual pats on the shoulder, before steering her back towards the rest of the class.

Sulking as she trudged through the rustling grass, she quickly sought Hollia out from amidst the crowd and snagged her as her practice partner, though she almost relinquished her out of guilt when she noticed Telis right beside her, mouth open mid-invitation.

That guilt only worsened as practice proceeded. Hollia failed half the time to even roll, and not due to a lack of skill on her part: her pigeon Phore seemed to prefer roosting on a tower parapet to throwing itself at Ruthenia, particularly given how she’d crashed right into him on their very first attempt.

They didn’t do much better on switching roles, either. Three crashes meant Hollia ended the day almost as bruised as she.

The shame was thick enough that Ms. Decanda's call for the end of lesson brought no relief, even. She slunk back for the debrief, and sulked up at the vermilion sky as they were dismissed.

Ruthenia began to think, as the umbrella clattered to the ground for the fourth time, that going home would not be possible today. Her arms were too sore to even hold the umbrella up, let alone find some Thread that would take it. It fell for a fifth time, and she gave a yell of frustration, flinging her umbrella at the ground. Stooping to pick it up, she picked it up and began dusting the broken grass blades off its fabric.

“Miss Cendina,” the voice almost did not register at first. “I would like to speak to you.”

“Me?” Ruthenia sprang to her feet and turned, letting her arms drop to her sides when she found the Arcane Prince standing beside her. A chill of dread swept her as their gazes connected.

She had seen this face up close not too long ago, in Hyder's disguise, but the real thing frightened her more. He was like many Arcane nobles, pale face, golden hair tied in a ribbon, eyes glaring at her like week-old dirty laundry.

A bitter taste came to her mouth. “What can sorry little me do for Your Highness?” she spat.

“I would appreciate a more clement tone,” he said. “Could we speak elsewhere?”

By now, the entire meadow was washed vivid orange. “Why can't you tell me here?” she said.

He drew his lips into a line. “Are you defying me?”

“Do you think I care about your authority?” she shot back.

He seemed to toy with the idea of spitting a retort of equal acerbity, before pulling back. “We have a...situation that requires immediate attention of a machinist,” he said. “An acquaintance of ours recommended you to us, and we would hereby like to enlist your help.”

The wind whirled across the field, stirring their hair.

Ruthenia’s brow furrowed. “And? What’s the problem?”

“I cannot disclose its nature until you pledge your service to us.”

She folded her arms. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if Arcanes do it differently, but I don’t agree to do jobs without knowing what they involve.”

“As a matter of security, I cannot disclose such sensitive information until you have made a binding pledge,” he replied curtly.

"Security?" she sputtered.

“You must understand our privacy is of utmost importance. Is the opportunity to furnish your services to the Arcane royal family not enough?”

“That's it, that's enough,” she snarled. “I don’t care what help you need. Maybe you're used to everyone forgetting themselves at the very sight of you, but I'm not just doing whatever you and your pompous lot want of me!”

She busied herself with her umbrella once more. A breeze filled the silence while she scrabbled at the threads with her fingers. She gritted her teeth as the orange umbrella tumbled to the ground at her feet, aware that the Arcane Prince was still watching her fumble with her flight mount.

Stooping to pick it up, she turned to flick an arm at him. “Go away!”

Ruthenia finally succeeded in yanking the Threads from the air as the last word left her mouth. She barely heard the first word of the Arcane Prince’s response before she had shot off into the sky.

---

Chapter 5: The Science of Disobedience

Ruthenia didn't bother picking up her usual fix of honey milkshake on her way home. She was too busy trying to get her thoughts to sit right in her head. From the canopy of her umbrella, she frowned and watched the scenery pass a hundred feet below, listening to the frogs croaking in the River Colura as she followed it.

How had the Arcane royal family found out about her work? Questions buzzed in her mind like hornets as she drifted on homeward. This was too close for comfort. They were one step from uncovering the nest. The unspeakable thing.

Downstream, the banks of the watercourses grew more crowded with marsh birds, squawking into the evening among the bobbing reeds, but even their piercing shrieks could not break through her thoughts. She was almost thankful for the distraction of Tanio, awaiting her on her patio as the last of the light slipping beneath the horizon.

“Sonna needs that engine by Friday!” was his singsong greeting as she landed. Ruthenia was no longer thankful for the distraction. She glared as she went inside her shed, slamming the door shut between him and herself.

Still, she found herself at her workbench after dinner, hammering the last rivets into the engine's chassis plates. By eight o’clock that night, it was ready to be sent back to Mr. Sonna, and she only need shoot a message to his private courier. She flung her plasma welder and wrenches into her toolbox with a loud jangle, pushing it under her shelves with a foot, then stood and stretched, working the knots out of her shoulder muscles.

Ruthenia was launched out of her stretching exercises by a monstrous, watery gurgling. She glanced about for a beast before realising it came from beneath her feet, rattling her floorboards. She flung her doors open and dashed out into the night and to the edge of her patio, leaning over the rails.

Her mouth fell open. Down beneath her shed, the River Colura had been conquered by a never-ending chain of whirlpools—like mouths gaping in the surface, sucking the currents and the plant debris in. Every inch of the river frothed white in the moonlight, and the marsh birds flew in frantic circles over the banks, shrieking.

“What’s going on—” she breathed as she stumbled across the bridge to Tanio’s house, tripping on the gaps between the planks and yelling her boss’ name.

Within a minute, Tanio was out on his front porch with her, notebook and pencil in hand, glasses perched on his nose. 

“What d’you reckon is going on down there?” she asked.

“I don’t know!” the man exclaimed, flipping his notebook open. “But it must have to do with everything else! The swaying buildings. The ships and the sounds in the Deeps. Something beautiful, something amazing!” He stared as if hypnotised, eyes wide as the full moon. 

“There’s nothing beautiful about what I’m seeing here,” she muttered, drawing away from the rails. 

They took in the bizarre moonlit spectacle for a while, but the man continued to stare at the currents long after Ruthenia had lost interest, flipping through his notebook and jotting frantic notes in its pages.

Ruthenia crossed the bridge beneath the heavy grey morning sky, canvas bag full of notebooks, rolled blueprints beneath her arm, her umbrella on her elbow. She stumbled to a stop on Tanio’s porch. The man was already waiting for her, arms crossed on his porch railings.

“Well, that’s an improvement for punctuality,” he said with a smirk, before turning once again to the grey horizon where a speck was soaring towards them—one that slowly grew into the shape of a man atop a large wooden rectangle.

It was the job of Sharmon Aldo, their chemist friend and resident fuel expert, to ferry Titanio and Ruthenia to Eldon’s mansion every Saturday. He had the largest flight mount among them: a priceless Onao table, its ornate legs sawed off.

He waved from the distance as he hurtled towards them. “Hedgehog Head!” Tanio shouted. The chemist was built like a beer barrel, and his rosy face was topped by a crop of brown hair that frequently matted into spikes thanks to his overtures in the laboratory. His brown coat, stained by various chemicals and reagents, fluttered out behind him like a cape.

“No time to waste now, the rain’s about to start!” he shouted, gesturing for them to board.

Once seated comfortably, the two men burst into animated conversation about the great amount of work to come. "How are the purification studies coming along?"

"The last trial with fractionation gave me some potion half clean, but half isn't much good, now!"

Over the farmland they coursed. Fields of wheat, barley and corn passed beneath them, small squares coming together in a huge tapestry. All the colours were muted beneath the blackening blanket of clouds above.

Sharmon and Tanio’s conversation at the front of the table was rapid and brash; they passed jokes about work life and appeasing sponsors and assistants who refused to listen. Ruthenia sighed and curled her arm around one table-leg stump, letting her legs hang over the edge and watching the fields slip by beneath her soles.

Thunder clapped. All three looked up. “Ihir blessing us with haste,” Sharmon said under his breath. He put his hands out on either side and swept them through the air. Their speed doubled.

The first sprinkling of rain began as they came flying past the Royal Palace of Helika. Ruthenia stared at the serene estate’s floating mansions and side houses through the thin misty drizzle. It wasn't a building complex so much as a small airborne town on its own, stretching a mile in the direction they flew. The wings and blocks and side-houses were centred around the main tower, whose gilded doors stood shut, its interior a mystery to all but the Arcane and Ordinary royal families.

She had heard wild stories about their grotesque wealth. Five attendants to a person. An equine for every resident. Breakfast in bed! It wasn’t hard to see how the old Arcane Kings had so quickly lost sight of the country they had meant to serve.

What was the difference, anyway, between the Kings and she? Resolving diplomatic issues couldn’t be any harder than building a train engine from scraps, or fixing a backed-up valve.

She wrinkled her nose at the gleaming walls as they passed, the drizzle beginning to grow a little less friendly.

“You daydreaming about the palace life?” said Sharmon, turning briefly to her.

Ruthenia scrunched up her face. “Why would I?” she growled. “That place rots people’s souls, that’s what it does.”

The palace vanished behind them, and all the mysteries cloistered within it. The drizzle swelled into a downpour.

*

While it wasn't the palace exactly, the Legars Manor would steal a breath or two yet. It was as much as one could expect of the abode of a royal secretary: the houses didn't hire anyone without a respectable estate of their own. One of the remaining ground mansions left in Astra, this fine specimen had been renovated a dozen times over, but never relocated to the air.

By the time they skidded to a stop over the Legars landing balcony, all three were soaked and shivering. Ruthenia grimaced at every squelch of her socks in her shoes, her shirt clinging damply to her back. They tumbled off Sharmon's table, dripping, and scurried down the stairs into the shelter to be halted by Eldon Legars himself in the hallway.

“Good to see you! Your shirts have certainly seen better days.” Eldon, a bespectacled man of forty or so, smiled at the three sodden messes on his front step with both hands tucked behind his back. Brown hair combed over his scalp, he wore a pressed green tweed sweater-vest, not a fold out of place. “You will be pleased to know that the interns have made remarkable progress since last week.”

“Oh, very nice!” answered Sharmon.

Eldon watched them the way a supervisor might watch a team of bumbling workers. He welcomed each of them in turn with a perfunctory handshake, each returning it with a different degree of enthusiasm. Then he waved them along down the corridor, and like a huddle of ducklings they followed.

Rounding the curve of the staircase, they glided into a hall of gilded chandeliers and marble floors. Ruthenia stared at the golden floral designs in the carpet as they passed beneath her feet. Halfway down the hall, where they passed a cosy sitting room populated with ornate chairs, Eldon paused and glanced about for incoming attendants. Then he began towards his study door in a brisk walk, gesturing for them to follow.

As Ruthenia had found out on the day she had first met Eldon, building a secret basement in your own home was not the simple matter of hiding a doorway behind a bookcase. There were all sorts of giveaways one had to account for: friction marks, telltale seams, thin walls.

So instead of resorting to the designs of predecessors, the four of them had designed their own door mechanism together, from wood and carpets and a system of Threaded pulleys.

“You’d better not let anyone discover it, Moneypants,” Tanio had warned as he had signed off on the blueprint, “or it’s straight to the slammer with you.”

Eldon had smiled in response. “If we were discovered, you’d have only yourself to blame.”

The door was still here, and it had proven its usefulness against the countless attendants residing within this house. One by one, they slipped into the carpeted study. Once all four were in, Eldon shut the door quietly behind them. It was ordinary, if opulent: the walls were towering bookcases, and a single ancient desk stood against the far wall, with a drawer locked by a key.

Fishing it from his pants pocket, the man slid the key into the lock, and turned it one full round clockwise.

“Here we go!” Sharmon whooped like a child, grabbing the study chair. Ruthenia simply sat down on the carpet. With a quiet hiss, the floor began to descend, leaving the desk and the shelves behind. The ceiling shifted upward, blank walls streaking upward around them. From below, a doorway slid into view and beyond it, the basement where everything happened.

They stumbled out  of the dimness into the bright hall, two stories tall and almost as sprawling as the mansion above it. Their steps echoed as they entered, Ruthenia's heart swelling at the sight of this great secret of theirs, the thing that had necessitated all this hiding, raised on props in the middle of the room.

Modeled after the bird for which it was named, the Swift was Tanio’s blueprint given life: the slender scaffolding of a steel skeleton, thrice as long as she was tall, the beginnings of canvas wings stretched out on either side of it. They were not the first ones here: two young men worked away beneath the incomplete skeleton of the machine, wrenching and welding atop a pair of stepladders.

Both auburn heads whipped around at the sound of the newcomers, their faces similar enough that Ruthenia was certain they were siblings.

“Excellent work, boys!” announced Tanio, pushing ahead to meet the two interns. “Your names?”

“You must be Mister Calied! I'm Sandro,” said the slightly taller of the two with a grin, reaching a gloved hand out to shake the inventor's.

"The one and only," he answered with a little bow.

“My name is Sef.” The other boy waved cautiously with the hand not holding the welder.

Eldon hastened towards the newly-met boss and intern. “These two have been unusually industrious today,” he said with a chuckle. “Rather nervous about their first inspection, I imagine.”

“We’re no monsters! Nothing to be nervous about,” Ruthenia said, marching up to the gathering.

Seph turned. "Who's that?"

"Just my rather hotheaded assistant," Tanio murmured. "I'm pleased to hear that you've been hard at work!"

While the man and the newfound interns meandered into a conversation about the work they had done this week so far, Ruthenia was startled by a call of her last name. She turned to find that Eldon, the issuer, had already retreated back to the doorway and was waving her towards himself.

"Wait, but, inspections—"

Ruthenia glanced over at Tanio, but the man was busy guffawing at a joke he had just made, while the brothers returned his laughter sheepishly. Sighing, she walked away from the gathering.

Eldon waited till she had come to a stop. “I presume," he said, "that you've been in contact with a member of the Arcane royal family."

Her mouth gaped. “It was you!”

“Why, yes, Miss Cendina,” the royal secretary replied. “It was at a council meeting three nights ago that the Arcane King put forth a most curious request, for help of a mechanical nature. I hope you do not mind that I offered your name, I do think you fit their needs perfectly." He pushed up his glasses. "But I am told you..." he cleared his throat, "rejected their offer of work.”

Ruthenia let out a voiced sighed. "Yeah, why would I want to work for that Arcane Priss?"

"Surely you would!" Eldon's brow furrowed. She drew her lips into a line. Here it came. “Young lady, you're lucky they have decided to persist with their request; I spoke well of you and I insisted upon it. Play along and you’ll be rewarded handsomely."

She shrugged. “Thank you. For thinking that highly of me, I mean.”

“There's no need to thank me,” he replied with an earnest grimace. "The best thanks you could pay me would be to accept their job. I assure you they are in great need of you. And besides..." Here he tipped his glasses and raised an eyebrow. "If you do well, you would improve their opinion of my advice, too."

This, she gave a little thought. “Well, if he wants my service, he’d better be ready to fork out more aurs. And three favours. At the very least.”

“More aurs. And three favours. I'll mention it.”

Engine work concluded three hours later, whereupon Eldon obliged to take them to the dining room for a sumptuous dinner like nothing Tanio could never dream of whipping up. Even then, the inventor managed to slip in some ill warranted allusions to his cookery, which the secretary entertained with polite chuckles. Oh, if you only knew, thought Ruthenia, but she had a feeling that he did, and was merely too genteel to be honest.

*

The next day's tea of unseasoned waterfowl was far cry from lunch the day before. Ruthenia came back to the classroom to a note on her desk, written on a folded piece of white card.

She already knew who its writer must be before she had picked it up, but she flipped it open to be sure. Sure enough, she found the signature of one Aleigh Luzerno, Arcane Prince of Astra.

She contemplated crumpling it up without reading its contents, but even as she held it, she found herself wrestling with, and then succumbing to, curiosity.

So it was that, at the end of the last class, Ruthenia marched along the corridor towards the menagerie, preparing a scowl.

The Arcane Prince awaited her where he said he would, by the gate, the dull light throwing streaks of shadows across everything.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Cendina,” he said, as she burst through the gates into the dim, hay-scented hall. “I would like to entreat again for your help.”

She folded her arms and pretended disinterest. Beyond the gates, a bird squawked. “You don't have anyone else in your list of contacts?”

“Yours is a rare profession,” he said again. “And your skills are the kind we need right now.”

She paused, lowering her umbrella. “I don't buy it,” she said. “There are plenty of skilled machinists.”

“No, it is not just your skills with machines that we would like to enlist, even if they are important.”

“What else? Is it my hatred for your entire family?”

“No, it is your ability to keep a secret.”

Now, she whirled around to face him, gaping. Had Eldon hinted at it? The secret they were all keeping? “Alright, tell me more.”

“Once again, I cannot reveal the nature of the task before you have agreed. But if you do choose to render your services to us, we shall be indebted to you—a hundred aurs indebted. Once agreed to, you shall be bound by your word to complete the task to the letter. You will receive your payment of a hundred aurs after. Do you agree?”

Ruthenia hated binding words, but at the mention of a hundred aurs, she suddenly felt very much less resistant to the thought of helping them. “Put another fifty aurs in and you have my word.”

He nodded. Her eyes widened. “I shall have a hundred and fifty aurs delivered personally to you. What do you have to offer me as security?”

She frowned in puzzlement. “Security?”

“I must have some way of ensuring that you see the task through to the end, and not take the cargo hostage.”

“Take it hostage? No, you're just spewing Arcane nonsense! I'm not giving you one of my belongings!”

He sighed. “Please, Miss Cendina. This is a singularly sensitive project—surely you must understand that by now.” He curled the fingers of his right hand. “If you must know, a person's life—the life of someone important—hangs in the balance here. I cannot reiterate how important it is to us that this transaction be completed without incident and without disclosure, and that we be sure of that.”

Whatever protest had been forthcoming, Ruthenia smothered it out. "Alright. Alright. I get it." She sucked in a breath between her teeth. "How about—" Casting her gaze down, she reached for the only object that would be worth anything to his fancy Arcane eyes: the watch on her neck. She unlooped its chain, frowned, and planted it in his outstretched palm. "Take care of it."

Aleigh seemed briefly surprised, though she could not tell why that might be. His fingers curled around the device. “Thank you, Miss Cendina. I shall have the package delivered to you tomorrow morning. You will know what to do with it then.” He blinked. “That is all; you are dismissed.”

She held up a finger. “I am not dismissed, Arcane Priss! Don't you dismiss me! Who d'you think you are, my mother?”

“I am the—” He broke off as she shoved a hand in his face.

“You’re the one who needs my help,” Ruthenia shouted. “Now act like you actually want it.”

With an obscene gesture, she left him, silent as stone. She sprinted up the staircase into the sunlight, then let out a roar at the sky. Who did these Arcane royals think they were?

---

Chapter 6: A Seed Sown in the Heart

“Ruth.” Ruthenia broke her gaze away from her plate. When her eyes met his, Tanio lowered his sandwich. "Could I ask you something?”

Her eyes darted away again. “What?”

“Are you lonely?” he said.

“Bit rude, don't you think?” Ruthenia muttered, propping her chin up on her elbows. “With you bugging me day and night, I couldn't possibly be.”

“No, in school I mean. You don't seem to have a lot of company there, other than that nice birdkeeper girl.”

It took her a moment to process the question, and another to feel the ache in her throat.  “Doesn’t matter,” she replied, casting her gaze to the side.

"Could I do anything for you?"

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated.

“Sorry, I’m not good at this,” he muttered hastily. “But I just want to know. I know we don't talk about it much, but I would love to help. I’d hate to be a bad guardian.”

Ruthenia rolled her eyes. “You don't have to be my guardian,” she said, staring at her own plate. “I'm here to work for you. You don’t have to do everything the contract says, it’s not as if I'd ever sue you for it.”

“But I want to. As your legal guardian, it would be most morally reprehensible of me not to help solve—”

“Stop trying to replace them!” she burst out, then recoiled, surprised at herself, and even more, that her eyes were wet.

“I'm...I’m not,” Tanio said, trailing off. His face was taut with some emotion she had never seen before, and could not place, through the rippling refractions of her tears.

Ruthenia felt like everything might fall out of her. She curled her hands into fists and drew her limbs closer to hold it in. “You don't have to fix anything! I don’t want you to care so much,” she said, lower lip quivering. “I know you want to do this. I'm trying to be grateful. I'm trying to like this. But it never feels—the same—”

A tide of sadness choked her. Titanio Calied was invisible. She took a huge bite out of her sandwich with numbing determination, drowning her thoughts in the preoccupations of homework and school and the work to come—everything that didn’t, that couldn’t, remind her of the life before.

When she finally left Tanio's house, Ruthenia stood for a while at the front door, face to face with the dark. The cold wind blasted her face, carrying the scent of rain.

She walked slowly across the planks of the swaying bridge as the rain began to fall, a step and then another, each one harder than the last. She stopped in the middle, the wind ruffling her hair and clothes as she swung aimlessly in the rain. It drenched her, from her face down to her toes. If only it could wash her memory clean. But she only reached her door rain-soaked, and feeling no lighter.

---

The next morning came at the end of a series of dreams about the ground shaking and turning into water. Three loud knocks shoved Ruthenia right out of her dreams, and she woke up sliding off her hammock.

She winced as her side rolled on the floorboards, feeling the bruises from the disastrous flight class throb again.

“Who...who’s there,” Ruthenia mumbled, nursing a bruise on her knee as her eyelids unglued themselves from each other. She dragged herself out of her old hammock—another loud knock startled her to her feet.

Pulling the front door open, she found herself staring at the face of Titanio Calied.

“Good morning, Ruth!” he chirped.

“What?” she muttered, rubbing her bleary eyes as the morning breeze gushed into the room. All across the sky behind him, the storm clouds were thickening.

“A package for you. It says 'fragile,'” he said, extending his hands, upon which sat a medium-sized parcel wrapped in dark paper, its wrapping sealed with red stamped wax. “It’s from the house of the Arcane royal family. What exactly have you been up to now?”

At once, every ounce of Ruthenia’s morning grogginess had evaporated.

“Thanks, Tanio,” she said hastily, snatching the package off his palmtop. “I can’t tell you what it is, but thank you.”

Before he got another word in, she dashed back to her desk, heart pounding in her head.

Ruthenia flung her stationery drawer open in a rattling of rulers and pens, rummaging about for her paper knife. Laying the package on the table under the light of her window, she unsheathed the blade, watching her reflection gleam in it. 

She stood the package up, gingerly, so that the blood-red wax seal faced upward. “Alright, then, let's see what all that kerfuffle was about,” she whispered, sliding the tip of her knife under its edge.

The paper wrapping came easily undone. She crumpled the sheet into a ball and flung it into the box of scraps under her desk. From the wrapping she had unearthed a black box, about a foot wide and equally wide. A letter rested atop it, folded thrice. Unfolding it, she found a lengthy message inscribed in a trained cursive that she had seen before:

Ruthenia Cendina,

Thank you, firstly, for rendering your services to the Arcane royal family, and secondly, for bearing the risk in accepting this assignment despite not knowing what it entailed.

Enclosed here is the item of critical importance. I ask that you treat it with impeccable care. If you were to open the box, you would find a clock inside.

You may have heard of the dangerous and somewhat illegal procedure known as intersplicing. It is a delicate process by which the Thread of a human soul is unwound from their heart and woven to power a machine, in order that it may be maintained and repaired as a means of prolonging life.

By a series of events in a decade ago that I shall spare you the details of, my mother bound her soul to with this clock.

"Your what?" Ruthenia let the sheet flutter onto her tabletop. She had only ever heard stories about intersplices, had only ever scoffed at the notion that some people believed they worked.

It has functioned flawlessly for almost a decade, until now. It seems to be malfunctioning, and she has begun to ail. We cannot entrust this task to anyone with even a remote interest in the politics of nobility. Eldon has been emphatic that you are trustworthy like no other, and I have seen from your repeated refusals that you are not a person swayed by the temptation of scandal.

So, I hereby implore you to do whatever you can to save my mother, and that you take the secret of what you have seen and done here to your grave.

This will be in return for the agreed price of a hundred and fifty aurs. But know that a hundred and fifty aurs could only signify a minuscule fraction of my gratitude, should you succeed without incident.

Please write me personally when you are finished, so I may send a courier to fetch it, carrying your reward. Use the messenger signature given below.

Aleigh Luzerno

Arcane Prince of Astra

Ruthenia stared spent a minute staring at the symbol, tracing its loops dumbly with her eyes. She had worked with clockwork frequently enough that she didn't think the task beyond her. But she had not expected this.

This was somehow infinitely more horrifying than anything she had imagined.

Shaking her head, she turned to the box, where the sound of ticking now rose to her attention. With a thumb on its edge, she lifted the lid a crack as if there were an ancient artifact inside. As it came away, her hand froze, and her breath caught in her throat. It was less clock and more trophy, styled like a house, with crystals laid into the windows, and birds carved into the topmost rim. It was so bright with gold leaf that it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine it was worth as much in aurs as the human soul it substituted.

She lowered the lid back into place and leaned away as if the box contained a curse.

Instead she picked up her messenger device and its stylus, and on its glowing blue screen, began writing with a brief, neatly-inscribed:

Hello,

The singular word glowed in the gleaming surface of her messenger, and she sat staring at it for a while.

It wasn't Tanio’s favourite device, the Thread messenger, considering its creator being was Aena Cerr. She gave the business a bad name, that was what Tanio would tell you. Barely months after a popularity explosion had made it a household item, Aena had sold her message-recording technology to the Astran government for hundreds of thousands of aurs, and now there was no way to be sure if your words were being traced.

Immediately, Tanio had set about disassembling and rebuilding his messenger, and hers, so that the signals were propagated by transmitters through the air rather than on the Threads, leaving no traces on the filograms. There was little they could do for the rest of its users that would not land them in a lawsuit.

Hello, this is Ruthenia. Did I draw the code right?

Scribbling the rest of her message on its glass surface, she twisted the right dial one click clockwise to indicate the destination, Helika City, and watched the message melt into the glass. Glancing at the note lying on her lap, she copied the code to the now-empty display, before depressing a spring-loaded switch at the top of its circular brass frame.

She breathed a sigh, turning to stare at the open box and the clock inside, glittering blue with myriad broken images of the sky through her window. What had she gotten herself into?

Turning once again to the black box, Ruthenia slid the lid off again, and regarded the clock that sat ticking in its velvet nest. Leaning over to hold her ear against it, she found that the ticks were slow and juddering, stopping far too long each time, then ticking twice in rapid succession. Gingerly, she lowered the lid back on it.

She puffed up her cheeks and blew out, covering the box again. "Alright, then."

She stood up and reached for her umbrella, marching to the doorway. A machine was a machine: cogs, axles, ratchets, and a power source to drive the whole thing, like a pulse. But she was no watch expert, and she was not about to risk the life of the Arcane King's mother just because he had not . She could do this; she would simply need some help. At the door she picked up her bag and flung it over her shoulder.

Off across the fields and back to the library it was, a twenty-minute flight that passed quietly amidst her furious pondering. She dove into the gullet of the conical structure, and descended back into the company of the country's best engineering collection. There was no shortage of books on clockwork machinery, including of the Thread-powered kind. She quickly found a manual published by the very brand that she had seen on the clock face: Equere. With a breezy goodbye to the librarian, she was off homeward again with barely a second to spare.

*

By the time she returned, Ruthenia's screen was glowing blue with a new message.

Yes, it is the correct one.

read the succinct reply, every letter meticulously formed.

After a minute rummaging through her drawers and the toolboxes on her shelves, Ruthenia prepared on her desk three small screwdrivers. She shut her window and propped the book up on the stand beside her, flipping to its contents page. She snatched a sheet of felt out of her drawer and unrolled it on her desk.

Lifting the device gently out of its box, she turned it over on the felt and began, ever so carefully, to drive out the screws holding the clock face in place.

The clock lay like an animal on the operation table, its every cog clicking and glinting beneath the balance cock, like pulsing organs. They shivered before each tick, then twitched uncannily, teeth clenching against each other.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched the collection of cogs struggle, as if fighting to breathe. “Alright, let's not mess this up,” she muttered. Flicking again through pages of innumerable diagrams, she paused on a series that appeared similar to hers, comparing the details until her finger landed upon the one: a Equere Wall Horologue from the Year of 470.

The balance cock could be removed without compromising operation. Licking her lips, Ruthenia unscrewed and displaced it, flicking it off with her screwdriver. Naked to her gaze, the labyrinth of mechanical architecture scraped back and forth, the ratchet swinging sluggishly.

That was where she saw it. Right beneath the edge of the balance wheel was lodged a little speck of grit.

No—not grit. It had an abraded skin. It was a seed.

"How'd you get in there?" she murmured. All this trouble and strife, for something so tiny.

By now Ruthenia's neck was aching with craning it so much, so she rested it on the table to ease the pain. From here she could see it much better than before, lodged under the metal.

She placed her current screwdriver on the tabletop, and then reached for her smallest one, its head so tiny it might as well have been a meat skewer from afar. Someone with less steady hands might have flubbed this move. She gently slid the tool under the wheel, behind the tiny fleck of grit. Then she flicked it backward.

The seed sprang out onto her lap. She held her breath. The cogs clicked, and resumed their quiet ticking.

Ruthenia did not breathe again until she had screwed the balance cock back into place. By then, the blood was rushing in her ears, and she could barely hear her heartbeat.

For a minute after the job was done, she sat in her stool, catching her breath as if she had been a second from death herself while the buzz of anxiety faded from her limbs. Then she righted the clock once more, and Talia’s heart ticked on,glinting with a thousand reflections of her face. She finally let her shoulders slacken.

Picking up the messenger pen with trembling fingers, she wrote:

It is done. The clock is ready for collection.

Five minutes later, the reply was equally succinct:

Wonderful. I could not possibly thank you enough.

---

Chapter 7: Spring Tide

A downpour began that lasted through the night, the pitter-patter lulling Ruthenia gently to sleep. By the next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving a fresh mist on the fields below. The clouds parted to reveal a clear blue dawn. Out on the patio, shimmering puddles caught the sun. The wind carried the scent of storm’s end, of grass ruffled by the rain, petals and twigs.

On the dining table she found a note from Tanio, in his favourite eye-catching yellow: Pick up fish from Baytown. She scrunched it under her fist. After downing her breakfast of bread and jam, Ruthenia snatched the straw fish basket off the coat rack and looped it around her arm, going back for her umbrella.

On her patio, she shut her squeaky wooden double doors behind her, and pulled her umbrella open over the rail. Today, the Threads took it more easily than usual, and her heart leapt when they caught. She tumbled into the canopy and soared away with a kick at the balustrade, staring upward between the white clouds as the sky turned a deeper shade of blue around her.

Ruthenia flew westward through the airborne suburbs. The River Colura passed beneath her as she followed its glittering current, lowering her course to shout and wave at the children swimming in it. She flew for twenty minutes southwest, till the fields became sand and the river fanned out in a broad estuary flowing into the sea.

The buildings of the Bollard District hung around her like paper ornaments, white and weightless, all poles and canvas. Out in the bay, the bells of trawlers chimed as they raised their nets to the calls of gulls. The steam vessels rode the swells of the tide, billows of condensed steam blooming from their chimneys. The shimmering expanse rippled on to the edge of visibility.

Down to the bay Ruthenia flew. She landed on the grey rock pier in front of a fish stall that overlooked the bay, the stench of fish hitting her before the sight of a dozen full bins, the fishes' silver flanks still writhing inside. She leaned to pick out fish and drop them into the basket inside her overturned umbrella, floating beside her.

Beside her, the shopkeeper was engrossed in a conversation. “Been like this a week or so,” said a scraggly man, beard brushing his tarnished uniform buttons. “Whirlpools and glitter on the waves, all that damned glitter. It clings to our hulls. The Argenta Sea's off limits now, but taking the long way 'round is costing us!”

“Oh, its driving the fish mad, too,” answered the keeper. “Plenty of fish in our nets, plenty of silver scum too.”

“The world's gone mad. I saw a boat get pulled in with my own eyes,” the sailor answered. “Dragged bow-first into the sea, I could hear their screams from a mile out, poor souls.”

“Ihir help them.”

“I say the whirlpools are Ihir's will, it is hebis loricoda anew.”

The captain and the stall owner launched into a debate on theology and scripture, and that was when Ruthenia knew it was time for her to buy and make her departure. “Just the lot,” she said, showing the keeper the basket.

“Twelve argents,” he answered, counting off the fish in a glance. She paid as asked, then pushed her floating umbrella just off the edge of the pier, before leaping in after the fish basket.

*

Ruthenia dropped off the basket on Tanio's porch, then crossed to her patio, whose wooden boards were now dry and warm against her soles. She returned her umbrella to the rack and dropped into her desk chair, where her messenger's glass was glowing.

Thank you most kindly. A courier will arrive at ten o’clock today.

“Er, what was this a reply to again?” she thought aloud.

It occurred to her then that it was Sunday, and Hollia meant to be visiting to complete the Flight Physics task they had been assigned. If she had sent a message about it, it was too bad about the timing, as the Arcane Priss' message would have replaced it.

But either way, Hollia would not be here till the afternoon. Picking up the book on her desk, she found her way to her hammock and, for the next hour or so, absorbed herself in the inner workings of clockwork devices. 

There was a flutter of wings, and at the knock on her door, she leapt from the hammock.

There was a brown-haired woman lurking by her open door. “Come in,” she shouted.

She watched as the stranger pushed the door open and entered haltingly, as if afraid the shed might devour her. She was pale-skinned with her long mouse-brown hair in a braid, hanging to the woven silver chain belt girding her waist. A messenger bag hung upon her shoulder, the edges trimmed in gold.

“Good morning, Miss Cendina,” she said with a practiced smile. “I was sent by His Highness, the Arcane Prince, to—”

“Oh, yes, I know,” answered Ruthenia, racing to pick up the heavy black box. Once it was in her hands, her steps slowed. She handed it to the visitor.

“Thank you,” she replied, gripping the box tightly enough to dent it. Flipping the cover of her woven bag open, she fished out a brown parcel tied up in a red ribbon, and offered it to Ruthenia.

“What’s this?” she said, hands sinking with its unexpected weight. She put it on her tabletop with a telltale clink, and tugged the ribbon loose.

“Payment, and your security,” the courier replied.

Sure enough, as soon as the wrapping came undone, she found herself gaping at a wooden case of stacked aur coins—more than enough to pay off her expenses for the next three months. She spent the next five minutes shuffling the coins around, and then began to unload them from the box into the drawer.

---

It was midway through slurping up her beef noodle lunch that a knock resounded from Tanio's landing platform. The man himself shouted down the stairwell. “Ruthenia, I think you have a visitor.”

Ruthenia abandoned the last dregs of noodles on the table and leapt from her seat, sprinting up the uneven stairs while she straightened her soup-drenched shirt. Skidding to a stop on the narrow sunlit landing, Ruthenia spotted Hollia’s head through the colourful semicircle of glass. She leapt over the squeaky floorboard and called out her name, throwing the door open.

Hollia flew in with the biggest smile. "Ruthenia!" She wore a sleeveless blouse and loose grey dress that billowed in the breeze

"Thanks for coming," Ruthenia answered, dodging a hug. She glimpsed Phore filling half the balcony outside, feathers fluffed up in the sun.

When they returned to the stairs, they found Tanio standing at the landing with a grin. “Good to see you again!” he declared. “I was worried for a bit that Ruth had fallen out with you.”

Ruthenia began steering Hollia towards the stairs. “Mister Calied, thanks for having me over,” answered Hollia nevertheless. “How's work treating you?”

Tanio beamed. “Oh, busy as always, I'm just in such high demand. So many messages and letters, I can barely get through them fast enough.”

“Hollia, we have work to do!” she growled, tugging on her elbow.

They crossed the plank bridge in the beating sun, then were relieved by the shelter of Ruthenia's shed. She kicked the door shut behind them and appraised her room. Something about the sight of Hollia in here was always just a little jarring, the poorly-sawed shelves and homemade desk stool not worthy of her guest. But her friend's eyes in wonder only widened at all the parts on haphazard display across the floor.

Ruthenia leaned over her desk and threw her window open. She pulled a stack of paper, a pair of scissors and some industrial grade liquid adhesives from her drawer, and laid them out on her workbench. Beside them she placed her sketch. “Let’s get this over with.”

Through the long, lazy hours of the afternoon, the air was idle, and the motes of sawdust caught the light from the window. Ruthenia paused to lift her face to the window every time a soft breeze blew through. Ruthenia quickly came to the conclusion, upon a close reading of the assessment details, that there was nothing preventing them from folding the sheet of paper into any structure they pleased, as long as they were able to do it during the performance itself.

On this front, Hollia had the perfect knowledge to contribute—that is, the knowledge of how to fold paper into a glider. While they worked together on the design and calculations, they chattered: about the class, and their classmates. When Hollia began about her social life, there was no end to what she could say. 

“Just last week, I went out with Telis and Lora in Candelabra Town and took tea together in this really cute teashop that Lora likes. I didn't even know it was there!”

“You're getting really close to them.” Ruthenia murmured, then added a laugh as an afterthought. “They seem like be better company than me.”

“Huh? No, Ruth, of course not. They have their heads all in the clouds, and it's nice to be part of their caprices. But you're proper company. I can always trust you to be honest, and that means a lot.”

“That's nice of you to say,” she murmured, heart unclenching. “But how’s work treating you?”

“Just as well as always,” Hollia said. “Every time migration season comes round, I can’t stop wondering if I should just open the doors and set them free.”

“But they’ll die if you do, won't they?”

Hollia nodded, her voice clouded. “Some of them are the last families of their kind. Like the mourning doves. I can’t risk it.” Her brow was furrowed with a frown that looked wrong on her face. “Does it ever bother you? That the work you’re doing might be wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...” She put the glue bottle down. “Believing that your work needs to be done is why you strive to do it the best you can, right? But what if that’s not true? If what you’re doing isn’t...right?”

“I doubt Arcanes indulge in their business-making because they think it’s morally right.”

“But I keep thinking about the birds, wondering if they don’t need to be cared for.”

“You don’t think it’s right?”

“I think—I sometimes feel like I’m just hurting them. Maybe we aren’t meant to keep them caged. Maybe we’ve been wrong...I don’t know. It keeps me awake at night, when I can hear them biting at the wires.” Hollia was gazing past Ruthenia, at the clouds in the window.

“I don’t think what you're doing is wrong. Some humans put them in a cage a hundred years ago. And now they can't live in the wild anymore, so someone has to take care of them.” She sighed. “As for me...I don’t know if any of what you said applies exactly.” She realised then that she was no longer working. “I’m in the trade because it was all I heard about from the moment I was born. I’ve never thought of becoming anything else. And these days it feels like I'm just honouring my parents' memory.”

“That's noble of you.”

“It’s like I never actually got to decide. I don’t know if that counts as being noble.”

Sitting in a corner of her shed, soaking in the afternoon warmth, the paper glider took twice as long to finish as it should have. It was not until the sky turned orange in the windows that Ruthenia picked up pace, apologising for having kept Hollia so long. Hollia tied the Threads quickly and exactly as instructed. Ruthenia gave it a toss across the room. It shot off through the shadows, path undulating as it soared from the desk to the front door, bobbing up and down like a grasshopper across a field. Then it struck the door with a thud, and collapsed to the planks of the floor. Ruthenia punched the air, and Hollia clapped.

“And we’re done,” announced Ruthenia, dusting her hands together. “That’s as much work as I want to do today, anyway. Let’s finish the report some other time.”

“Thank you,” Hollia murmured. The sun glowed hot vermilion, and the fields were stained orange all the way to the horizon, a few lone houses swaying back and forth on invisible tethers. She lifted her head to whistle a three-note tune, and was answered by a flutter of wings from Tanio's rooftop. Ruthenia waved as she clambered onto Phore and lifted into the red.

---

Chapter 8: Arcane/Ordinary

Preface 02: Learning Hate

It was first said by philosopher Elode Iris at the Opening of Gates that flight was the one true expression of Ihir's benevolence. It was from the blood of the Father of Freedom that all birds had taken form; their songs and cries were their exultations.

To the people who had made His nests their home, he gave the Threads, on which His kingdom hung, so that they too may fly as He did. He asked nothing but love in return, though love, in the eyes of all the gods, is synonymous to obligation.

The Threads lifted the people out of drudgery in mud and stone, turning labour and toil into a distant memory. But these Threads shifted in the wind, sturdy on some days and frail on others, and when they snapped, they flung people to their deaths.

The people grew certain the power of the Threads ebbed and flowed with their devotion and servitude, and that death by fall was merely punishment for wavering. So they loved Ihir ever deeper, for He had raised them from the mud, and flight was His to give and take.

They constructed monuments to His name, vast floating chambers where the Threads hummed with power, where one could walk without touching the ground and ornaments could be suspended in the air, gifts to their god. They knelt three hours a day beneath the sky with their eyes cast upward, crying out for His blessing, and they scrubbed grime from the granite once every three days. Those who failed their duties were cast out to walk in the mud, and if ever they were seen flying, they were castigated, or stones were thrown at them.

Years became centuries, and routines became traditions. Traditions were inherited without the knowledge of why they were performed. As the buildings lost their foundations, so did their rituals, and there came doubt. Some lived without prayer. Some sang the praises of other deities instead.

The people remembered that this was sin, though they had begun to forget why, and they cast the doubters out onto the mud, as they always had. The sky continued to be theirs, and they thanked Ihir for it every day.

---

Light glowed through arches of the Central Circle School. The wind could not diffuse the heat, upon which the first scent of plum blossoms floated. The sun set the desks aflame, long shadows falling at their feet.

Today the class sat perfectly still, Ms. Kelde in her shimmering gown squinting as if she might spring like a snake at the slightest provocation. Ruthenia herself was more absorbed in erasing her notebook doodles than in anything she had to say on the subject of Etiquette (or, Pretending To Be An Well-Bred For Your Personal Benefit).

The classroom still stood divided down the middle, the Arcane on the left and the ordinary on the right. She intermittently watched her classmates—Vesta shaking herself awake every few minutes, Dariano struggling to keep his back as straight only to be prodded by Ms. Kelde's cane, and Orrem clenching his fists under his desk, as if he would punch the teacher if that wouldn’t immediately land him an expulsion and ruin his racing career.

The moment the clock-tower began to chime and Ms. Kelde left the room with a clicking of heels, it was as if a cork had been loosened, and everyone spilled over with suppressed conversation. Ruthenia sprawled herself out on her tabletop, yawning as she stretched. She glared down at Tanio’s beef patty before stuffing it all in her mouth.

Mr. Caldero shuffled in as the three-thirty bell chimed to mark the end of the break. He straightened his coat. “Assignments?” he announced, rapping the board with his knuckles. The air grew thick with rustles as everyone else began pulling ruled sheets of finished essays from their bags. Ruthenia found her own, shrugged, and passed it down the row, along with everyone else’s.

“Good essay,” said Alacero as it entered his hands, and she heard many successive bouts of giggling as the piece of paper made its way down. 

Mr. Caldero riffled through his own copy of The Legend of Helika Laceld while the essay pile grew on his table. He gave the class a minute to finish, before finally picking up a stick of chalk and writing three words on the board: “Chapter Seven symbolism”.

That was exactly what he spent the next twenty minutes describing in grotesque detail. Amid his ramble about butterflies and mayflies, Ruthenia laid her head on her arms and closed her eyes, drifts of his monologue skimming her consciousness every now and then.

“Psst, this could be useful,” whispered Calan from her right.

“Literature isn't useful.” She let her head drop back to the table.

“Now,” concluded the man, beginning to scrub text from the blackboard, “I would like each of you to spend the next ten minutes writing a paragraph about the use of symbolism in this chapter.”

The scribbling of pencils swept all conversation away. Ruthenia sighed, then picked up her own pencil and a scrap of paper. She stared at her sheet, shrugged and began writing.

Ten minutes elapsed. Caldero gestured for them to stop, and there was a clatter of numerous pencils meeting desks.

The professor’s eyes crossed the classroom, pausing on each member of the notorious middle row in turn, until they came upon Ruthenia herself.

“Miss Cendina,” he said. “Would you read your answer to the class?”

Ruthenia glanced down at her sheet, then back at the teacher. “Me?” she said, pointing at herself.

“I am sure we can all learn from your answer, whatever it be.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Hmm.” She squinted exaggerated at the page. “‘An analysis of the symbolism of insects. Insects are mentioned in the story.’”

Mr Caldero raised a wrinkled hand. “Do not state the obvious,” he said, and was answered with laughter. “Carry on.”

“That’s all I have.”

“That’s all you have? ‘Insects are mentioned’? That is not an analysis.”

“Well, too bad. I haven't read the book.”

The Literature teacher heaved a sigh. “Sit.” She knew what was coming, when he turned to the other side of the classroom and pointed at his pet student. “Mister Luzerno, could you give us a critique of Miss Cendina’s response?”

“Certainly, but I do not know where to begin,” the aforementioned Arcane Prince replied. A gust of giggling swept across the room. “I'm surprised she got as far as spelling the words right.”

As laughter roared, Ruthenia felt her face blaze. She only barely held herself in her seat, and rather than throw a desk, she fumed silently at her desk.

Mr. Caldero was unmistakeably smirking, too. “Now, could you read us your answer?” he said.

Clearing his throat, Aleigh lifted his sheet. “‘In The Legend of Helika Laceld, entomological symbols are a recurrent motif particularly centring on two: the mayfly and the dragonfly. The two species are plied as morphologically similar species that nevertheless exhibit highly different behaviour. This entomological refrain culminates in Chapter Seven,’” he read. “‘The first of these insects, the mayfly, appears wherever death is foreshadowed; one ‘lands upon Helika's arm’ as she speaks to Candle—’” 

“Excellent, excellent,” Caldero cut in. “Why don’t you write the paragraph on the board so we may study and critique it? You in particular, Miss Cendina. Take your head off your desk.”

“Gladly.” He cast Ruthenia a glare. At the board, he began his paragraph in the same meticulous cursive that she'd come to recognise, the loops of f's drawn the opposite way from what you'd expect. She grimaced and stuck out her tongue at his back.

*

As the class drew to its close, the room was consumed by a melange of chatter and paper-shuffling enveloped by the chime of the clock tower. With the steady trickle of students into the hallway, the classroom grew quieter.

Ruthenia stopped by the door with as foul a grimace as she could manage. She watched, through the bustle of gossip and dinner plans, as Aleigh stacked his books on his desk.

He made no sign of having seen her—but once as he made for the exit, he met her eye in full earnest for the first time since she had accepted his job.

As he passed, she stuck out a hand to halt him.

The Arcane Prince regarded her hand for a while. “Excuse me,” he said, making to circumnavigate it.

“Hey, look here!” she snapped. “What was all that about? Why are you being like this after I helped you?”

He narrowed her eyes at her. “I must be on my way, goodbye.” Without so much as another glance, he strode out the door.

“Hey—come back!” Flying out the doorway, through the golden light, Ruthenia intercepted Aleigh midway down the corridor. “I just saved your bleeding mother! And you repay me by making fun of my spelling skills?”

“Just as you mocked me a week ago. That is only fair, no?” He shifted his briefcase to his other hand.

Ruthenia balled her fists. “Oh, so the Arcane Prince wants to lecture me about who's allowed to mock whom.”

He sighed. “This was a mistake,” he said. “We should never have talked.”

Her lips curled into a grimace. “I can see why you have no friends.”

“I do not seek friends.”

Without another word, Aleigh strode right past her, and Ruthenia turned a little too late, mouth open for a retort that never came. She snarled, took her umbrella in hand, and marched off towards the exit on her own.

---

Chapter 9: Foreshadowing

Ruthenia was given a mixed welcome in the alley the next day.

“Where’ve you been?” said Hyder, face lighting up at the very sight of her descending from the sky.

“I don’t care where you’ve been, where’s the gun?” snarled Tante, shoving the two apart by the shoulders. “You can’t show up five days late and not’ve done the thing we asked!”

“Tante, don’t be mean,” said Hyder, eyes darting to her

“I don’t have the gun, Tante. And I haven’t done anything about it. What are you going to do?”

“You wanna know?” he snarled.

She squared her shoulders. “Try me,” she lashed back. “And see if I want to fix guns for you after that.”

“I won’t need you to fix them soon. We’ll just find some of our own. Reida thinks she’s seen some gun-toters around town. We’ll have some cornered soon enough.”

Ruthenia's eyes widened. “Who—who has she seen? What sort of people?”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” answered Tante, with a smirk that twisted her wrong. “You think I'd tell you, of all people?”

“Oh, did I mention?” Hyder piped up abruptly, clapping a hand on Ruthenia's shoulder. "We’ve got a prank ready for next month!”

Prepared up till then to spit a retort, she turned instead to Hyder and lost her scowl. “What sort?” she said.

“It’ll be huge,” he replied. “We’re targeting the palace next! We have to gather some barrels of cloth dye.”

“The palace?” Ruthenia gasped. “They have guards. And guess what, those guards have guns!”

“We just want to move up in the ranks,” he answered almost hungrily. “Pranks are fun and all, but we must  draw blood someday. We must bite back.”

“Besides, Ruthenia, the risk isn’t nearly as great as you seem to think,” added Tante. “Hyder has discovered a useful new Thread talent.” He turned smartly to the Masker. “Show her.”

“Of course!” With a smile and a flourish of his hands, Hyder began to pull and twist Threads about himself, almost as if Weaving a cocoon. Ruthenia stood transfixed; even with her poor sense for Threads, she could feel the ether rippling.

Then Hyder was no longer there.

Ruthenia stared at the space before her. “That’s...that’s a new one,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve never seen anyone do that. That’s impressive.”

“Aw, thanks,” answered the air before her. The blur of a ghostly hand to her right dispelled the illusion to reveal that the brown-haired Masker had moved some ways to her right, and was beaming brightly at her.

“You know, you could really benefit from lessons,” she mused. “That’s no trivial level of skill you have.”

“Lessons? No thank you,” Hyder answered, though he seemed suddenly very flustered. “Speaking of lessons, don’t you think you should be heading off? Don't be late!” He looked upward, beyond the gutters, and she followed suit, but the sun was not within the bounds of the blue-white rectangle of sky overhead.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, raising her umbrella horizontally. “It’s a pity, though. I’m sure you’d have no trouble learning to fly.”

Hyder shook his head. “Maybe, but Weaving doesn’t work like that,” he replied. “I haven’t a sense for the air. Pictures are what I’m good at.”

Ruthenia’s umbrella dropped from its place in the air. “That’s more than I’ll ever have,” she said, bending to pick it up.

---

Shadows In The Sea: there could be supernatural forces at work, say surveyors

Helika Morning Herald, 22nd July, 491.

More than a hundred abnormal occurrences have been reported in the Deeps in the past two weeks, and experts are only just beginning to comprehend the nature of the situation.

Lying thirty miles east of Astra, the region known as the Deeps has long been a subject of curiosity and fear among Astrans, being its nearest Loricoda relic site and the cause of many supernatural happenings in the past four centuries.

While such events are not unheard of in the region, the frequency of incidents has reached levels the likes of which Astra has never seen in its entire history.

Among the newly-reported events are the appearance of floating silver glitter, the excitement of fish to the surface, and the gathering of seabirds on coasts, damaging property and interfering with the conduction of business.

Experts of various fields are still investigating the issue. Journeys bound eastward have been cancelled temporarily in view of the growing risk, and suspension Threads are being reinforced across the nation. Those living in Threadborne buildings are advised to reinforce suspension as well.

Ruthenia was so busy brooding over the morning news that she did not notice she was on a straight course for Caela until she had almost stepped on the girl’s toes.

“Watch where you're going!” she exclaimed, swinging her palm in front of Ruthenia’s eyes.

She backed away with a jolt, lifting her eyes from the speckled grey floor. “Hey, sorry Caela,” she answered, the words eroding her daze.

“What has you so occupied?”

“The news about the Deeps.”

Caela smiled oddly. “The Deeps? I didn't know that that mattered to the likes of you, I'm impressed.”

Ruthenia’s mouth hung open. “Impressed? Of course I care about something that affects us our entire country!”

“I-I did not mean to offend,” the girl leapt to her own defence, clasping her hands together. “It is troubling news indeed. There are scientists operating on the seas without permit, trying to come to damning conclusions about the whole thing. The government has to take a stand.”

For a moment, Ruthenia began to wonder if they had even read the same news, before realising that they probably hadn't. “That's nonsense,” she burst out. “They should do what’s good for Astra.”

“Ruthenia,” said Caela with the sweetest smile, “It is wonderful that you care, but I don’t think you understand how politics work.”

It was five seconds of clenching her jaw before the words finally came. “I think you're the one who doesn't care!” Ruthenia spat.

Before the girl could reply, she had marched off into the western tower lift, fists balled. She flung herself into a tiny grey corner while the operator cranked the door shut. This was going to have repercussions, and she knew it. But the rage burned too hot for her to ponder them.

---

“And the death of the dragonfly,” said Mr. Caldero, the sunlight in the window warming to the colour of daffodils, “is what we refer to as foreshadowing. As we all know—having read the book in its entirety—Helika Laceld will later choose to die, in order to save the life of the young hero she has come to regard as her successor.”

“Has anyone really read the book in entirety?” Ruthenia repeated idly, drawing a hypothetical steam circuit layout on the ruled lines of her notebook. “Foreshadowing this foreshadowing that.”

“Helika does not know this yet—nor does the first-time reader—but the clues are laid out early, so what might have initially appeared surprising—” he pointed to the words “sacrifice” with a stick of chalk—”is rendered seemingly inevitable, in retrospect. The prescience of the environment is simply one of many tools by which the literary work is made cohesive, the temporally- and spatially-disparate plot elements bound together.”

---

Chapter 10: The Game

Whenever she visited her New Town gang, Ruthenia rarely greeted Tante first. But today, it was his name that she called out as she marched up the street, patting around inside her sling-bag while the knifeman stood from his recline with an arched eyebrow.

Finding her fingers on the cold brass barrel, she slowly slid the entire gun out, barrel-first, and pushed it into the bewildered man’s hand. “Quick, take it so I don't have to look at it any longer,” she snapped. “You’ll have to find the bullets yourself. But don’t say I didn’t help you.”

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, studying the device in his hand as if expecting it to turn into something else. “Not totally untrustworthy after all.” With a nod and a smirk that made his scars furrow, he slid the gun into his belt.

Ruthenia opened her mouth, then shut it and turned away. If he enjoyed the risk of blowing his nether regions off then by Ihir, was he welcome to indulge himself.

“So, the long and short of it,” said Den matter-of-factly, “is that we have finalised our plan for the interception of the dye shipment, and Tante and Gordo are in charge of. Once we have it all, we can begin transporting it to the palace.”

Tante folded his arms with a dark scowl, reclining in the crate-chair Ruthenia had made for him. Idly, she noticed that Den was more dressed up than she had ever seen him. zHis coat was dark as twilight, his boots polished to a shine. For some reason, he had taken the care to comb every strand of his jet-black hair into place.

“This had better not be as stupid as it sounds,” she said, glancing from one face to another.

“Definitely not,” Den replied. “I designed it.” He accompanied this with a cattish smile and a casual brush of his hair. “I recommend you return this Friday, to find out how we fared in this carriage-sabotage quest.”

“Sure. But one more question: why are you dressed up?”

To that, he shrugged. “Well, I pickpocketed a businessman in the area last week,” he said. “He had the heaviest pouch I’d ever held, and I now have the most beautiful coat I’ve ever worn.”

“No, but why are you wearing it today?”

*

Soon they were following Den to the town square, the sun beating down on the bustling cobblestone streets while they wove between parked steam carriages. Tante brushed hands with a girl with bright brown eyes, smiling coyly, and she lifted her lacy skirts, allowing him no more than a sight of their polished black boots. Ruthenia averted his eyes as if from a bad road accident.

They came to a stop where the newsstand was just beginning to close for lunch. The woman who ran the stand was an up-and-coming woman by the name of Reida, who wore her brown hair in a tidy bob. Normally a journalist, her the ever-understaffed Swan's Post often put her on stand duty. Though she was of the New Town streets, she knew how to fly, and there was always a cosmopolitan, businesslike air about her that emanated inbetweenness—between airborne and flightless, between wealthy and the poor.

Reida was a familiar face to the walkers of Union Street, so Ruthenia had seen her on a handful of occasions. But it appeared that her gang had been making efforts to entangle her even deeper into their lives.

When she saw the five approaching, the woman pulled the cap off her head and lowered her bell with a clang. “Oh, you lot again,” she laughed.

“Reida,” Den called. “How are you today, beautiful?”

Reida smiled back, wiping the bell on the pleats of her dark blouse. “About to end work for the morning, thank you!” she replied.

Den swept her a small bow; she folded her arms with a testy smile. “How's work treating you?”

“Oh, exciting news on that front! I won't be on stand duty much in the coming weeks. The boss—I mean, your father—his been hinting I'll see a promotion soon.”

From the corner of her eye, Ruthenia noticed her companions pulling away. Then she felt a hand snatch her wrist and drag her backward into an alcove.

“Leave 'em to it,” whispered Gordo from above them, and the other two laughed.

Ruthenia’s brow furrowed. “Is this why he’s dressed like some faux Central Circle socialite?”

“Reida does have a taste for the learned,” Hyder replied. “Or that’s what he's gleaned.”

“Why do you all get up to so much when I’m gone?”

*

The stand's lunch break coincided with the boys’ departure. They ran off towards the marketplace for lunch ten minutes off one o’clock, leaving Ruthenia—who refused to follow them despite some attempted guilt trips—with Reida in the middle of that sunny street.

“Hey, Reida,” Ruthenia called, waving a hand.

The newsgirl spent a moment smiling down after the departing quartet, before turning to her. “Ruth!” she said, smile widening. “How've you been lately, love?”

“I'm fine. Work's the same as always,” she answered with a sigh. “Do you have a moment?”

“More than that—I'm not taking afternoon shift,” Reida said, lifting the newsstand hatch and sliding the key into the lock. Her tone growing serious to match Ruthenia’s. “What do you need?”

“I have a question about something Tante said the other day.”

“Oh?” She began buckling her pouch about her waist, but her eyes did not leave Ruthenia’s face. “What might that be?”

“He said you've seen people carrying guns about.”

At once Reida’s head perked up. “Oh, yes, I did, indeed,” she said. “They try hiding the them under shirt hems, but it's not hard to tell. It's been frightening me a touch.”

“Let’s walk to the station,” Ruthenia replied.

Ruthenia glanced both ways down the moderately crowded street. Carriages and pedestrians milled about beneath shop house windows. Here and there, Reida caught a stranger's lustful look, upon which Ruthenia would scowl and bare her teeth till they left.

The ferry station was two streets from the town square, a sheltered platform looming over the smoke and houses below that received four ships every hour. Connected to the closest street by a floating flight of stairs, it was busy at all times of the day.

They were greeted by every kind of pedestrian as they traversed the avenues and even, on one occasion, by a carriage driver, who tipped his hat at them while they coughed and choked in the smoke of his steam carriage. A clock tower chimed one across the district.

“So, who were they?” asked Ruthenia as they went. “The people you saw.”

“There were a few groups, never just one person alone,” Reida replied. “All with the same kind of pistol.”

Ruthenia’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“Near the grocery store, where I work.” The wind from a passing carriage blew hair into Reida’s eyes; she brushed it out nonchalantly. “A good place to snatch some argents off some belts, if you know who’s carrying them.” She paused. “I doubt they guns are legal.”

“Of course they’re illegal. How many New Town residents d’you think can afford a licence?”

“Where do you think they're getting them?"

“That's what I'm wondering,"

Reida turned to her. "This smells like a potential news scoop,” she said.

“It isn’t the guns I care about, it’s the suppliers.”

They walked the remaining distance in silence, and stopped at the foot of the long flight of stairs to the station, where Reida turned to Ruthenia with an earnest look.

"Ruth," she said. "Do you reckon Den is interested in me? He is frustratingly hard to read."

“He could well be,” she replied. “I swear the bastard’s being difficult on purpose. It's one of his stupid mind games.” She clapped Reida on the shoulder. “He’s not cruel, though. You'll figure things out soon enough.”

With a short goodbye, Reida left for the station above, and Ruthenia expanded her umbrella, raising it over her head.

---

When Ruthenia arrived home, Tanio was reclining in his deckchair on his porch. As she landed, he waved her over with a huge smile. “Could you do me a favour?” he said, hands clasped together.

She felt her shoulders sag. “What's it this time?” she growled. “Sewing pins? Half-inch cogs? A new toilet flush?”

“No, no, something much simpler,” he replied. “I’m in need of some spooled Thread. You know what that is?”

Ruthenia folded her arms. “No, I don't.”

“That’s fine, you're good at research, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t dally though; every hour we waste is an argent down the drain.”

“Anything else besides?”

About to leave till then, her boss turned around. “Oh, yes, new supplies arrived,” he answered, kicking a crate by her door that had, till then, escaped her notice. “And one more thing. I’ll need you to answer some questions over dinner, so don’t be late.”

*

“So, Ruthenia, mind explaining the sealed package from last week?"

An acrid smell filled the entire first floor, telling of unspeakable disaster, the aftermath of which sat on Ruthenia’s plate.

Tanio’s eyes were so bright with interest, she knew at once that there would be no purpose in feigning ignorance. “Too bad I can’t tell you,” she said, picking at the blackened slab of beef. “I’m under an oath of secrecy.”

“Fair enough, I guessed as much anyway,” he answered, then steepled his fingers, bringing his piercing gaze back to hers. “But pray tell, how did you come by such an assignment?”

Ruthenia shrugged. "Eldon told the royals about me.”

“How lucky!” exclaimed Tanio, beaming all of a sudden. “I hope, in the course of working here, that you learn how to make use of such valuable connections.”

“Make use of them? That’s Arcane talk.”

“You see, that’s the trouble with you. The scope of your ambition is so tiny.”

“Hey—what?”

“You know the gears but you can’t comprehend the machinery,” he went on. The lump of beef charcoal grew cold in her plate. “You want some part of this to change, don’t you? Some part, however small, of the broken machine that is the Astran theocracy? You said as much on your first day of work.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you have the right idea. But all you do is spew hot air. Let me tell you a secret: it's all a game. A game they've trapped us in. And we can only play it in return.”

“Game? What are you talking about?” she replied.

“The game of messages and glamours. The game of knowing when to shut up. It's not just about yelling till you get what you want, you know. Sometimes you keep quiet. Sometimes you do them favours. Then, once they've welcomed you into the inner sanctum, and once you've toasted to each other—only then do you show your fangs.”

“That’s stupid,” Ruthenia muttered. “What makes you think you can change the rules by playing by them?”

“Well, this is my entire life’s work—and you became a part of it as soon as you signed yourself under my roof. Just get me that spooled Thread, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

With a swipe of his finger, Tanio cleaned his plate of the last crumbs, and licked them off. Beyond his wooden walls, a gust howled; she heard the turbine whir, saw the lights momentarily brighten upon the dining room nestled between stairs and doors, before the wind once again subsided.

“So, were you paid you well?” said Tanio simply.

Ruthenia stared at the beef and carrots in her own plate. “Quite,” she replied. She barely knew what to do with so much money.

But the irreplaceable debt, it was dawning on her, might prove more profitable than she’d bothered considering before.

---

Chapter 11: Divine Right of Nobodies

 Ruthenia sat staring at her desk through all of Literature the next day. She'd received a zero on her recent essay, and staring at the donut scribbled in red was bringing to mind a plethora of doubts that she had never nursed before.

In the midst of her vacant staring she felt a tap on her right shoulder. “Why the glum look?” came Calan’s voice, startling her straight.

Ruthenia turned to the brown-haired boy, and showed him the essay score.

“Whoa, that's the first zero I've ever seen. Mr. Caldero must really hate you.”

“Am I an unlikeable person?” she said.

His mouth hung open for a couple of seconds. "Well..."

She groaned. "Just tell me."

“Well—I wouldn’t be so quick to call you unlikeable, but you’re not the darling of the class, either.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are people saying about me?”

Calan heaved a sigh. “You’re only making life difficult for others for no reason. If you don’t want to learn, then why do you attend school at all?”

“Because my boss sent me,” she muttered, propping her head up on her elbows.

“Boss?” Now Calan was blinking at her like part of her face had changed.

“He’s also my legal guardian.”

“You don’t live with your parents?”

“They’re not around anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He gaped like he’d thrust a knife in her gut.

Ruthenia shook her head. She clenched her fists; the pain of her nails digging into her palms made her forget every other ache. “It's no big deal,” she said. “If you were me...what's the first thing you'd change?”

“Uh, well, for starters,” he was busy copying the writing on the board. “Maybe actually buy the book we're reading for Literature? You have a job, right? So have to have some money.”

---

At the first chime of the final bell at the end of the day, Ruthenia slipped out of the classroom on her own, before anyone else had begun to pack. She walked along the corridors with her umbrella on her hand and her bag bumping on her waist.

As Ruthenia climbed through the afternoon air upon her umbrella, the golden light widened to swallow the island. The Central Circle passed behind her as she shot through the sky, farmland beginning where the gold-washed meadows ended.

Helika City passed to her right fifteen minutes later, the highest lights already beginning to glow, like stars, through the ember clouds drowning in the orange. She passed newsstands and police posts with chains of red lights on the edges of the roofs, and Candelabra Town followed, shophouses glittering like lights on a lake.

The town was all dressed in dusky pink. Lights were strung like banners between lampposts across the flight-ways, gleaming in the countless glass facades around her. She saw every manner of souvenir as her umbrella carried her past: crystal sculptures, animal skeletons in jars, masks on stands.

True to the town’s reputation, a cheap bookshop presented itself barely five minutes later. It stood at the top of a stack of three shops, name glowing on a billboard, outlined in gold: Berin’s Books and Curios. She slowed to a stop by its landing platform and slid off the umbrella onto the platform, which creaked with her weight. Shuddering, she pushed the door open in a jangle of bells.

At once, Ruthenia found herself face to face with a towering shelf. Every spine was lit by failing kerosene lamps, the scent of mildewed pages clouding up the air. “Oh, this is so stupid,” she grumbled as she took another wrong turn and came face-to-face with a shelf of birding guides. “As if buying a book is going to change anything. Calan just had his head in his notes. The book doesn't matter. Urgh!” She'd hit another dead end, and there was a taxidermied cockatoo in this one.

A rank of shelves formed the inner wall of a corridor that stretched both ways, barely wide enough for two. The books had been shoved into the bookcases with no attention to author or title, dictionaries slotted in beside children’s novels.

A paper sheet was pinned to the second shelf above, a notice inked upon it:

⇐ Counter This Way

Shrugging, she strolled down the corridor in the direction indicated, growing cautious when the air changed, the noise falling away as if the world outside had vanished from existence.

Many yards along, the book corridor turned right, and, passing the bend, she finally laid eyes upon the glimmering shop counter.

Ruthenia would originally have put the shop down as an heirloom far older than its owner, but now she wasn’t sure. She was beginning question whether the shop was older than he at all. He sat amid a makeshift mobile of levitating watches and feathers. Whatever hair remained on his scalp was snowy white and combed to hide balding. He did not respond when she arrived at the counter, continuing instead to squint at the music box in his hand.

Ruthenia cleared her throat. “Excuse me!” She tapped the counter.

The man finally lowered the box, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “Welcome, Miss,” he murmured. “How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for a book titled The Legend of Helika Laceld?”

“Ah, the supreme work of Astran literature of the decade,” he murmured, stroking his chin. “A charming legend, that.”

“Where can I find a copy?” she said impatiently.

“Upon the shelf of classics, over there.” He pointed her in the direction she had come, so there she trudged, through the scent of mildew.

A tarnished plaque inscribed with “Classics” was nailed to the relevant shelf, which she approached with a sigh. Even so, being deep maroon and much smaller than its reputation, the book took her a good ten minutes to locate.

The faint sound of tinkling music began from around the bend of the corridor as she teased it out with her index finger. She rolled her eyes, walking briskly to the counter while she searched her pocket for the book’s price of five argents.

Her arm knocked one of the shopkeeper’s hanging watches out of place as she was paying; she apologised, but he seemed not to mind as he claimed the money.

The clockwork music continued uninterrupted, carrying a melody almost too grand to fit inside that tiny box. It was the Helika Waltz, whose melody had been hammered into every child’s head from birth.

“Thank you for buying, Miss,” he said, then lost interest in Ruthenia as he began humming along to the tune. With an unheeded gesture of thanks, she picked the book up and left him to sing to his heart’s content.

---

At the start of Literature lesson the very next afternoon, Ruthenia reached into her bag. From within, she pulled the maroon book. Alacero gaped, making a show of rubbing his eyes, while Calan applauded as if she’d performed a magic trick.

Nevertheless, it was barely ten minutes before she began nodding off to the sound of Mr. Caldero’s droning. And so the natural order of things was preserved.

The day was, ultimately, uneventful one. Ruthenia took her notes when she deemed it necessary, and did her best not to fall asleep. At the end of school, she took her sweet time travelling homeward, stopping by at her favourite stand for a glass of milkshake, which she savoured in the breezy quietude. The stand owner was her usual smiley self, although she looked as exhausted as she usually did at five o’clock, even with the wind all about them.

When Ruthenia arrived for dinner later that day, Tanio greeted her with a small, prodding “where’s my spooled Thread?” to which she could only answer, in a drawn-out groan, that he should throw himself into the river.

“What is spooled Thread, anyway?” she asked as she entered the house after him.

“It’s a product that’s never there when you need it,” he replied.

She kicked the door shut behind her. “Well, if it’s never there, then how would I ever find it?”

“I have to keep you busy,” her boss answered with a shrug. He left for the dining table before she could demand an explanation—just your typical Titanio Calied tactic, but one she often found herself unable to counter.

She surrendered herself to eating her raw fish paste sandwich without getting another peep out of him.

---

Thursday’s history lesson began as it always did.

The class received Mr. Caeben with a lukewarm greeting, one that he did not bother returning before resuming his lecture on the Astran bicameral legislature. The man was in the habit of tying students’ minds into knots with infuriating contrivances of terminology, and Ruthenia let her head drop to her desk with a frustrated groan midway, but the incisive rattle of the teacher’s voice in the afternoon air could not lull anyone to sleep, not even she.

At least History was—unlike the meaningless discourse of Literature—grounded in real things and real people. It was even occasionally interesting. Just not today.

The tutor ended the topic in the middle of the hour, which, as always, prompted a swell of hopeful conversation—but then he opened the other textbook on his table, and sent the class into a clamour of groans and mutters as the lecture resumed.

“I take it each one of you has heard at least a thing or two about governmental checks and balances,” said Mr. Caeben, eyes sweeping the class. “Can anyone explain their importance? You, Mister Medale?”

Dariano, even prepared as he always was to be called upon, shot up in his seat with a start and dusted out his notes; in the silence, the rustle of pages was audible. “They—they prevent abuses of power,” he said hastily, “by distributing it among multiple people, Sir.”

Mr. Caeben nodded. “That is a simplification,” he said, “but you have the right idea. Separation of power is, indeed, a mechanism by which governments prevent particular individuals or groups from wielding sole authority over state legislation and its enforcement. In Astra, power is divided between the heads of state, namely the Arcane and Ordinary Kings, the advisory councils, and the Helika Court. Each—”

“How about the clergy?” Ruthenia interjected, just loudly enough for Caeben to hear.

The man paused to look at her. “Excuse me?”

She did not, at that point, realise that this was a decision she would regret. “The clergy?” she repeated. “Are you telling me the clergy isn’t counted? Well, it’s no wonder they keep getting away with it!”

Mr. Caeben was mute for a while. Around them the chatter grew uncomfortable. Some classmates on the left side of the room glared like she’d just called for the Archbishop’s death, but she wasn’t interested in their annoyance. She met the tutor’s eye.

The man cleared his throat, gaze stone-cold. “Conspiracy theories are not welcome in history class,” he said with narrowed eyes, amid a crescendo of voices. “We will discuss the clergy at a later date, but not in the context of separation of powers.” With one last scathing look, he lifted his chalk again. “Let us continue.”

She balled her fists. “Sure, go on and pretend it isn’t true!” she snarled, but the man had returned to the blackboard, leaving behind an unsettled muttering.

“Shut up,” gasped Calan, and for once Alacero seemed to agree. She growled but he pressed on. “He's your teacher!”

Alacero sighed from her left. “You’ve got to cool down and stop taking classes personally.”

At the chime of the clock tower bell, Ruthenia dashed out of the classroom. She thundered onto the elevator before the tea break rush had begun, descending soundlessly inside the granite chamber while the first of the chatter awakened in the levels above. She ate all alone in a corner of the cafeteria, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.

The feeling something was amiss began to creep over her as she passed the doorway to the smoking room on her way back for Geography. A gaggle of classmates hung by the doorway mid-departure. At the centre of the huddle was Iurita, whom they were all humouring with their chatter.

Ruthenia held her gaze away as she passed. But before she could pass, the Arcane lady held up a hand to stop her, and clicked her tongue when she tried to ignore it. “In a foul mood, little rebel?” she cooed, and her entourage snorted and cackled on cue.

Ruthenia stopped. Before she could check herself, she spat, “You have much to say to that, Mayoress in Training?”

Rather than dignify her with a reply, Iurita lifted her nose and strode away. Her clique hissed and sneered, and as they left, cold dread crept up her back.

“Ruth? Careful.” She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. It was Orrem. “Watch what you say in front of them.”

She bristled. “I'm not about to hurt them! Aren't they all about speaking in hypotheticals? It doesn't have to mean anything.”

“It does if they want it to. You know how easily they twist the truth.”

Ruthenia glowered. “I can't believe they’ve suffered so little that this is the only thing they think worth fighting over. Me telling the truth in class. And you know what? I don't care.”

Orrem sighed with a sag of his shoulders. “It must be nice getting to not care about class politics,” he said, staring down the corridor beyond her.

“You don’t have to care, either.”

He shook his head. “Caela's father is on my team's board of sponsors.”

“Oh.” She paused, thinking again of Tanio's cryptic words at dinner. A game, he had said. This game certainly had a lot of rules. “Your sponsor. I guess that would be a spanner in the works.”

Some distance behind, the lift doors hissed open, inviting the shuffle of footsteps into earshot. Orrem turned, waving at Dariano at the other end of the hall. “Hey, take care,” he said over his shoulder. “As much as you might want to ignore the power plays and machinations...you're going to be here for a while.”

Ruthenia was left standing alone in the hall, sighing to herself. Machinations, in a high school class? Was this what Tanio was paying for?

---

That night, there began a howling wind-storm, one that flung the bridge into a wild dance as Ruthenia inched along it, gripping the ropes so tight that her fingers burned.

She found Tanio sprawled out on his smaller couch, face buried in the creased pages of the Helika Afternoon Herald. An electric lamp glowed on the coffee table beside him, as it did every evening he spent reading on the couch after dark.

Today, he was the very image of unruliness, his top button loose and not a strand of hair in the right place. Papers were strewn across the living room floor, gathering around the legs of tables, each sheet covered end to end in his spidery scrawl. A sculpted mass of wire sat on the coffee table, like a bird’s nest, gleaming in the lamplight.

The kitchen windowpanes rattled to welcome her, and between the walls the place seemed to shrink in on itself, cowering from the raging sky. With the muted chatter of rain all about her, Ruthenia picked the lone plate up off the counter, a loaf of bread and three of what might be Tanio’s very first meat patties cradled inside. She snatched a couple of utensils out of the drying basket and a bottle of oyster sauce out of the pantry.

Her first mouthful made her eyes widen. All at once, she found her appetite renewed, and as she ate she calculated on the likelihood that her boss had kidnapped a chef.

Wolfing down the last of her dinner, Ruthenia wiped the crumbs from her mouth with her wrist and dumped the plate into the basin with a splash.

By the time she returned, the boss had abandoned the newspapers to the coffee table and was once again fiddling with the wire mesh with a pair of pliers. The arrival of her footsteps made him look up.

“What did you think?” he said.

“Don’t cook anything else ever again,” she answered, then flung the main door open.

A howl of storm wind exploded into the living room and engulfed her, slamming the door into the wall. She stumbled outside and turned to drag the door shut with both hands while hair pricked at her eyes.

Plank by rocking plank, she crossed the swinging bridge. The wind reared up and crashed down in dark majestic tides around her while the ropes creaked to the rhythm of the frenzied roaring wind.

She faltered to a stop at the very centre, as the sky began to rumble all around her. The bridge swung, and she swung with it, helpless and free, like a child flying for the first time. She laughed.

Out on the northeastern horizon, Helika’s light was marred by rain, millions of falling drops capturing the glow of the houses below. She could smell the downpour approaching, echoed in the clatter of neighbours closing their windows.

She turned briefly to take in the sight of Tanio’s house, which swayed ever so gently, straining at its Threading while the turbine swung with mewling creaks. Tanio probably couldn’t feel a thing. Not now, now that his mind was captive to a grand new undertaking. The light filtered through the first level windows, diluting the dark.

The flash of a white-hot spear of lightning announced the arrival of the curtain of rain at Beacon Way. Only then did Ruthenia begin to scramble up the remaining length of the bridge, but too late, finding herself drenched before she’d made it to the end.

The gush of rain stung her eyes, clouding up her view of the patio ahead. She gasped out as her foot lost purchase on the wood and slid. She choked on the rain as her knees met the bridge and her hands snatched for the ropes.

…let me go! Please!

A torrent of horror and inexplicable sadness startled Ruthenia back upright. Her grip tightened on the handholds. She scurried over to her patio and flung herself back into her shed, slamming the door shut behind her.

There she stood, waiting till the sound of rain had drained from her ears, and all she heard were the rattling of her trapdoor and the drip-drop of water at her feet.

She shivered at the memory of the soundless voice that had rattled her insides, wringing the water out of her hair. A dark puddle was pooling at her feet. With a toss of her soggy pony-tail, she made for her wardrobe, a trail of raindrops following her.

Ruthenia tore off her rain-heavy clothes and flung them at her chair, but they landed with a soggy plop on the ground a few inches away from the target. With a groan, she turned back to her wardrobe and tugged a shirt out through a gap in her clothes drawer. Then she unbuckled her pants and kicked them off, yanking a fresh pair of slacks off a hanger.

The comfort of dry, warm cotton helped to ease the vestiges of terror away. She spent the evening sorting screws and bolts in the corner, wind whistling on the outside of the shed with every swell of the storm. The ceiling lamp did not wink out as it usually did at ten o’clock, and she worked half an hour past her bedtime.

She rose from her hunch with a stretch and a yawn amid the waning pitter-patter of the drizzle. Then she craned her neck to peer out the rain-stained window. Across the gap, Tanio’s windows were still glowing, hazily.

Crossing the shed floor, Ruthenia shut off the light with a resigned click. Then in the darkness she forged her route back, and swung into her hammock, all thought deserting her the moment her eyes had closed.

---

Chapter 12: Declarations

Ruthenia was woken by the glow of the early sun through the eastern window, to the muffled noise of the river through the morning mist.

Crossing for her morning duties, she paused at the centre of the bridge beneath the quiet grey sky to glance over its edge, feet cold on the damp planks. Thin mist sat upon the wheat fields, rifted by the River Colura.

Tanio’s living room was empty. Some papers remained, evidence of its previous occupant. In the silence, the light filtered blue through the windows, and the tiniest sounds sifted into prominence: the rustle of the curtains, the chatter of grassland cicadas in the dew.

Ruthenia found her boss asleep at his study table upstairs, head in a nest of paper scraps, a lamp burning low with a secretive hiss. She passed the door by without uttering a word.

---

When Ruthenia landed in the New Town alley, she was stunned to find it stuffed right to its mouth with crates. “Guys!” she shouted, weaving around them to the alley, only to find a maze of stacks blocking her way. “Do you want the police smoking us out? What’s happening, and what’s with this junk?”

“She’s ‘ere!” Gordo’s head peeked out from behind a stack of crates. “This junk, it’s our fake blood.”

“Fake...what?”

“Yes, Ruthenia,” answered a calmer voice from behind her. She turned. Den had emerged from the street, boots gleaming beneath the hem of a dark longcoat, his gaze pierced hers. “We succeeded in our ambush, and intend to decorate the palace in very befitting style. In commemoration of the lives they have so lovingly dispatched over the years, one could say.”

Ruthenia stared, brow furrowing. “Well, the symbolism won’t go missed,” she replied, then turned to resume her inspection—only to be interrupted again.

“Ruth!” Not five seconds after the exclamation did Hyder leap from hiding, grinning as if he’d found treasure. He slowed to a nimble tip-toe as he approached the village of crates, unlacing the bag in his hand. “Just in time for our breakfast. Care to join us?”

“Yeah, I have the morning to spare.”

They exchanged greetings and jabs as Hyder passed bread and butter around, which did not smell nearly as fresh as the boy was insisting. Tante was nowhere to be seen, which brought a smile mid-conversation.

“How’s everything with you, Ruth?” asked Hyder between indulgent mouthfuls. When she turned, she found him with a hand cupped below his chin to catch the falling crumbs. She smiled.

Glancing at the crates beyond him, Ruthenia shrugged. “Not much is happening,” she said. “Tanio is as infuriating as ever. I helped fix an engine yesterday. But the pay has been good.” She glanced aside. “Maybe too good.”

He grinned. “I'm just glad you aren't starving anymore.” The words twanged her heart. She wished they weren't starving, either.

As they talked about their plans, she stared absently at the crates, wondering how they had transported so many at once. She wished them luck, and when she departed, their faces were glowing with excitement.

Ruthenia took the usual route southward, meeting the River Colura mid-meander and following it home. When she arrived at Tanio’s porch, only his study light glowed through the twilight murk. The creak of the door resounded through the blue shadows. Patting the surface of the dining table, she found no dinner.

She tiptoed into the kitchen, paused at the counter and lowered the electric switch, waiting as the stove light flickered, its blaze twinkling upon the racks of utensils.

She found raw meat in the pantry, a few eggs, well-used butter, and a packet of stale bread. Then she yanked the groaning stove lid open and got her hands sooty searching for the matches.

As it turned out, cooking was not the simple matter of dumping food on the grill and applying heat to it. She could not prevent the melting butter dripping between the bars, sending a huge flare up that threw her sprawling backward on the floor.

Within the minute, her dinner was as burnt as any of Tanio’s daily presentations, and she fished the pieces out with the tongs, sweating and swearing in the heat.

Retreating to her shed with her dinner, all covered in the stench of soot, Ruthenia lit the kerosene lamp and settled herself into her chair with her library book.

The lights blinked out a few minutes after eleven o’clock. She glanced out the window, and saw the faint shimmer of lamplight in Tanio’s study. By then she had passed the two-hundred-page mark of Constructing Compact Engines, and yet another of her dog-eared notebooks was beginning to fall apart at the spine.

---

The Saturday sky fluttered pink overhead, morning cold pierced by the shrieks of river birds on their morning hunts. The river rustled; the reeds were just beginning to sprout out tall, lining the banks with thickening olive-green borders.

The ocean was swinging, the river with it, churning a guttural tune. High in the mauve, Tanio paced stormily across his porch, one hand cupping the top of his head. “I’m so sorry I forgot dinner,” he muttered as he passed his assistant, meeting her eye so she could not ignore the bruise-black rings around them. “I’m sorry, I was occupied, I forgot.”

“It’s fine, I made something for myself,” Ruthenia answered with a shrug. She occupied herself with staring at her umbrella, point pivoting on the porch’s granite floor.

Sharmon emerged after  ten minutes from the grey distance, his messy coat fluttering behind him. He hurtled to a stop beside the porch with a cheerful “hello,” waving them aboard—but his geniality went unappreciated, for Tanio merely nodded dully, retreating to the back-left corner of the table without so much as a greeting.

“Don’t mind him,” murmured Ruthenia as she stepped aboard after him. “He was up all night designing some contraption or other.”

“Oh, no, don’t you worry,” he answered with a grin.

They commenced their flight, although it quickly became obvious that Sharmon wasn’t doing all that well at the head of the table. Ruthenia braced herself against the wind, clinging to its edges as it swerved wildly through the grey. “Sharmon!” she yelled. “What’s happened to your flying?”

The man shouted something about the Threads, but she was far too busy trying not to roll off the side to catch his exact words.

Eldon welcomed them at his balcony door, as was his routine, escorting them to the basement where the clangs of iron against steel alerted them to the mechanic intern brothers’ presence long before they had left the study.

Working amid the gurgle and hiss of steam pipes, Ruthenia quickly grew soaked in sweat, her palms red from yanking and wrenching. Work was dull except on the occasions when one of the brothers used the wrong bolt or wrench and she found herself delivering grumbling reprimand.

She caught snatches of the conversation between Tanio and Sharmon. None of it held her  long, until the chemist chimed in with a revelation most bewildering.

“Ah, did I mention? The Chemistry labs have determined the origin of the ocean glitter,” he said. “Despite the clergy trying to lock down the case.”

Tanio’s answer was the same as Ruthenia’s would have been. “Really?”

Sharmon nodded, voice dropping to a whisper. “Some of them ran tests that we’re better off not discussing in the open. It was the Candelabra biochemistry lab that first confirmed the identity of the glittery silt: they’re fragmented fish scales.”

“Fish scales!” Tanio exclaimed. By then, his gape had transformed into a grin. “Solid, examinable fish scales!”

“They have yet to identify the species,” added Sharmon. “Their chemical composition is novel. Our catalogues yield no answers…” All the same, he folded his arms with a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll see how the clergy likes that.”

---

By the time they returned, a windless, lazy afternoon had settled upon Beacon Way, and with it balmy air and a whole lot of sweating.

Even so, Ruthenia failed to change out of her clothes before falling asleep at her desk. She woke feeling filthy, and with a wide yawn, she shuffled to her wardrobe and took her pick of clothes, watching the sun filter through the dust inside the shed.

It was impossible to miss the smell of blooming spring, thick with nectar and pollen; Ruthenia paused momentarily on the far side of the plank bridge and raised her face to the air above Tanio’s porch, taking a good whiff of the heady scent.

After another dinner that wasn’t as outrageously terrible as usual, she returned to her shed and took another stab at the reading Legend. Her eyes laboured over the text, suddenly so unbearably tiny, and she made it twenty pages before sleep became too heavy on her eyelids.

She turned in at nine-thirty, snuffing out her desk lamp with a snick. The light continued to glow through Tanio’s study window as she drifted into slumber.

---

Chapter 13: Blood Runs Thick

Preface 03: A cage, however large, is still a cage

It was the end of autumn in year 490. Hollia could hear the birds again.

Her heart sank with every chatter and every twang.

Every Sunday morning in autumn, as she crossed from her bedroom to the kitchen, she made every single journey of her lifetime a thousand times over.

Amid the sputter and hiss of the stove, she squatted by the unassuming kitchen cupboard, lacquered beech with rusty handles—one that would typically have held condiments, or utensils.

She pulled it open, and everything within it gleamed. Biting her lip, she picked a glass syringe from the tray. It wobbled in her trembling hands.

She willed herself not to let it slip out, and reached then for the accursed bottle of ghastly white serum beside it.

The aviary of Hollia’s home was divided neatly into two portions. One of the two sections contained the tamer birds—the ones who, over the generations, had lost most of their wild instincts, and spent most of their time roosting and fluttering about for food or new foliage.

The restricted section, scaffolded in thick steel netting, was made for the birds that had not lost the desire to escape. They continued to be ruled by whims of the blood, even though five hundred years of forebears had lived in captivity.

Some birds held clocks and compasses within their minds, natural instruments that called each one to a faraway place, every year at the turn of spring.

Sometimes at night, they threw themselves at the bars of their cages, longing for a land that called from somewhere they couldn’t see but knew existed, burning in their iron blood. Those kept indoors lost hope quickly, but those that had a view of the stars continued relentlessly to pound at the bars and the gates in the direction of south as their parents had—even though the bars did not budge. They knew they had to go somewhere. Their destination, which generations of prisoners had inherited. They would injure themselves against the netting, bleeding as they tore their feathers.

Once upon a time, someone had had an idea, to take birds into captivity and to savour their beauty the way one might a painting or a sculpture. And that idea had created the aviary to which Hollia Canavere owed her livelihood.

The girl slipped through the back door. Brilliant birdsong surrounded her. Feathers fluttered, the tiny bodies of perching birds, like gemstones lining the branches, exploding suddenly into fluttering bursts of red and gold.

She hated the way the new birds screeched, as the needle sank into them for the very first time. But it was only necessary.

She briefly recalled watching their dances deep in the night, from her window—those flitting silhouettes in the indigo, railing against the tight-strung wires of a net that seemed to have trapped the entire sky. The rhythm of twanging, of bodies irrevocably drawn to the magnet-south by a passion without reason.

She injected into each one a moon-clear sickness. It lasted short: the resistance of skin and a smooth jab inwards, the slow pressure of thumb on plunger—the excruciating draw of the needle. Twenty times over.

And as the night fell again, she watched them sink into the silence, forgetting for a week their ties to the sky above, forgetting how to fly.

---

The West Wind Tunnel brought Ruthenia to the New Town on Tuesday morning. She diverged from the early morning flight crowd at gate 85, ascending through the smoggy little tunnel into the midst of pedestrians. Factory steam billowed in towering black bastions over the rooftops, between which she wove, choking on the stench.

“You’re late!” shouted Tante amid a field of gleaming bottles. Ruthenia landed atop a crate and gingerly set her feet down where she couldn’t knock any over. Behind Tante, the other three were hard at work, uncorking the vessels one by one to dump crimson into the empty barrels.

“Mornin’!” called Gordo, and Den offered a casual salute.

Hyder waved her over. “The plan’s been refined,” he explained, waiting for her to arrive at his side before resuming. “We’ll hang the barrels over the drains with Threads. Once we’re far away, the Threads will snap—and splash, we’ve done it!”

Ruthenia squinted at him. “Who’s doing the Weaving?” she said. “You didn’t involve some outsider, did you?”

“No, I will,” he said, grinning and wiggling his fingers. “You’ve inspired me to pick up new tricks! Gordo will be taking them inside, one barrel at a time, and I’ll be hanging them up.”

“Oh—well, I’m...staying out of this,” she muttered.

“Are you?” said Tante, face scars wrinkling. “Long ago, you would have relished such defiance.”

“That was when we didn't come with the real risk of death!” she answered.

“It’s not that big of a risk, Ruth!” Hyder interjected, patting her arm to appease her. “I’ll be safe. I’m good enough, trust me.”

She snatched her arm away. “Just stay alive,” she said.

He grinned, lifting a hand to Weave a veil around it. “Will do, ma’am.” His hand flickered into invisibility, before resolving again from the air.

While they resumed the task at hand, the fear descended upon her, darker than before. When they had poured the last drop of food colouring into the last barrel, and the rest yelled and pumped their fists.

“Skip lessons and come with us, Ruth, yer missin’ out on all the fun,” said Gordo.

“Ruth can do what she wants,” Hyder answered.

---

Two days later, there was an uproar at the Helika Palace.

The city alarms went off all at once, chiming angrily over the hills. The shock of the noise almost sent Ruthenia tumbling off her umbrella and into the corn below.

Squinting at the distance, she felt her stomach clench at the thought of Hyder getting chained up and carted off. “You’d better have run off by now, you idiot,” she growled, then screwed her eyes shut, and diverted her flight around the perimeter of the urban area.

---

“Late,” was Tanio's verdict as Ruthenia entered his house that evening. He sat reading cross-legged on his couch, face deep in the Afternoon Herald. She turned to retort, but he did not let her. “Did you hear about the attack on the palace today?”

Ruthenia set her umbrella down on the dining table with a thud. “What happened?”

“Someone poured blood in the palace drains,” he said. “I wager it wasn’t real blood, but it was a ridiculous feat nonetheless.” He clicked his tongue, before lowering his head to resume his read. “Some strange troublemakers.”
She glanced at the red dye trapped under her nails, and hid her hands behind her back. “Do they know who did it?”
“A worryingly skilled rogue weaver, apparently. But they can't find their signature in the registry. See, Ruthenia? You can get good even without classes.”
She frowned. “I'm sure it takes more than just a strong will,” she replied.

Ruthenia crept away, exiting the house quietly through a door almost too narrow. Facing the scintillating night sky, she breathed in and felt the world spiral around her.

All at once she could feel the Threads fluttering angrily, vibrating to the tones of an ethereal scream. It was for brief seconds, and then other thoughts overwhelmed her, but she knew what she had heard.

---

Instead of returning with Tanio on Saturday, Ruthenia took a detour through the New Town in the honey afternoon sun. The factory smokestacks were hunkering down for the day and the worn roads that criss-crossed the town were bare. As she landed, feet skidding over the street, the whoosh of wind was replaced by the grumbling of steam engines in the lazy afternoon still.

Tante, relatively uninterested as usual, sat cleaning a knife on his blackened shirt with a dump of grey banknotes scattered before him. Den and Gordo were having a small chat in a corner beneath a towering, splintering crate. Hyder, who had a half-finished chicken drumstick stuffed up his mouth, was the only one who waved.

Tante kicked a rock over his money to weigh it down. “Oh, hello,” said the knifeman, lowering his knife.

She planted the umbrella ferrule firmly on the ground. “You’re in a good mood.”

He grinned back. “You heard about how we did?”

“I heard you didn't get caught.”

Tante raised his eyebrows, glancing meaningfully at Hyder, who turned away. The knifeman bent for something beside his money—a copy of today’s news. Leaping off the crate, he began to read it aloud.

Blood Runs In Palace Drains: Scare sparks fears of a rogue Weaver on the loose

The ancient Helika Palace Complex has always been a place of intrigue. Centuries of diarchs have lived within its walls, and with them centuries of scandal. Needless to say, there is bad blood between the families housed there, but no one ever expected this expression to manifest in a literal sense.

Ten minutes after noon yesterday, canals all across the palace grounds were flooded with a thick red liquid resembling blood. Her Majesty, Ordinary Queen Althea, was one of many royals who discovered it on leaving her abode.

Fearing murder, she raised the security alarm of the palace, and guards were immediately deployed to seek out the cause.

“I was horrified,” says the Ordinary Queen. “Which sick-minded fool thought such a trick amusing? Where were our guards?”

At least six fainting cases were attended by the palace doctor in the next three hours as the spill was cleaned up. Many nobles and administrators suffer from haemophobia, the acute fear of blood.

The source of the “blood” was discovered half an hour after the attack: barrels, numbering twelve in total, had been launched from bridges around and beneath the palace complex, each containing traces of the same red liquid. The liquid has since been confirmed not to be blood, though its actual identity is as of yet unknown.

No clues have been found as to the perpetrator’s identity. Experts have concluded through filography that a single attacker was involved. Some barrels were found half-Masked, pointing to a high likelihood that the culprit possesses advanced skills in Weaving. However, their Weaving signature could not be located in the Ministry of Flight’s records, which has sparked fears among experts that a powerful rogue Weaver bearing ill intent towards the government may be on the loose.

Authorities caution against reckless exploration and have issued a statement requiring all advanced Weavers across the nation to update their signatures with the Ihira clergy within the next week.

Lifting her eyes from the papers, Ruthenia proceeded to fix Hyder with the same odd stare as Tante had.

He pulled the bone out of his mouth and flung it aside. “What?”

“You really should be in a Weaving school,” she said.

“I would be, if things were any different,” he answered with a twinge to his voice. He glanced from one to another. Not one gaze left him for the next ten seconds. “Stop staring, I didn’t do anything special!”

“D’you realise what this means?” answered Tante. “You’re officially an advanced Weaver!”

“What happens if they find me?” answered Hyder, folding his arms.

“They don’t know the last thing about you!” Tante laughed and clapped him on the back.

He cast a pleading glance at Ruthenia. “Will they find me?”

“Just don't register your signature,” she said. “And avoid people with brass forks in their hands.”

---

Come the next day's tea break, Ruthenia finally sucked up her pride, and made for the cafeteria lift. She didn't usually go the whole way down; Tanio's offerings didn't warrant the full trip. But it was the only time and place where she was sure to find a certain someone when he wasn't otherwise occupied.
The cafeteria was as crowded as it typically was, every table in every quarter seated to its full capacity. It was five minutes of jostling through the crowd before she finally reached the stairs to the mezzanine.

As she climbed, she found herself watching the comings and goings of the crowd. As she went, she unfolded the paper bag and pulled today's tea—a minced beef pie—from inside. Pausing at the top, her eyes swept the tables, and she frowned when she noticed, among them, her second least favourite classmate at a table by himself, with nothing but a book for company.

She munched on Tanio's lunch, and blinked when she found it unexpectedly bearable. Aleigh did not move, except to turn the page, or to take another forkful of whatever he was dining upon. She would have supposed that the Arcane Prince of Astra would see no end to the number of schoolmates wanting his attention, and yet, somehow, he was completely alone.

“Hey,” she said, dropping into the seat opposite him.

Aleigh lowered his book and peered up. “Ah. You,” he sighed. “How may I help you?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your Royal Highness, but I seem to recall that you felt you hadn't repaid my favour. Well, good news—I have a perfect opportunity for you to do just that.” He did not respond. She puffed up and put on a mockery of his accent. “I would like to request your kind assistance.”

His frown deepened. “What sort of help?”

Ruthenia shrugged. “D’you know what spooled Thread is?”

“Curious, why should you need something of that sort?”

“It’s not for me! My boss has been nagging me about it all week. He says it’s something expensive, so I assume it’s something you’d know about. Well, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, assuming a businesslike tone. “It is a raw material, often used in building suspension, and other configurations that must retain function without frequent reinforcement. And, I happen to know at least one wholesaler personally.”

Ruthenia straightened. “Could you introduce me?” she said, reserving her musing.

Aleigh drew his lips into a line, brow furrowed in consideration. “Only this once, and only because my mother is so pleased with your work. I'll have to take a look at my schedule, but you may expect a response within the week.”

---

Chapter 14: The Plea

July finally ended, ushering in the First of August in a swell of spring that no one could ignore. All over Astra, the buds were answering to the warmth, turning public parks everywhere into festival grounds. The cherry blossoms were almost done with their season; they made their statements at crossroads near river bridges, flowering a last time before they lost their petals forever.

The First of August being widely regarded as the pinnacle of Spring, everyone was busying themselves with welcoming it. All about the Central Circle, the windows glowed in the evening, cooks whipping up dinners from the largest stock they'd had in months.

Every gaze out on the field seemed aglow as they flew between the towers practising the new technique of the day—the drop—although gazes were restless, darting every so often to the horizon. When at last the clanging of chimes announced the close of lessons, a murmur broke out and rippled across the field.

"Back, class!" Ms. Decanda's shout brought students soaring back across the field in droves. Bruises were nursed, stray petals brushed off clothes. “Good work! I saw some excellent dropping today. It’s a useful technique to know, especially if being knocked off your mount poses a serious threat to your safety.”

Ruthenia pouted. “You’ll get better,” said Hollia, patting her back.

“Flying just doesn't come naturally to me.”

Hollia smiled and shook her head. “You’ve made wonderful progress, for two years.”

The class began to dissipate in a clamour of conversation. “Flight classes are so unfair,” Ruthenia muttered. “They're rigged against me. I didn't grow up watching others do it.”

Her friend blinked back. “Your parents didn't...?” Then she halted, as if realising she might be treading fragile ground.

But Ruthenia only shook her head. “Why else do you think they were so enthused about their work?” Casting her gaze across the field, she groaned. “Do these people even understand how much easier they have it?”

But no one answered, and Hollia only sighed wordlessly.

Ruthenia sucked in a deep breath and turned to her friend. “Anyway...I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Take care, Ruth. You're doing amazing, and I mean it.”

*

The first thing Ruthenia did on entering Tanio’s house was to freeze in place. She sniffed the air.

"Seen the news?" Tanio's greeting was muffled by a mouthful of meat.

"The only news I care about is, what's for dinner?" She broke off into a dash, bounding into the kitchen, surveying the spread atop the stove. Tanio had arranged quite a feast (on Calied household standards): a dish of salad with white dressing and a pair of mugs filled with pulpy juice—but the highlight was the centrepiece: a black pan with three chicken patties on fried bread, all steaming hot.

"In memory of the First Coming, of course," said Tanio, following her to the kitchen. We can't eat something that belongs in the scrap pile, now, can we?"

"How did you do this?" she exclaimed, jabbing one patty with a fork. Before he answered, she was already chomping away at it.

"Well, you see, I bought the finest cookbook."

"So you admitted defeat!" she shouted, brandishing a fork at him.

"I suppose I did,” answered the boss with a shrug and a smile. While he opened the pantry, Ruthenia began to scarf the sandwich down, carrying her fruit juice to the living room. There, upon Tanio's coffee table, she glimpsed the headline he had left it open on.

Biochemistry laboratory faces lawsuit over illegal experiments

The Candelabra Biochemistry Laboratory has been prosecuted by the government, and its team are awaiting trial, following reports that they had undertaken field research within the disaster exclusion zone.

The government has made clear that these actions are against the law, and that no individual or organisation should be travelling through the exclusion zone until the crisis has passed. It assures the public that a task force is being assembled to deal with the matter.

“Make no mistake, it's all clergy-led,” declared Tanio, between crinkles of baking paper. “I have it on good word that they didn't just go out there: they actually solved it. They ascertained, with ninety-nine percent certainty, what the sea glitter is. It's Lilin. So of course, the government is sparing no expense in suppressing it.”

Ruthenia's brow furrowed. “Lilin? From the legend? I thought the Ihirin hated her.”

“No. They don't want her involvement known to the public,” Tanio answered. “They don't like what she signifies. Nor the fact she's becoming restless.”

“And they’d rather the disaster just went on?”

“Well, you heard them—they're putting together some sort of ‘task force,’” he replied.

“Hm. What I don't understand is, why now? She’s been there for three hundred years. Why should that be changing now?” Ruthenia frowned. The scales had not come off by themselves. But since Lilin was a deity, she could not possibly be dying, or in a state of infirmity.

It was only when Tanio began waving his hands at her that Ruthenia realised he had sat down in the armchair opposite her, dinner on his lap. “Wakey wakey,” he sang. “School getting to you? Or are you fantasising about some classmate or other?”

“What? Why's that your first thought?” she gasped, trying, and failing, to recall the contents of her prior thought.

“So, out with it. Who do you fancy, huh?”

Ruthenia groaned. “You’re the worst conversationalist, you know.”

“I’m trying, I'm trying,” answered Tanio appeasingly. “After all this time, I still haven't figured out how to be your guardian.”

“Well, then, don't try,” she snapped.

Then they made an unspoken agreement to leave that subject behind. She finished up her dinner quietly but with relish, and this time remembered to thank Tanio for it. Despite all else, he had earned the gratitude.

---

Ruthenia lay awake in the humid night air, staring up at her inky black ceiling.

As she closed her eyes, her mind swam with warping visions. She barely wanted to know where dreaming would take her. But the images grew more viscous, more distinct, each time she closed her eyes, and she finally began to fall asleep.

Silver wings unfurled, splashed through the illusion so it turned into a thrashing sea. From them erupted the crackling roar of a storm.

She opened her eyes again, breathing deeply, skin cold as if she’d been running all the way from the coast.

A chill pierced her. She closed her eyes again, and at once began to drift in a haze of images. There was a gush of water in her ears, and the blackness cracked into pieces in her eyes, in a spine-tearing burst of lightning.

She could hardly think. A black chain burst through the sky, hurtling towards her, like the tip of an arrow.

It dove straight into her abdomen. She felt a great splitting in her core—and screamed, and gasped. Her throat was clawed by saltwater; only then was she aware that an ocean was all about her, tugging her feet downward.

She screamed again; it was an unfamiliar sound, almost as if she had forgotten it. Her throat hurt. In a blur of whites and blues, she was dragged, down, down, through a flurry of silver bubbles. Lightning netted across the waves again.

She thrashed, limbs breaking into a thousand pieces when they struck the sea—and her heart was seized, suddenly, by a sadness beyond her explaining.

How long is “forever”?

Forever ends, doesn’t it?

The silver wings were there, again—all about her, glinting through the storm—bloodied, featherless wings, beating uselessly against the currents.

She’d seen those wings before. Searching for a light somewhere. A path through the storm.

*

Ruthenia awakened to the sound of rain muttering gently outside. She glanced at the window, but all was a grey blur beyond the rectangle.

She stumbled across the bridge through the drizzle, and its swaying brought on such a wave of vertigo she almost slipped off. She found herself in a seat soon enough, dampening the cushion as she listened to the sloshing of Tanio in the bathing room. It made her think of the tides, and again she felt the world give an enormous lurch.

It was fifteen minutes before she regained enough steadiness to find her breakfast.

“Bad night?” Tanio asked as he reappeared at the foot of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.

Ruthenia paused mid-breakfast, and felt her vision swim again. “Nightmares,” she answered.

“I had those myself. Oceans and storms.” His gaze grew cold. “Well, definitely deity business, then.” Her palms grew clammy. Tanio drew his lips into a thin line. “I know I was being vague before, but I would like you to hurry with that spooled Thread. I need it as soon as ever.”

She raised an eyebrow. Whatever this had to do with the nightmares, she wasn't liking it. “Whatever you say,” she replied.

With the end of the drizzle, the morning birds began to call out at each other across the river. Ruthenia returned to the shed, the last of her dizziness slowly deserting her. Ripples swept the wheat stalks thrusting up from the earth. The colours of the wild grass had changed too—the strips between agricultural fields had turned into mottled patchworks of flowers.

Without closing the door, Ruthenia noticed the glow of a new message on her messenger. Plucking it from the tabletop, she saw a cursive hand that was starting to grow familiar.

“I hereby request your audience at teatime tomorrow, at the corner of the mezzanine.”

“I hereby request your audience,” she muttered in a mocking grumble. Nevertheless, the timing was impeccable, so she replied:

Sure, I’ll see you there.

---

Come the Thursday tea break, Ruthenia was at the cafeteria as promised. She was well-practised with the route by now, to the staircase to the mezzanine, then up the steps two at a time. Levitating beside a window nearly two stories tall, the mezzanine enjoyed a panoramic view of the meadows and hillocks beneath the granite bridges of the Central Circle School.

Ruthenia paused at the top of the staircase, taking a deep breath of the sweet spring air as the wind whipped through her hair. The gentle rustle of grass in the distance accompanied chatter over clinking spoons. Although the crowd was thinner here, every table was full, except for the one at the far corner, where a lone figure sat reading as usual. Shaking her head, she wove between the tables.

Only several seconds after she slapped the tabletop did Aleigh finally lift his gaze from the pages of his novel.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing at the seat opposite him.

While he shut his novel and laid it on the tabletop, Ruthenia dropped onto the bench and began unwrapping Tanio’s pie. The smell of burnt fish hit her, and she frowned. One step forward, two steps back. She glanced across the table at Aleigh’s own blueberry cake (surely known by a fancier name) and shook her head.

“Now, regarding the procurement of spooled Thread,” he said, “I will be able to meet you on Thursday morning if that suits you as well.”

“Thursday morning is good to me, I have nothing else going on,” she said through the chewed remains of an overcooked fish pie. She held her breath and swallowed.

“Perfect. Please meet me at the old palace gates at nine o’clock with at least thirty argents on your person.”

At the mention of the palace, Ruthenia frowned. “No thank you. I don’t want to meet the guards.”

He blinked at her. “I will ask them not to bar your entry.”

Her voice grew insistent. “Let’s meet outside the palace. Please.”

Aleigh must have understood something in her plea that even she did not. He sighed. “We shall meet at Helika Plaza, then. But with haste. I don't like crowds.”

Ruthenia let out the breath she’d been holding. “Nine o’clock on Thursday at Helika Plaza. Got it.”

“You aren't…going to write that down?”

“No, I just remember my appointments. Don't other people do that?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You have either either very few obligations or an excellent memory.”

“Both,” she answered, smirking.

He nodded. “Fair enough, you are dismissed,” he said.

She gritted her teeth. “I was going to leave, but now I'm not.”

But Aleigh did not reply. He had picked up his novel—titled The Temper of Darkness, with a suitably dark cover trimmed in gold—and opened it to the page where he had stopped. With a sigh, Ruthenia resumed contending with Tanio’s “pie,” gagging with every mouthful or spitting out bones. Every minute or so, between mouthfuls, she glanced over at her companion to find him ever more engrossed in his novel.

“You’re not very sociable, are you?” she said.

“Your observation has been noted,” he replied without looking up.

“I’m sure you’d have more friends if you tried being a little nicer,” she said. “You’re the brother of the Arcane King. They'd be throwing themselves at you.”

“You misunderstand. I have taken deliberate steps to prevent that.”

Ruthenia folded her arms on the tabletop. “Why?”

He paused for several seconds. She thought for a moment that he might retort impatiently, or not answer at all, but then he said, “I want nothing to do with sycophants.”

She frowned. “What’s a sycophant?”

“One who courts my goodwill for their benefit and nothing more.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is everyone like that?”

“It comes with the title.”

“Well, that's just dumb,” she said. “But typical of Central Circle students, I guess. Caring so much about some stupid title.”

The Arcane Prince eyed her in bewilderment, but seemed to decide against advancing the conversation. Once again he buried his face inside The Temper of Darkness. Shrugging, Ruthenia resumed toiling through her singularly horrible pie, closing her eyes with every breeze as thin clouds crossed the sun. But now and then she noticed Aleigh was glancing over the top of his book, frowning deeper each time.

“What are you eating?” he finally cut in.

Ruthenia glanced at the last mottled morsel of her meal, then spat out a bone. “Honestly, I don't know.”

---

Chapter 15: The End of the Story

 The plum blossoms had burst into bloom overnight, opened by the touch of spring. They had unfolded in full colour today, every orchard and ever airborne garden blessed by the fragrance of their bowing branches.

Plum blossoms were all they could smell as classes came and passed, as the sun arced across the sky, gleaming white on the marble, pulling the shadows thin.

The very moment Mr. Caeben entered the classroom with a book titled The End of the New Truth, Ruthenia felt like she shouldn’t be there.

But it was too late to escape by the time he had reached the desk and parted the book’s pages on the tabletop. Everyone had scrambled to their seats by then, and was awaiting the start of lesson.

“Now that we understand the basics of post-Revolution governance,” said the tutor, “we are ready to discuss the next, and very crucial, stage in Astran and world history: the New Truth.”

Mr. Caeben spoke, as they all did, in abstractions. Of the movement’s philosophical origins, following the New Truth that had swept Bel and Cerdolia in the ten years prior, born of the seeds left by war. He talked, at length, about 470 Petrosa and the loss of romance, the investments in scientific advances, the age of learning—the industrial revolution that followed, and the movement away from Ihirin ideals.

“History is a series of conspiring events,” said Mr. Caeben. “And as it is, it was the confluence of two that gave rise to the divine mandate that would precipitate the end of the New Truth. First, on June 10th in the year 485, Lita Kyril unveiled the Threadless Engine to the Astran public. Then, not three days later, Ceila Derue was removed from the advisory council upon having been found guilty of corruption. This left the council without the New Truth's most vocal champion.”

Ruthenia knew how this story ended. No matter how many times it was told, no matter how she wished it would diverge one day, it always came out, immutably, the same.

“The event came with much fanfare, but was also met with intense backlash. Now as we understand it, the Arcem-Ayda government was deeply reactionary, and deeply sensitive to religious opinion, having been elected on those grounds. When calls were made for them to honour their duty to Ihir and crack down on such a flagrant act of sacrilege, the monarchs were moved to drafted the divine mandate.

“The terms of the divine mandate were simple. Either the inventors of the Threadless Engine would destroy their invention, burn every plan and blueprint, and only suffer imprisonment, or they would be executed in public, and the above actions carried out by the government. Indeed, there was no need for the government to charge every scientist in Astra, for Lita Kyril had made herself the face of the movement, through outspoken overtures in the press.

“The choice appeared straightforward to many: the outcome would be identical, except only the first option would keep them alive. Of course, as we know, Kyril and her colleagues impenitently chose to be executed. So, on the 15th of June—”

No, stop it, stop it, don't tell the ending.

“—the execution proceeded by firing squad, as a warning—”

She was boiling over.

“—to all who should think to flout the holy law, and—”

Ruthenia was standing alone on the corner of the square. Blindfolded figures were dragged onstage, to kneel before the firing squad. They were meant to be pleading, wailing for release only to be denied. But these convicts did not cry nor plead. They knelt with an impervious calm, as if there were something grand they saw, somewhere far away, that eclipsed even Ihir's rage.

Lita Kyril gazed serenely up at the guns, and smiled.

Ruthenia couldn't watch.

As she turned to run, she heard gunshots boom, bloody explosions. She screamed, the tears racing down her cheeks.

The booms came over and over and over, like fireworks, resounding over the square. Over and over until the voices were no more.

She glanced once over her shoulder, only to glimpse them peeling limbs off the ground, like carrion. She whipped around again; she could never look back.

She ran, and ran, and ran for six years. But the gunshots and blood were always right behind her.

The scent of plum blossoms awakened her to her senses again. The first thing Ruthenia felt was the pressure of her hands clutching at her eyes, and the tears dripping from her fingers. She uncurled them. Her vision was blurred. Everyone was staring.

At the front of the classroom, Mr. Caeben lowered his textbook. “Is something the matter?” he said, voice soft all at once.

Ruthenia sobbed so hard her chest hurt. The light continued to pulse around her, everything muffled in her ears. “N-no,” she stammered. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Miss Cendina, are you—” His eyes widened. Hers was a common family name, but there was no way the entire room wasn't making the connection now.

Lita Kyril. Ira Cendina. Wife and husband, martyrs of the New Truth.

“I’m very sorry,” the History teacher's words tumbled out. “Do you need some time away from class?”

She nodded mutely, steeling her face, while another huge tear rolled down her cheek. She rose from her chair, picked up her bag, and without another word she left the speechless classroom behind.

---

Here in the Central Circle School, it was all about family. Whatever your lineage harboured, it was part of who you were to your classmates. There would be rumours about this—there was a reason she had hidden her history. As she wandered through the empty, glittering corridors, she made herself small, pulling her limbs inward.

She barely knew how long she had been walking aimlessly, but the closing bell soon chimed through the granite hallways as she was shuffling towards the landing platform. Behind her, the halls filled with crowds of students. She thought she heard a call of her surname, but just hearing it made her heart ache.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone.

She felt the wind from the fields as she ascended to the landing platform. The air smelled of wet grass, making her think of stormclouds as they melted into after-rain mist. The air was still heavy with the scent of blossoms waiting to turn to fruit. A lone pair of Astran doves sat on a parapet, preening.

At the staircase she mounted her umbrella, a full two minutes of snatching at slippery Threads and yelling out in frustration before she finally managed to make it stay. She was only barely aware of a set of footsteps coming to a stop behind her, as she climbed on.

“Miss Cendina?” came a call from some way down the staircase.

Ignoring it, Ruthenia flew up through the gateway and over the arch of her school, up so high that she could see the entire levitating structure from above, as well as the tiny garden on the grounds, ten floors below, where the plum trees were pink.

She landed on flat portion of the roof and slid off her umbrella, feet meeting the granite with a thud. The rooftop was a popular tea break haunt for students, but it was always empty this late in the day.

She clutched at her flight mount, and stared out at the otherworldly red sky, jaw clenching. “Ihir, why do you leave nothing but hate wherever you go?” she yelled. “I’m sick of it! I'm sick of living in your country!”

As if in answer, she heard a flutter of wings to her right, then saw a flash of white at the corner of her eye that made her turn, eyes widening. From beyond the edge of the tower ascended a white equine, which landed with a clop of hooves on the rooftop and whinnied, trotting towards her.

Ruthenia squinted up. She only knew one person who flew an equine. “Aleigh? What?” she shouted, every last trace of anguish startled out of her.

He swung onto the horse’s stirrup and leapt off, but did not move any closer, as if afraid to take a wrong step. “I was worried,” he said. “And I'm sorry you have been put in this position.”

She stared right back. “You? Sorry? What are you apologising for?”

“Well—Mister Caeben just recounted your parents' death to a room of Astra's most cruel students. I think an apology is the least you're owed.”

As the wind blew, shadows swept across the fields below, the sky folding and untangling itself in the late spring light.

“Yeah, the whole thing's a mess,” she cried. “I didn't ever want this to happen. And I'd managed to avoid it so far, too. But now,” she threw her arms in the air, “now they all know! They all know I'm the daughter of Astra's most famous heretic! And you know how these Central Circle students are—I'm screwed!”

“That would only be typical of them,” he said. “But if I see anyone give you grief for your parents, I will not stand for it.”

Ruthenia sat there for a stunned few seconds, wondering at how bizarre these words sounded out of the mouth of the Arcane Prince. She began to wonder if she had mistaken an entirely different person for him—but no other student called her by her last name.

She murmured, “Why are you being so...nice?”

A look of indignation swept over Aleigh's face. “How else am I meant to respond? Every time I took offence at your behaviour, I never thought to imagine there was a reason for it. But it turns out, this whole time, I was just a walking reminder of your misery!”

She stared back. For a good minute she looked on speechlessly. And then she began to laugh. First in an undertone, then in a scream, feet kicking at the rooftop. “You actually feel sorry for me!” she howled. “You—you actually, I don't know what I'm meant to do with this. I don't understand what's going on!” She fell into another bout of wild laughter, pounding her fist on the floor, before heaving several deep breaths and righting herself. “Yeah, you know what, I do hate them. Your whole family. Especially your bleeding brother. You know how exploited I felt, watch him come to power by using my dead parents' names? And then turn into a watered down version of the queen who killed them?”

“I'm very sorry.”

She shook her head. “Don't be sorry for something your brother did,” she sighed. “I'm doing exactly the thing I was afraid would be done to me.”

At this, Aleigh frowned in thought. “You saved my mother's life, when you could have ended it.”

“Of course I did,” Ruthenia huffed. “Because I'm not killing someone over a grudge. No matter how mad I am…no matter how unfair I think the world is…nothing is ever worth taking a life for.”

Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the wind. For an endless minute, they lingered in stunned silence, battered by the roaring gales at the top of the north tower, steeping in the otherworldly glow of that blazing red sky.

“Anyway, that aside…I still need that spooled Thread,” Ruthenia muttered. “Thursday, don't miss it.”

“Of course,” Aleigh replied. “I will see you on Thursday morning.”

“And stop calling me Miss Cendina,” she said. “We're not business associates.”

“Alright, then. It has been good talking to you...Ruthenia. Have a safe flight home.”

---

Chapter 16: Clear as Glass

Come Thursday morning, Ruthenia scrambled out of the bathing room and down the stairs in a chorus of creaks, laundry under arm, towel over shoulder. Throwing her burden into the laundry basket, she picked up the lone cinnamon bun from the basket on the dining table and flung the door open, munching on the confection. That was all that she had the time for this morning.

Out on her patio, she leapt into her umbrella and crossed her legs, watching as Beacon Way and its string of houses shrank from view. Under her, the ploughs were hard at work, engines chugging, great billows of steam blowing past.

The city proper emerged at the end of hut-speckled farmland, and with it the first scattering of fliers, hurrying about their business. The traffic thickened, the city's approach portended by the roar of noise. She peered over the edge of the umbrella as Helika Plaza slipped into view from beyond a flock of buildings. Laid down in the heart of the historic city's ground half, it was a square patchwork of milling pedestrians, enclosed on three sides by rows of shops, among them some of the oldest and best eateries in the country. It was here, in the cafe known as the Liminal, that the famous Astran toast had first been perfected.

From above, Ruthenia searched for an opening, tumbling through birds and equines to land. In a practised swing, she leapt from her umbrella and snatched its crook, snapping it shut above her head. The aroma of toast wafted through the crowds as she swung it under her arm.

From here, she caught sight of a granite wing over the heads of the crowd and began towards it, elbowing haughty pedestrians aside. She heard the whinnies and flutters of equines and birds in her periphery, and was brushed by wingtips.

Ruthenia squinted about for the Arcane Prince, almost tripping when she arrived at the central monument. The head of a thousand-year-old granite swan stared down at her, its huge head bowing towards the pool with a jet of water spurting out into the dish below.

She was beginning to ponder the likelihood of it being a religious sculpture, when a burst of exclamations intruded on her awareness. “Oh, it really is him!” cried a pedestrian, and another, a child, answered, “Whoa, he's a real person!”

Even as she turned, a trail of pedestrians surged apart in a spate of shock. From their midst burst the quarry of her search, with his equine in tow and a frown furrowing his brow. He was dressed for the outing in a white shirt, a black waistcoat, and hair tied loosely in a ribbon. “Ruthenia, we should go,” he muttered. “Lantern District.” At a white burst of light, his horse whinnied and bucked, only just kept from bolting by a scrub of his neck. “Benedice, easy. Who brings a camera to the Square?”

They hastened away through gaping onlookers, bowling pedestrians to the sides. Once they had strong-armed their ways through the wall of humans and birds onto an empty pavement, Aleigh leapt onto Benedice’s stirrup and flicked the reins. Ruthenia unhooked her umbrella from her elbow and unexpectedly managed to suspend it in seconds, leaping on and lurching into the sky to chase her guide.

Their flight veered northwest, towards the characteristic “Hourglasses” of the Lantern District—paired conical terraces of units that met at the tips in the middle. Aleigh was flying much faster than Ruthenia ever did. Yanking on the Threads, she accelerated just to stay on his tail. Fields and houses blurred to streaks and the wind began to dry her eyes, but she closed them and laughed with exhilaration.

The fields ended, and the roar of Swan’s Cross Station loudened: the chug of steam carriages rumbling down the tracks, the hum and hiss of soot-black chimneys. Slowing to a manoeuvrable pace, they swooped between the first pair of hourglasses. “Here,” called her companion, as Benedice glided low and made a braking loop around the lower terrace, coming to land on a boardwalk that was also the roof of a shop.

Ruthenia braked too late, and swerved past the block, around the next one, and then back to the pathway. She came in too low, and her feet skidded across the ground in a stumbling run that ended in her colliding with a weight-bearing pillar.

“You're eager to arrive,” Aleigh said, offering her an arm for assistance that she ignored.

“You were the one flying like a maniac,” she answered. On balconies and platforms above and below, the heads of passers-by and shopkeepers poked out to stare, some waving or pointing at the Arcane Prince.

“We should find Rae Threaders,” he snapped, already marching off.

She scrambled after him. “I don't know why this surprises me.”

“It surprises me every day.”

A minute’s walking round the rooftop in the blazing sun took them in front of the facade of a glassy store that glittered like a large diamond in the side of the block. The inside scintillated, like a jewel box, or Talia's clock, glassy and bright, and utterly empty. Glowing spheres hung in the air with no visible filaments inside. Empty jars stood behind empty bulbs, entire displays lined with such receptacles of every conceivable size, some with metal rods inside, kinked on both ends. over the door, in letters hammered into bronze, was the shop name: Rae Threaders.

Her companion held the door for her as they entered. Leaving the heat behind and entering the glittering, woody interior, she took to gaping at the vessels around them. Her companion had already arrived at the counter by the time she managed to pull her eyes away. From here she heard the muffled sounds of milling or planing, a whir of machinery out of sight.

“Good afternoon, Nira,” Aleigh called out. “How goes business this morning?”

Behind the polished countertop, a girl, barely twelve, dark-skinned—darker than Ruthenia—and lanky with black locks, beamed up at her visitor. “It's been good, Your Highness,” she answered with a nod.

“Is Mister Rae here to receive us?” he asked.

Nira nodded and knocked thrice on the door behind her. “Pa!” she shouted through it.

“Yes, dear, tell them I won't be a minute,” answered a low voice through the crack.

“Can't you come faster? It's the prince!”

“Which one?”

Nira cast a glance back, then shouted, “The Arcane King's brother! And there's a lady with him, with nice red hair.”

Ruthenia felt herself flush. “My hair is completely unremarkable!” she retorted.

At last, the door creaked open, and a tall man emerged from the backroom, with the same dark skin and bright eyes as his daughter. To the Arcane Prince he made a bow with both hands clasped. “Good morning to you, Your Highness—what a surprise to see you today.” Then his gaze came to rest upon Ruthenia. “And to you, miss. Pleasure to meet you!”

“Mister Rae, good morning. Miss Cendina is the one seeking your service; I am only here to introduce you,” Aleigh said. “She is working with an establishment of great repute, the Calied Company.”

She squinted. How does he know that?

Now Mr Rae turned to her and said, “A representative of the Calied Company! What an honour, Miss Cendina, well met.”

“Thank you, and just Ruthenia is fine,” she said.

“So, Ruthenia, how can I help you today?”

“My boss is looking to get some spooled Thread, presumably for one of his upcoming inventions.”

He nodded with an easy smile. "Certainly! What length of Thread would you like?"

“How about as much as you can fit on your biggest spool?” Ruthenia said, gesturing out an arbitrarily large length with her hands. “I have no clue how much he wants, but you should give me as much as you can because he can probably use it.”

“We do make spools of up to thirty feet. Would you like that much?”

Ruthenia hadn't any clue what difference it made, whether Thread was ten feet long or thirty. “Thirty sounds good.”

“Oh, could I prepare the Thread? Please?” exclaimed Nira then, whirling to face her father.

With a full-throated laugh, Mr. Rae nodded. “Of course,” he answered, ruffling her hair. “As long as you don't drop it.”

“I won't!”

In a whirl of black hair, the girl pushed the back door open and slipped away.

“The Thread takes about half an hour to be prepared to the length you have requested,” Mr Rae resumed, “Would you like to return in half an hour, or wait here?”

“I’ll hardly take fifteen minutes!” shouted Nira from the room.

Ruthenia laughed. “We can wait,” she said. When Mr. Rae pointed them to the wood-beamed bench amongst the cabinets, she strolled over, gaze captured again by the enormous catalogue of jars in the room. As she sat, she began to understand that the jars with rods must already contain spooled Thread: their lids were sealed with wax.

Aleigh followed her to the bench, but did not sit until she patted the seat beside her, and even then seemed a little indignant. Ruthenia listened idly to the soft clatter of machinery in the backroom behind the counter, and to the click of the door as the father followed his daughter inside.

“This place feels way too fancy,” she said. “Imagine if I tripped and fell and knocked a couple of jars from the shelves.”

“I hope you are not so clumsy as to do that,” he answered.

“Oh, come on. As if the cost of the damages wouldn't be trivial to you.”

He frowned. “The cost would be far more than monetary.”

Ruthenia sighed. “Fair, fair. I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to help me out.”

At last, he turned to meet her eye. “It is no trouble. I was unoccupied this morning.”

“What would you be doing if you weren't here?”

“Studying, riding across the palace complex, or reading.”

“That’s…so…boring.”

“Why, thank you, Ruthenia.”

“Don't you get to do whatever you like whenever you like?”

“Most definitely not.” He glanced out the shop display, at the balcony railing. “Outside of classes, all my appointments are registered and reviewed a day in advance.”

“Really? No secret parties? No sneaking off after midnight?”

Aleigh eyed her oddly. “No. Even if I enjoyed the prospect of those things, which I do not, my brother would never approve.”

Ruthenia grimaced. “You mean to say he knows you’re here right now?”

“He does,” he replied. “I referred to it as a ‘business negotiation’ at Rae Threader's.”

“Well, this is just ridiculous.”

Aleigh shrugged. “Aligon has warned me amply of the exorbitant ransoms that criminals could post if they were to abduct me,” he replied. “But I'm sure my brother would sooner let me die than cough up a ransom. If he really did fear for my life, then he'd never let me leave the palace without a detail of bodyguards.” He smiled bitterly. “Instead, I surmise that these reviews are simple a tool of control. Because he's addicted to it. Control over the lives of others.”

“Eugh. And I thought he was disingenuous to the public.”

He nodded. “Makes a good Arcane King, don't you think?”

“It's almost as if being a conniving bastard is part of the job description.” She paused. “Are you actually allowed to say these things about him?”

Aleigh shook his head. “He doesn't care about my opinion. The greatest peril of holding these views is the press getting wind of them. But I trust you.”

Ruthenia sighed pointedly. “You know, when I was younger...living on the street...I used to take the news back to my gang and read them the headlines. Aligon was always so pompous. Took up so much space on the pages. Selling all these grand ideas to his people. I didn't realise he had a brother for months.”

“Some days, I wonder if even he remembers,” Aleigh muttered, then paused. “Ruthenia, I'm sorry for mocking your essay, the other week.”

Ruthenia snorted. “Nah, I deserved it. But apology accepted.”

From there, the conversation meandered comfortably on, into the subject of her typical day, which she could only relate with boredom, but somehow the chatter kept going until they were interrupted by the backroom door opening again.

“Excuse me, Mister Luzerno? And Ruthenia!” Nira’s voice brought both gazes in synchrony. “Your Thread is all ready for collection!”

Springing to her feet with a grin, Ruthenia untangled the strings of her money pouch from her belt and dashed to the counter, dumping all thirty argents on the countertop. While Nira scrambled to catch rolling coins, she thanked her profusely, as well as Mr. Rae as his head poked out from behind the door.

With both hands she picked up the lumpy package that he placed on the countertop, feeling the softness of more paper layers beneath the wrapping.

“See you again soon!” called Nira once she had finished counting the coins. “Please come back. I really like you!”

“If the boss needs more spooled Thread, I'll be here in a heartbeat!” Ruthenia laughed as they exited the shop amid a chorus of goodbyes. Aleigh was already waiting outside, untying Benedice from the baluster. Out on the deck outside, she stopped beside him, regarding the scenery, and inhaling the smoky aroma of incense from the tiers below.

“Thanks for your time,” Ruthenia said, sliding the bulbous package into her bag, which was only just large enough to envelope it. “Tanio hasn’t told me what he wants it for, but I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon.”

“I am glad to have been of assistance,” he replied with a small bow of his head.

“Do you want to get a drink somewhere?”

He looked oddly at her. “I wish I could, but I have a council meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh. Of course you do. Well, safe flying!”

He mounted Benedice in the shade and spurred the equine with his heel. Then, kicking off the edge of the boardwalk, the beast launched into the air beyond the deck, wings unfurling on both sides.

Ruthenia stood in the shelter while he left, allowing the breeze to cool her for a minute or five.

*

Tanio was quite pleased to discover the enormous jar of spooled Thread sitting on the dining table. “You actually found it, you treasure!” he exclaimed, giving Ruthenia a hearty pat on the back.

Dinner was a disappointment by every measure. Tanio had apparently not bothered beyond popping a fish into the oven and drizzling the resulting burnt heap with oyster sauce. She spent the evening spitting bones onto the table and choking on the ones she did not manage to detect.

But her boss was not there for her to skewer with critiques; in fact, he was nowhere to be found for the entire evening following his brief greeting, not even when she had taken her shower.

Returning to the shed, Ruthenia observed, through her own window, that the man’s study window was once again the lone light across the bridge. That light did not go out even when she returned to her own hammock.

---

Chapter 17: Counterplays

Ruthenia had begun to sense a shift in the classroom around her—in the kinds of furtive stares and open glares she saw. Before this, there had been an air of affable annoyance, much like one might express towards a tired joke.

Now, things had begun to reek of a deep wrongness. Even Alacero and Calan seemed less inclined to laugh with her. And for days, she could not name exactly what that was.

It was only as Hollia and Ruthenia quietly finished their Physics report and submitted it, and she caught the wary glances from her friend, that she began to recognise what that might be.

“What's going on?” she murmured.

Hollia drew her arms close and wrapped her hands around her elbows. “It's been…spooky,” she whispered. “I worry that I've gotten in too deep. Two of my friends were talking about how they didn't understand why anyone associated with you. And it felt like they were trying to tell me something, without saying it to my face.”

A dreadful chill raked down Ruthenia's back. She had thought as much: that her classmates had been spreading something about her among themselves. “I'm sorry I put you in that position,” she mumbled. “You don't have to spend time with me.”

“No, it's not your fault,” Hollia said, trying at a smile. “I won't let that break our friendship, never.”

But now Ruthenia noticed every time Holliia fell silent and flinched away whenever a classmate walked by.

---

Two evenings later, the Centrelight ferry terminal fell from the sky. It was all across the front page of the Herald, photographs of the wreckage and stories of the heroes who had triggered an evacuation at the very first warning sign.

The morning after, Tanio sat at the breakfast table with the papers laid out, the wreckage of broken platforms and pillars out on display. And he wore a strange, conspiratorial grin on his face.

Dropping into the chair facing him, Ruthenia picked up a slice of bread and began to butter it suspiciously. “Why are you smiling like that?” she muttered.

“Well! You see, I have much to apprise you of.”

She munched on the corner of her sandwich. “Go on.”

“You remember the spooled Thread you got me?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, thanks to your help, the project is complete and submitted.” He dusted his hands.

Her eyebrows arched. “Submitted? To whom?”

“The Astran government,” Tanio declared. “I sent my prototype to the Ministry of Maritime Defence last night.”

Ruthenia instantly put two and two together. “Tanio!” she shouted. “Was it powered by Thread? Was it a machine powered by Thread that you sent to the government?”

“Now, now, Ruth.” He lifted his hands appeasingly. “Let me explain. As you may recall, the government is having trouble formulating an answer to the threat in the Deeps. This is partly owing to two things: the exclusion zone they drew up, and their decision to reject the chemists' results. They put themselves in a double bind. They cannot, with their current instruments, investigate the Deeps without either sending a person there—transgressing their exclusion zone—or accepting the results produced by the convicted research team. Now, if only there were a way to do so without flouting any of these rules.”

She folded her arms. “And? What was your ingenious workaround?”

“In two words: flying camera. In more words: a camera that flies along a pre-orchestrated route, without a bearer or a pilot, and takes photographs of the surface of the sea.”

Ruthenia's face went blank. “It's—that's—a flying machine.”

“Yes! It's a flying machine powered by Thread. And it is Thread machine that flies.”

“So, is that doubly illegal? Or is that meant to cancel out? I—” She threw up her hands. “Tanio, why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “I smelled desperation coming out of the administration,” he replied. “And now seemed like the right moment to give them the answer to their every woe.”

“It's still a flying machine! You know they can twist the law to do their bidding if they decide, right? Aren’t you scared?”

He watched his assistant over the rim of his glasses. “Of course I am,” he said. “But this is the move I am choosing to play, with the information I have.” He smiled idly at his breakfast. “Well, too late for second thoughts. Without a direct channel to persuade them on that matter, it's all out of my hands.”

---

A flying machine to sthe government! This man is off his rocker.

The bubbling dread of Tanio's revelation did not settle even as Ruthenia halfheartedly landed in school, nor was it assuaged as she sat glazed-eyed through the droning classes.

What could she possibly do? She knew the state's appetite for capital punishment had waned since her parents' execution, and the worst that Tanio could land in was jail. But even the thought of jail, for however long, paralysed her with fear.

It was pondering all this, with her squashed lunch bag in hand, that Ruthenia wandered out and froze at the voices in the lobby.

Iurita's clique. Dread welled up, quickly followed on its heels by a red-hot anger. Inhaling deeply, she pushed onward.

It didn't take long for Iurita to hear the footsteps and cast a glance over her shoulder. When their eyes met, she held up a hand to silence her crew. “Look who's here,” she drawled. “The wannabe rebel!”

Averting their eyes, steeling her resolve, Ruthenia walked into their midst. But she could sense them bristling around her, their hackles raised—Caela, Magnis, and a boy and a girl perhaps from the year below. A flock of vultures circling for carrion.

Iurita was the daughter of the mayor of Astra's largest township. She had always had them in a chokehold, in part because she acted the part. All her training making itself felt, even in the school halls: in her posture, her poise, her manicured words.

Their ringmaster murmured, “Miss Cendina, surely you know your place.” Ruthenia could hear the bloodlust glinting on the harsh edges of their answering laughter. “You won't be bringing your filth into the lift with us. So wait your turn.”

“Who's letting you make rules about school property?” Ruthenia snarled before she could check herself.

“Ooh, feeling bitey, are we? Careful, you're the one playing on our turf,” Iurita murmured, clicking her tongue. “You think having a celebrity mum gives you a right to talk back, do you? Well, let me remind you: she was no better than the scum in Astra's sewers.”

Ruthenia could feel her jaw trembling with how hard she was clenching it. It was a losing fight from the start, always would be, and she knew this. But if there was one thing to which she would always hold true, it was that she wouldn't lie down and take it.

“I'm sorry, Mayoress in Training,” she growled, “I didn't know we comparing parents! But at least my mother actually made a mark on Astra.”

There were open hisses from the crowd. “Oh, is that so!” Iurita replied, eyes flaring. “Well, why don't you tell us all about how great of a mother she was, and how much she cared about you.”

Ruthenia wrestled with the words, fought to bar them from her thoughts. She knew what happened when she let them in.

“Nothing to say?” the girl continued. “I thought so. Because only one of our mothers actually raised her child.”

By then, a choking fog of rage had drowned Ruthenia's thoughts, pushing her, pushing her inch by inch towards the edge, as she tried to coalesce a retort before the tears could form—

But before she did, a voice cut in from behind her. “Iurita. This is disgraceful.”

The fog evaporated. She froze, everything too bright as her gaze drifted over her shoulder, though she knew Aleigh by his voice. He was looking at Iurita with a face of bitter cruelty that she had only ever seen when he'd been about to eviscerate her in front of Mister Caeben—a smile, almost.

“How embarrassing,” he went on, “that a woman of such lofty status should stoop so low.”

“But, no, Your Highness,” Iurita sputtered, suddenly dropping her poise. “You heard what she said to me first.”

“Oh, she hit you first? Listen to yourself, using a petulant toddler's rebuttal. Now, unless you're about to tell me Ruthenia picked this fight on her own, then save whatever scraps of dignity you have left, and begone.”

For an unbearable half-minute, Iurita seethed and shook like a pot boiling over, and her gaggle of friends pulled away in fright. “Ruthenia, how dare you…I'm not done with you!” she snarled through her teeth, but only thundered past them, shoving her aside by the shoulder. The rest of her clique quietly followed, each firing her a glare.

Then, the lobby was empty. Ruthenia stood there for a minute, trembling in her shoes while their footsteps faded from earshot. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“No need—take it as reparations for all the times I did that to you.” He strode passed her. The lift doors clattered open. “Ruthenia, this isn't the street—the rules are different. If they try that again, your safest answer is to keep silent and walk the other way.”

Ruthenia could still feel the rage and grief and confusion pumping through her veins, booming in her ears. “Easier said than done,” she replied, then followed him wordlessly into the lift. But Iurita's words had sunk their hooks into her, and she felt like she could shatter in a breeze.

*

Spirit leaden with the desire to never be perceived again, Ruthenia dropped in at the milkshake stand. Carving an apple while she drank, Imessa asked after the state of affairs in school.

The exhaustion of the afternoon descended upon her like a heavy blanket. “Awful. Couldn't be worse,” she said in a monotone. “I feel like my classmates are looking for reasons to hate me.”

“Well, I think you're quite likeable,” replied Imessa. “I’m sure they only hate an idea of you that has no basis in reality. Those Central Circle kids, they don't know what to do around people who are different from them.” The woman flicked some peel off the fruit. “You can’t help who you are, and in some ways, they can't help who they are, either. Blinkered to the world that you have seen the darkest pits of.”

“Sometimes, I feel like I've seen nothing, either,” she replied, lowering the glass to the countertop.

“Well, I hope you don't let them to you. The world deserves you at your greatest.”

Ruthenia continued mulling over the afternoon as she climbed onto the umbrella. But instead of beginning homeward, she made a detour towards the New Town.

---

Ruthenia descended between the walls of the station and bank to find her gang preparing a dinner of stale meat and bread on a mock table raised on rocks, huddled in the dark barely touched by the sputtering streetlamps.

“Ruth, just in time!” exclaimed Gordo with a big wave, smile gleaming in the dark. “Could you light us a fire?”

She picked up an old steel scrap from the pile, snapped a thin plank from a shattered crate, and gestured for Tante’s lighter. He offered it grudgingly. Throwing it in the curve of the steel, she lit the wood and put it on the ground a foot away.

“What’s been keeping you?” asked Hyder, grey eyes glimmering in the firelight.

“All sorts of problems cropping up,” she replied. “My schoolmates hate me. And my boss may or may not have just broken the law.” She folded her arms. “But I'm not here to talk about him. How have you been doing?”

“Pretty decently, actually,” said Hyder, chewing on a stick of beef. “Reida’s been donating her spare change lately, which is awfully nice of her. I think it’s supposed to mean something?”

Den smiled. “It means she’s warming up,” he replied. “Her prospects within my father’s news company are looking up. She’s all poised to take the reins now. If I could just win her over...”

Tante shook his head. “I’m telling you it’s a terrible idea, getting romance and grudges tangled up,” he said. “You’ll wind up losing both.”

Ruthenia frowned. “Gotta agree with Tante for once,” she muttered. “What would Reida think if she found out it was all about your feud with your father?”

“Oh? I never said it was about the company,” answered Den, hands up in an appeasing gesture. “It just so happens that a venture with her could yield multiple benefits. Which I’d be loath to pass over.”

“You’d better not toy with her,” replied Ruthenia in a low voice.

“She’s much too clever to be toyed with,” Hyder said with a grin.

“It’ll be a while yet, in any case,” Den went on. “She’s been resistant to my charms. Perhaps I should redouble my efforts.”

“Or maybe you’re getting too full of yourself,” sniffed Tante. “A silver tongue isn’t enough, you know. You’ve got to be good in bed. Walk your talk.”

Ruthenia munched on the stale jerky, listening idly as the conversation devolved into a debate about prowess in the bedroom. She watched Den and Tante fence with quips. The steel-scrap flame began to gutter, and their faces grew increasingly concealed in shadow, but the conversation did not end.

When, on finishing the little snack, Ruthenia stood to leave, she was met with a chorus of reluctant goodbyes. She arced out of the alley atop her umbrella, and flew away from the New Town through the deep blue night, staring behind her as the warm lights shrank into each other and pulled farther and farther away.

---

Chapter 18: Breaks and Repairs

It was another Saturday in Eldon’s basement lab. The machines were chugging in full force, boilers and pipes gurgling with heat. The Swift hung over Sandro and Sef as they welded metal into the undercarriage, the frames of wings just beginning to take shape. 

“I said I need a two inch!” shouted Sandro over the buzz of the welder. “Hand it over, blockhead!”

Sef grudgingly snatched the wrench out of his toolbox—then let his hand drop to his side when he caught sight of the newcomers. “Oh, Mister Legars!” he shouted. “We might have to replace some bits of the fuselage, they’re all rusted up after the leaks.”

“I thought so,” sighed Eldon as he walked to inspect the seams of the runway hatch in the wall. “We’ll need this all in working order soon. There's spare metal in storage. You want to go cart it over?”

While the two scrambled towards the door to storage, Ruthenia began to inspect the work they’d completed over the week. She prodded the rivets on the plates and swung the unfinished door back and forth.

Then she stepped back with folded arms among the stacks of plates, and appraised the Swift in its entirety. Behind her, the three men ceased their conversation momentarily.

She grinned. “Is it anything like you pictured, Tanio?” she asked.

“Almost, if a little...clunkier,” he replied. “But that’s your fault.”

“It’s my fault this machine won’t disintegrate in midair,” Ruthenia retorted.

“Well, it won’t be what I envisioned until it leaves the ground,” he said, coming up beside her. “And that’d be when Sharmon works out how to purify his miracle fuel.” He turned. “Hey, Hedgehog Head! When’s that going to be? Have you been skiving off with your paintings again?”

“I'm doing my darnedest!” he declared with a laugh. “Running a business isn’t easy, you know what I mean. Cartloads of paperwork and the omnipresent nag that you could always be getting more done.”

By then, Ruthenia had returned to the hull of the Swift with a rivet gun, a hammer and a new piece of plating, and she set to work as the two men bantered idly, and it became clear that Sharmon was weeks, if not months, from a solution.

*

Before they walked out to lunch, Ruthenia wove her way up to Eldon and tapped on his arm. “Could I speak to you in private?” she asked in a whisper. “It's about my boss.”

Eldon's eyebrows rose. “Certainly. I hope there hasn't been…conflict between the two of you.”

She shook her head. “Nothing between us. But he did a stupid thing recently that I have to do something about.”

While the butler laid out the day's spread for Tanio, Sharmon, and the brothers, the secretary waved her into an alcove. “Now, whatever could be bothering you?”

Ruthenia weighed her choices. Eldon was the only person she knew who could . “A couple of days ago, Tanio sent a flying machine to the government.”

His eyes widened. “What? Surely not.”

“Oh, yeah. A flying camera. But hear this: it's a flying camera with an engine powered by Thread.”

The same look of bafflement came to Eldon that must have come over Ruthenia when she had first heard. “He's playing with fire,” he muttered. “If he draws too much suspicion, everything else, everything here, could come to light.”

“Yes, great, we are on the same page here. Well, since he's intent on leaving the outcome of the review up to the whims of the Kings, I'm the one who's going to do something about it in his stead, and I'm hoping you can help me.”

“That man's overconfidence will be his undoing,” sighed Eldon. “Well, what will you have me do?”

“Could you put in a good word for Tanio? Convince them to let his flying camera pass review?”

At this, his face fell, grey eyebrows knitting together. “Oh, Miss Cendina…you know I cannot.” It had been a stretch anyway, but Ruthenia's heart still plummeted. “My connection with Mister Calied is not known to the royal families. Defending him would be…irregular. Suspicious, even. And if they began to suspect me of wayward opinions, then there could be an investigation. And all of the documents relating to the Swift—they are housed with me.”

Ruthenia frowned. “I understand,” she murmured. “Maybe I need to do this myself.”

“Perhaps you do,” Eldon replied, deep in thought. “If someone had to defend a mechanical project, and could do it without raising suspicion…who better than Lita Kyril's daughter?”

Ruthenia drew in a breath. “Alright, how do I do that?”

The secretary scratched his chin. “There's an event coming next week,” he said, “and some attendees, I hear, are allowed an honorary guest…”

---

“Surprise! It's me again. And I need another favour.”

Etiquette class had only just ended in the concert hall—an hour-long bout of yelling and tripping that Ruthenia had only just survived. She had never been one for ballroom dancing, but she would have gotten by if not for her dance partner, Perrio. While classmates around her had spent the hour teasing each other about their assigned partners, Perrio had vocally complained about his all through the class. She was certain he had been stomping on her toes on purpose.

She winced with every step, wondering if he'd broken any bones with his wooden heels. Most of the class had already vanished from the dim hall, leaving them alone by the unlit stage.

He only spent a second frowning. “We shouldn't make a habit of this,” he said, picking up his briefcase. “Tell me about it on the way to the menagerie.”

Ruthenia grumbled wordlessly with the agony of her ten bruised toes. They left the hall through an archway, into a corridor drowned in orange light.

“So, what is it that you need this time?” he asked.

“I want to speak to the kings,” Ruthenia replied. “Personally.”

“What for?”

“Remember that spooled Thread? Well, guess what my stupid boss made with it. A Thread machine! A machine powered by Thread! And guess what he did with it. He sent it to the government!”

“So I heard,” he said impassively.

“So, now, I need to clean up his mess. I need to persuade the Kings not to put him on the chopping block.”

For a minute, Aleigh did not reply. Around them, like rising water, the evening light flooded the bottommost steps, making the flecks inside glitter like embers of flame from a firework. The background noise of departing footsteps and chatter grew clearer.

“Ruthenia,” he finally said. “Just so I'm sure I am understanding right…you would like an audience with the kings, to convince them on matters of policy.”

“Yes.”

“Have you considered writing a petition letter?” He was suppressing a laugh.

Ruthenia growled. “Petition letters are useless! I bet the kings don't even read them.”

“No, they do not. The council reads them on their behalves, and presents them a daily summary.” He sighed. “And another thing. If you were to visit the kings by my invitation, your actions could implicate me.”

“You're so sure it'll go badly!” she snapped. They stepped out of the deluge of daylight.

“You aren't exactly one for delicacy or tact.”

“Oh, you want to talk about delicacy! Well, if you recall, I saved you-know-who by fixing you-know-what! Think about that. Now I need to fix my boss' stupid decisions, too. Before they land him in jail. And I heard there's an event coming up that you'll have a spare invite to.”

He narrowed his eyes, perhaps weighing his obligations and risks. “This is the last time,” he said. “But yes, the wedding of my cousin to his fiancée Cathia, does come in two Saturdays' time. I am allowed one honorary guest, and your attendance may suit my objectives as well as yours.”

“Your objectives?”

“Yes, to prevent my brother from picking someone else to fill the seat.”

She nods. “That sounds fair enough.”

“Be warned, however, that there will be full press coverage.”

“Great. If it's in the open, Aligon can't pull any cheap tricks.”

“And, there will be a six-course banquet.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“And…dancing.”

At this, she scowled. “Am I allowed to skip the dancing?”

“Certainly.”

“Alright, then, I'm sold. I'll attend the wedding.”

Aleigh paused. “Are you sure? For at least that day, and perhaps for days after, you will be visible in a way you may never have known before.”

Ruthenia sucked in a breath. “I would rather try.”

“Then it is settled. I will have an invitation written to you shortly,” he said. His voice fell. “Ruthenia, you are a uniquely dauntless person. I fear you might fly straight into your demise someday.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“What have I done,” he sighed as he left for the menagerie, “creating a debt I can never repay.”

---

Ruthenia flew southeast from the Central Circle School, fast as a fleeing refugee. She sank into the smog of the New Town traffic, dropping onto the street in a flurry of dust and debris.

Up in the corner of their usual haunt, Gordo lifted his head with smile, dropping his end of a long flower chain. “She’s here!” he exclaimed, turning to Hyder, who was busy threading a flower onto his end. “Tell her about the bird!”

“Hey, Ruth, we planned the new prank,” Hyder put in while she walked towards them. “But this one’s better than the drain, I swear! You've heard of the Pteryx?”

If there was any single animal Ruthenia heard too often about, it was the Pteryx. “What, the green chicken?” she said.

“Yeah, we're gonna steal it,” he replied, beaming. “And leave it in the archbishop's office. Imagine the uproar! If we can get Reida in on this, we could get the Swan’s Post to imply that the clergy stole it.”

“Clergy? I like the sound of it,” she said. “But that bird isn’t exactly the easiest to nab.”

“Oh yeah, I heard they have guards watching it day and night. Now that's a real challenge,” Hyder declared with glee.

By now, Ruthenia was finally relaxing in the notion that Hyder was much better in this art of stealth and escape than she could possibly have imagined, and so she smiled back. “Give the chicken a mini archbishop hat,” she chuckled. Gordo laughed back, slapping his thigh.

She leaned back against the wall, watching as they returned to threading flowers onto the ever-growing chain. Watching the pair hard at work, she sighed. “I just wish they'd have give you a chance to be something…more, Hyder.”

For a moment Hyder stared at the next flower, a bright yellow dandelion, before weaving it onto the chain. Then he lifted his eyes to Ruthenia with an abashed smile. “Hey, I'm flattered.”

She strode over to the two boys. The flower chain was almost three feet long. “You could be doing something important, you know? With this talent of yours.”

He lowered the chain. “What could I do?” he replied with a shrug. “If I joined a school now, they'd be able to tie all my past crimes to me. Right?” He grimaced, eyes glistening. “Some people have everything from the moment they’re born, and they couldn’t spare a cupre for our lives.”

In the silence that followed, Ruthenia watched as the boys looped and slotted flowers onto the chain, stalk by stalk, until the piles ran out and there were colourful petals all over their laps and on the street around them, glowing in the late sunlight.

Hyder tied the two ends together, as deftly as he did Thread. He rose, walking to the other end of the alley to hang it upon the fence.

“Oh, yes, the fourteenth of August,” Ruthenia said, staring beyond the fence at the sleeping smokestacks beyond.

When Hyder turned, his eyes were glistening. “I still miss them,” he replied.

She nodded heavily. “I imagine you would.” She could see that he was growing bonier, with hunger, perhaps. “We’ll bite back someday,” she said. “Like a naga, we’ll bite back.”

---

At teatime the next day, Ruthenia took Hollia aside and cornered her with a frown.

“Hollia, this is probably going to sound ridiculous,” she said, “but I really need you to help me out.”

Her eyes widened, a cocktail of fear and surprise in them. “Yes?”

“You know about Lord Anio’s coming wedding?”

Hollia nodded. “Yes, of course! It's shaping up to be a huge bash—like every Arcane party, let's be fair.” She paused. “What about it?”

Ruthenia drew a deep breath. “Well, to keep a really long story short, I asked for an invitation and got approved. So, I'm attending. The wedding.”

For half a minute, the girl gaped back. “A lord’s wedding?” she breathed. “Lord Anio's wedding? How? Why?” 

“I'm there on a diplomatic mission,” she said. “To talk to the kings. My boss needs my help. But I don’t want to—you know—to do anything that might make me look crass while I’m at it.” She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.  “And you've always been one of Miss Kelde's better students, so I'm wondering if you could er, teach me.”

Hollia had grabbed both her hands. “Of course! Of course I'll help you, Ruth—but I don’t understand, how did it happen? Tell me everything!”

“Well, how else,” she  replied. “Our classmate, the brother of King Aligon, gets to invite an honorary guest. And he just so happens to owe me a favour or two, so…”

“So you’re attending as his partner?”  

Ruthenia frowned. “No, I'm an honorary guest. A plus-one?” 

“Oh, Ruth!” Hollia sang. “The Arcane Prince brings a different date to every big fancy event. You know that, right?”

Ruthenia sat there and gaped. Then she slapped her forehead.  “Oh, you're kidding me! This isn't what I asked for!” She sagged, teeth gritted together. “Ugh, it's the only chance I have to see the kings. But…oh, that Arcane Prince is going to get it from me!”

“I'm so excited for you,” Hollia giggled. “Don’t you worry, you'll be grand, long as you follow the rules .” Ruthenia pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, why don’t you meet me on Sunday? We can get you sorted then.”

*

Ruthenia cornered Aleigh on the mezzanine that afternoon.

“You didn’t say anything about me attending as a partner!” she burst out.

At this he frowned. “No, I am inviting you as an honorary guest. There's no specific meaning attached to it. My brother uses his to invite his favourite ministers all the time.”

“Maybe it doesn't mean anything for Aligon, but you. You! Hollia said you bring a different partner to every dinner!”

“Oh.” He sighed deeply. “Why else do you think Aligon handpicks them? I don't usually ask anyone along. So he finds me some young noblewoman or some minister's daughter to make me look more…popular.” He accompanied the last word with a tired glance to a side. “So, yes, I suppose there will be some who will misconstrue the arrangement. But if you behave like yourself, then it's hard to imagine anyone would truly believe you're my partner.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a backhanded insult?”

“No, I am sincerely saying that you are too lowborn to be perceived as eligible.”

She groaned. “Yeah, yeah, at least that's good for one thing.” She folded her arms. “So, how will you have me behave on the day?”

“However you want,” he answered. “But you must always keep in mind that you are attending by my grace. It cannot be helped that your actions will reflect upon me.”

Ruthenia pouted. “Fine,” she said. Around them, the bustle of students rushed to fill the silence. She watched the other cafeteria-goers cross the mezzanine, or proceed with their meals, barely touching her own.

*

The next evening, Ruthenia found a white envelope on Tanio's dining table, sealed with red wax, addressed to her. She did not have to open it to know what it contained. Taking it back to her shed, she slipped it into her drawer of certificates and letters, heart suddenly beating in her throat.

Ruthenia had not expected Lord Anio’s wedding to haunt her in this way. As she lay awake in her hammock, she scripted a dozen versions of the initial greeting she would employ with Aligon—then scrapped them all—and imagined in her head a hundred different dresses, none of them looking right to her.

She clutched her head. “This isn’t supposed to be hard!” she shouted as eleven o’clock became midnight. She flipped in her hammock, setting it swinging.

---

Chapter 19: The Second Plea

The afternoons of spring fell into a steady beat. The flowers’ scent had settled itself into the pulse of daily life, and the days rolled along like the carriages on a grand train. The cicadas’ murmuring, secretive drone drenched the nighttime.

Ruthenia was woken one morning by the sound of the river thundering over its banks. She kicked her doors open and raced out into the spring cold to see it frothing like the sea, gleaming grey in the morning light, swamping the wheat on either side.

Clambering clumsily onto her umbrella, she hovered at the riverside, studying the water’s depths until they had receded and she was watching fish flash across the riverbed.

After breakfast, she picked up the copy of the Herald lying on Tanio’s coffee table and kicked back in his couch to read in the dusty brown light.

Lower Centrelight was flooded. Another ship had capsized and vanished last night. Protest signboards had been painted and raised in Candle Plaza. The Pteryx had been stolen and found in the Archbishop's courtyard, wearing a paper hat. Lord Anio and Cathia Argola were getting married next Saturday. Race schedules and betting odds.

She studied the papers cover to cover, until Tanio returned from the Baytown market, empty-handed.

“The Ministry’s been stripping fishermen of their licences for so much as sailing the coast near the Deeps,” he said, tossing his money pouch onto the dining table. “It’s not pretty at the market. It'll be beef again tonight, I'm afraid.”

---

The oat fields that decorated the Candelabra suburbs were alive with cicadas as Ruthenia flew by them. Hollia stood in a grass-green dress at the front step of her parents' cottage, waving up at her as her friend arrived. She raced to meet Ruthenia where she landed, calling Phore over with a couple of sharp whistles. "Oh Ruth, it's so good to see you!" she exclaimed. “Let's not waste any time, we have a long day ahead. How about we head over into town? I know the perfect place to start your outfit hunt.”

“Oh, of course you do.”

Hollia began to ramble heartily about her favourite boutique as she mounted the great pigeon and nestled herself among the white feathers.

Ruthenia nodded and did her best to smile, although in her heart she was already sending desperate pleas to every deity in the vicinity.

The fields rolled by beneath them, mottled and green and undulating gently towards the distance. Hollia liked flying close to the ground, so Ruthenia followed suit. Modest, cubical houses hurtled by above them, all their curtains drawn. The field was eventually swallowed by beech woodland, decorated by low hills whose crowns protruded from the young green canopy. Shrill cries ascended every now and then from beyond the blur of leaves.

The forests ended suddenly, held back by a low crenellated wall, and the town of Candelabra came riding forth among the next hills—a haphazard, bustling system of buildings, airborne and grounded, linked by slanting wooden ladders that pivoted on hinges.

"Alright, now, follow me close," announced Hollia as they crossed into the town's borders and the rattle of carts rose up from beneath them with the smoke.

With a swerve, the white pigeon turned south, following the town border. Crying out, Ruthenia swung to follow, gripping her umbrella so tight that her fingers began to cramp. Even in midair the crowd was impressive, the flutter of birds about them, mingling with shouted greetings, skirts and crinolines folded or tucked up high, hats stowed in bags.

Eventually Phore descended loftily to the deck outside a shop. Ladders led upward and down, the entire countryside visible between their rungs. Wind stirred Hollia’s long skirt as she slipped off Phore in a gleaming ripple of silk, and Ruthenia followed after, slowing just in time to ease herself to a clumsy stop.

The first thing that struck her as the door swung shut was the scent of silk, alongside all sorts of other strange odours beneath that.

She passed through a forest of cloth—curtains of gowns hanging on her left, men's wear to the right, upper shelves lined with hats of the very best make, some adorned with feathers and chains. Between them she walked with a hung head, feeling like a chunk of rock among cut diamonds.

“The shop's all yours,” said Hollia. “They've never failed me before.”

Ruthenia frowned. “I…may need help. I've never bought an outfit for a high society party before.”

Hollia beamed. “Well, Arcanes are all about the visual symbolism,” she said. “Starting with the colour. Green is like leaves, like growing things…”

Ruthenia did not have to think too hard. “Red, I always saw it as my colour,” she replied. “Like embers, or the sunrise.”

“Makes a statement, I like it,” Hollia replied. “Now, do you have a style in mind?”

Ruthenia shook her head. “I haven't worn a dress since I was ten,” she sighed.

“You don't have to wear a dress if you prefer something else.”

“It's not that—I've just, kind of forgotten how it works. Can I get your opinion?”

“Of course, anytime!”

So began Ruthenia's three-hour hunt. She was helped by the fact that the boutique did not have all that many red dresses, but even then, she trawled through half a dozen with cuts too low or frills too copious, before picking out two.

It was a bold and ruffly red dress. At the collar, a bloom of red ruffles had been pulled into a rose’s shape, the narrow scarlet bodice tapered to a seam, where it adjoined a pleated black skirt enveloped by a lacy red overlayer parted down the middle, trailing all the way to the ground in ripples.

Hollia pointed her towards the fitting area. In the shadow of the screen, the smell of musk and wood filled her nose. A mirror hung on the inside of one of the screen’s pleats; she saw herself in it, her red-brown hair sticking out in spikes everywhere. Forgotten ribbons and bands lay scattered about the floor at her feet.

Casting a wary glance about in the dimness, Ruthenia picked up the first dress. Would this truly work?

As she pulled her head through the ruffles, the clasps scratched her back. She breathed deeply, as if rising for air after a swim. Red ruffles encircled her throat. The top clung closer to her body than she was used to. It had no sleeves; she pulled her arms into armholes, did the hooks on the back seam, and arranged the skirts, looking in the mirror.

Again her own brown eyes stare back. From the shoulders down, the rest of her was transformed. For once, she truly did look beautiful to her eyes, but not demure. The red was bold and the greatly in-folded skirts left room for moving. She flushed, and a nervous laugh left her.

Pulling the screen aside, she stuck her head through to find Hollia conversing eagerly with the cashier lady. “Could I get your thoughts?” she called.

Hollia turned abruptly. “Ooh, yes, come on out!” As Ruthenia carefully slipped through the gap, her friend's er eyes studied her from top to bottom, then she clutched her cheeks with a huge smile. “Ruth, you look gorgeous!”

Ruthenia's face burned. “Paint my face a little and I’ll be right at home with the Arcanes.”

Hollia giggled. “Do you like it?” she said. “Oh, I know, a pair of dark leggings would go well with those skirts. And a pair of boots, too!” She took her by the arm. “Take it off and we'll go pay!”

---

Back at the aviary cottage, Hollia’s grandmother had a full meal whipped up within the hour. Ruthenia could barely hold back once the dishes were lain down for her, although Hollia only barely managed to stop her from gobbling the entire feast up, introducing her to the cutlery piece by piece. Ruthenia groaned and nodded, halfheartedly committing the pieces to memory. Even then, she never got a satisfactory explanation of the difference between a dessert fork and a salad fork, nor why they had to be two different forks.

As it turned out, Hollia had spent the past day preparing a full training regime. And Ruthenia toiled over the specifics of tearing bread and scooping soup and cutting with a fork, if only for the sake of honouring her efforts.

After lunch, she found herself relearning something she had not devoted any thought since she had turned three: how to walk. “No no, keep your back straight.” Hollia clicked her tongue and used her own foot to nudge hers into line. “Your foot must come down farther in front than to the side of the other.”

She quizzed Ruthenia on titles and honorifics and a dozen gestures of courtesy she had never heard of till today. Your Majesty for diarchs and their spouses, Your Highness for siblings and children of diarchs, Your Excellency for parents, Your Lordship for any other relative, and so on.

“Why's the honorific for parents different from children?” Ruthenia muttered.

Either not recognising or not heeding her impatience, Hollia replied, “That comes from the monarchial era, when succession was hereditary. Highnesses are potential heirs and Majesties become Excellencies after they have handed their titles down.”

“Well, it's not hereditary anymore. So why's it still like this?”

She sighed. “You know Astra. Changing tradition is like changing the wheels while the cart is moving.” She dusted her hands. “Well, that concludes the language syllabus.”

Ruthenia rose from the couch where they sat and made towards her umbrella leaning against the shoe rack. “Well, thanks for your help!” she called. “I'll let you know how it goes.”

But Hollia flew over and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Wait, wait, wait. We're not done yet. Aren't you forgetting…”

“What am I forgetting?”

“The dances.”

Ruthenia groaned with a sag of her shoulders, letting her umbrella fall. “Fine. Fine, just for you. Let's do…the dances.”

For the next ten minutes, they rearranged the living room, pushing the tables and chairs to the walls, glassware tucked away in the chest of drawers. Then, with a grin too excited for Ruthenia to refuse, Hollia took hold of her shoulder with one hand. “Now, first and most importantly: relax. Astran dances aren't formulas that you follow. There are standard steps, but all they tell you is when to move your feet, when to let go for a flourish, and when to come back. You have to follow your instinct. And your partner's.”

“What instinct?”

“Just let the rhythm flow through your body. I'll be the lead, and you can follow. Show me your Helika Waltz, and four-two-three!”

The counting brought the Etiquette class roaring through her thoughts like floodwater. With a frightened gasp, Ruthenia took the first step backward as Hollia pushed, and they launched into the Waltz. She was light on her feet—a bird, almost, demonstrating the steps with practiced ease what Ruthenia could only emulate with stumbles and trips. She wasn't accustomed to all of this—losing balance on purpose and letting her dance partner bear her weight—though Hollia clearly seemed to know what she was doing and never once let her drop to the floor.

Whatever she said, she much preferred a formula to none. So she gritted her teeth and repeated the move set furiously—step-step, twirl, snatch-shoulder—step-step, let-go, twirl-the-other-way.

Slowly, the four phases of the Helika Waltz engraved themselves in her muscle memory, and the afternoon glowed and faded, and the sun entered the last quarter of the sky. Concurrently, Hollia obliged to teach a little history regarding the dance.

“Somnia describes the beat of Ihir’s own heart in her memoirs—it goes something like this,” Hollia said buoyantly, tapping out two four-beat cycles on her lap. “Two eighth-notes and then two quarter notes, like a triple meter dance. The fact got out in publications, and the composer Palla took that rhythm for the first Helika Waltz.”

The measures generally followed an alternating two-part cycle—first three beats, forward; next three beats, back—an in-out that emulated the pull of tides, partners taking turns to advance and retreat, pulling the each other along with the pulse of the music.

Arriving at the start point by the end of a phase was not a concern, or so it seemed. Hollia took Ruthenia almost uninhibited about the room, sometimes winding up at walls or corners and having to return to the centre.

"And now you go once around me, clockwise—as far as you want! I'll turn the other way. Make sure you end facing me—then take my right shoulder with your left hand—right shoulder, not left! That's my left."

Come six o’clock, Ruthenia was lounging in one of Hollia’s couches, massaging out all the aches in her back. Neither became aware of the fact that it had gotten that late till the Thread lamps, resting in old sconces, took over the task of lighting the living room. Ruthenia stood up, head heavy with new knowledge she was barely corralling in her mind.

“There’s a ferry station about five minutes’ walk from here,” Hollia said as they sat down for dinner. “I’ll show you the way there. The southbound ferry passes through your region after Helika and Candle—I’m not sure if that’s anywhere close to your home.”

“That’ll do. Thanks.”

At the end of the meal, Hollia moved to pick a globular Thread bulb up off the closest sconce. She awaited Ruthenia down on her doorstep, then took her down the footpath to the ferry station.

The night was crisp, enwrapping them both in cold that smelt of new dew and fresh grass. The cicadas conversed over the miles, the crickets playing their tunes, wind howling through far-off branches. Dinner still sat warm in Ruthenia’s stomach, warding off the chill as a breeze curled by, rustling the grass like an ocean around her. In the sea of blackness, she saw Candelabra glowing gold in the hills.

“Helika’s just south of Candelabra,” answered Hollia, gazing out at the dazzling town. A breeze swept her golden hair back, faintly visible even in the dark. “I see it sometimes, when I’m atop the aviary and the night’s clear and dry. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? That we can both see the capital.”

Ruthenia nodded. “Astra sure is tiny.”

At last, beneath the platform where the dirt road began fading off into the grass, Ruthenia and Hollia hugged goodbye. “Thank you for having me over,” she said, lifting her umbrella horizontal. “And thanks for everything else.”

Hollia patted her arm. “You’ll do me proud at Lord Anio’s wedding, won’t you?”

Ruthenia laughed as she mounted, swinging herself onto the suspended flight mount. “I can’t be sure of that. But I’ll do my best.” With a final wave, she began to ascend towards the ferry station, watching as the birdkeeper and her little light shrank far, far below, winding its way back up the path it had come.

---

In the early morning, Ruthenia found a note from Tanio to pick up bread and milk.

It wasn't two minutes along her flight that she saw lightning streak across the sky. Mesmerizing and pulsing, the sheets of grey came rushing down as she began to turn back, pushing frantically through the downpour. The gale batted her about. She grew delirious in the flashing rain as a swarm of nondescript voices swallowed her. “Ihir?” she gasped as she coursed forward, towards the light of Beacon Way. Rain splashed her tongue, splashed down her chin. “Lilin?” She had almost arrived; she could hear the river, roaring twice as loud. The lights bloomed into flowers in her eyes.

A sudden boom of thunder made her yell, and her flight swung out of control. She only barely felt a great spasm wrack her and her legs lose grip of the umbrella as she swung down, wind hissing, the river water shattering as her shoulder met it. She tried to scream but the current pulled her in like the jaws of a beast and her mouth flooded with river water.

The water gushed into her eyes, and suddenly she was seeing. Seeing a great and endless chaos of ocean waves, their crests burning white, breaking, reforming.

…release me…I'm begging you…

The voice shook her teeth and bones, so vast she felt like nothing. She heard it echo in her skull as if in a cathedral.

…I want it no longer…if pain is all the world is, and if the world is only pain…if forever really doesn’t—

—doesn’t end—

Lilin.

Suddenly, breathless, lying at the bottom of an old seabed cave, Ruthenia knew it beyond a doubt.

Silver wings again, silver wings that linked all her dreams together. Neither a bird’s nor a fish’s—older than bird or fish, older than dread and sorrow; when she beat them against the current, they spewed blood, smoky red streaks spiralling up towards the sun.

Lilin…I know it’s her…

“Lilin!” she yelled, and her breath left her in a trail of bubbles.

A shriek. Father?

In a thrash, Ruthenia dragged her head out of the current and kicked and gasped and coughed, rain flooding into her mouth. The storm was boiling overhead, the silhouette of her umbrella hanging an indiscernible distance above. “Lilin!” she yelled again, but to no avail, sadness clawing away at her chest.

She kicked and thrashed with all the strength in her frigid limbs until she had made it to the bank, and climbed out, coughing and gasping as the rain pattered on her skin, washing the memory of Lilin and of almost-drowning away. There she stood, staring and shivering.

Her umbrella swung in the wind, too far from the bank to be reached. “I’ll get you later, don’t you worry,” she muttered, raising her head and cupping her hands around her mouth. “Tanio! Tanio! I’m stuck!”

It was a number of miserable minutes before Tanio finally heard her yelling and came floating down on his surfboard, reaching out to pluck her umbrella from the air on his way.

She sat hunched and groaning as her boss offered every manner of jibe and admonishment on their way up. “How did you end up like this?” he asked.

She shivered, coughing up more water. “It came without warning,” she said. “I heard a voice in the water. I think it was Lilin. And I think she replied.”

“Oh look, now you’re babbling. Maybe a fever’s coming on. Do you need a physician?” She made a grumbling noise and did not dignify him with a response.

He landed at his porch, half-drenched himself, although the storm had thinned to a drizzle by then. She groaned. “You go get the bread and milk,” she groaned, then raced off to her own shed, shaking with cold as the water sloshed inside her shoes and dripped from her fingers. Inside, she stripped off her soggy, scummy clothes and changed into another set. All she could think of while she pulled a new shirt on was the haunting sound of Lilin’s voice inside, booming and ragged and thin.

---

Chapter 20: Into the Light

Ruthenia rose from her seat. This was the strangest-smelling of places: a stylist's studio near the northwest border of Candelabra Town. Shampoos and tonics mingled with smoke and the perfumes. There were mirrors everywhere, capturing all sorts of faces—the picturesque lady two seats away, the brown-haired child who’d been throwing tantrums just minutes ago.

She saw Hollia, too, behind her—beaming with a hand on the chair. And of course—lashes darkened, blemishes concealed, cheeks speckled with glitter—she saw herself. Or at least she had to believe it was, for she looked too pretty to be herself.

There was one part still unchanged: the colour of her hair. Fiery auburn—lighter than her father's. She wore it in a ponytail higher than she usually did, tied in a band of dark lace ruffles to match a dress.

“You're going to knock those nobles off their feet,” whispered Hollia, patting her arm the way she always did.

“Let’s get to the ferry station.” Ruthenia picked up her umbrella hanging from the chair, and tottered towards the door in her unfamiliar shoes.

Hollia seemed to know northwestern Candelabra by heart. She led Ruthenia along pathways and across bridges. The shops were lit above and below, shophouses holding their doors open to the sky for the evening crowd. The central ferry station of Candelabra loomed overhead, bearing the weight of a hundred.

The evening had begun to fall, bringing a blanket of stars from the far horizon. The sun set red, then twilight-purple, through a brilliant swath of sky, taking the heat with it. Shop signs creaked among smoky columns as Thread lamps glowed to life on storefronts.

“So, the event starts at six,” she said, “but Aleigh wants me there an hour early.”

Hollia nodded. “You’ll take the southbound ferry towards Bollard Town,” said Hollia as they arrived at an open balcony, checking the watch on her wrist. “The trip from here to Helika at this time takes about twenty minutes. It's four twenty-five—will that suffice?”

“Should be enough!” Ruthenia’s reply came unexpectedly loud—only then did she notice the hammering of her heart. Her hands were cold, too, and she gripped her umbrella tighter in the evening wind.

Hollia extended her arms for a gentle embrace. Her warmth melted a little of the chill away. “It’s going to be easy,” she whispered. “All you need to do is keep quiet and do exactly as everyone else does.”

“That sounds like the opposite of easy,” she laughed. Turning from the wind, she began up the staircase towards the station, hands clasped together.

*

The bustling southbound ferry cast its shadow over the tangle of shophouses below. In the cabin around Ruthenia, merchants sat with briefcases on their laps, studying account books or drafting letters. Children raced back and forth across the deck.

She sat at the deck’s edge, staring at the horizon. Her fingers were numb as she clutched her umbrella crook. Now and then she thought she caught intrigued glances from strangers, which never happened usually, and wondered if she was not the only one taken with how dressing up had transformed her.

The flutter of her heart made thinking difficult, but still she recited greetings and honorifics in her head, none of it seeming to stick.

In ten minutes, the ferry had pulled past the border of Candelabra into Helika. Orange roofs became white walls, all tinted brilliant pink by the sunset. She the houses and administrative buildings crowded in, then gave way to the brilliance of the palace lake.

The sparkling waters glittered between four stone banks, filled with reflected clouds and a million pink sparks of sunlight. From the far bank, the spires and floating towers of the palace complex rose, silhouetted in the flaming light.

She rose from her seat as the ship coasted into the station, and thanked the conductor at the cabin door.

Her boots clicked down the gangplank. Behind her, she heard the flutter of sails as the ship departed, and silence settled back over the platform with the rush of the lake against its banks.

The soaring walls of the palace peeked above the far bank of the lake. At the platform's edge, Ruthenia gazed across the watery expanse and breathed in the grassy aroma. Nothing but the lake stood between herself and the royal tower now. She opened her umbrella in her hands. “You’re not getting the better of me, palace,” she said, then flipped her umbrella over, pulling the Threads around it.

She lifted off the edge of the platform into the flaming evening light, and floated towards the vision of towers at the other end of the lake. From the roll of waves rose the rattle of carriages, then the burble of fountains on the boulevards.

The royal tower loomed above the grounds, alien in its white glory. Ten stories tall with a hundred windows, it was styled like the Sign of the Swan, with stone wings hovering on either side. In the southern face of the tower, a gleaming lobby opened like a mouth. The invitation had noted this as the entryway to the function hall.

Today the gates were open, and she could see right through to the other end of the hall, colonnades of Astran pillars standing along the length of either side. More details clarified themselves as she sank closer: a dark carpet unrolled from the foyer to the wall at the far end, on which hung a shimmering banner, almost ten feet tall, bearing the Astran coat of arms.

Drifting to a stop over the foyer, Ruthenia took a step onto the marble and drew a breath as she shut her umbrella. She strode inside, the echoes amplifying her every footstep as her soles clicked against the polished marble. Beneath the cold, she detected a faint floral perfume. She wracked her memory. Her parents' potpourri. Their garden bush. Lavender.

She paused to stare up at the dazzling crystal chandeliers flowering overhead. It made her insides feel heavy. Each one of those crystals could have bought a New Town child an education.

The pillars stood like rows of soldiers along the vast hallway, cream curtains hanging between them, veiling the glow of arched windows. Blue cushioned couches sat along the length, most of them empty.

Upon the farthest one to the right, she spied a figure in white and black.

“Aleigh, is that you?” she shouted, her voice echoing across the hall. She broke into a small run until she almost tripped on the heels of her boots.

“Ruthenia,” answered Aleigh from afar, rising from his seat she approached. “You made it on time.”

Ruthenia skidded to a stop as she reached him, almost rubbing her eyes before remembering the mascara. Today, he looked nothing like the classmate she knew. He had on the ceremonial uniform she'd seen in some of his portraits: white gleaming buttons, golden braided cords and epaulettes on his shoulders. His hair was tied in a ribbon as always, but today it was combed into immaculate golden waves and ringlets.

“Well, you're dressed up,” she breathed, as she scaled the steps to meet him.

“I could say the same.”

Grinning, she joined him on the velvet couch, hooking her umbrella onto the handle. “What do you want with me till six o’clock, anyway?” she asked, straightening her skirts.

“I haven’t much planned,” he answered, eyes trained on her. “I feared you might come under-prepared and I meant to make time for any necessary adjustments, but now I see my worry was misplaced. You have done well. Perhaps too well.”

“Why, thank you, I even learned the Helika Waltz, you know.”

He sighed. “Ruthenia, you were meant to appear as ineligible as possible.”

She lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh, you think I look good?”

“Well—I—” He closed his eyes. “I think we can make this work. Just act like you hate me.”

“Oh, that'll be easy. Stupid Arcane Priss, quit sticking up your nose at the riffraff.”

To her surprise, her companion laughed. It took her a moment to realise she’d never heard him laugh before. “That's more like it.” Then he glanced up at the hallway, at the banner on the wall. “Since we have no more business here, we could very well depart for the ceremonial hall now.” Rising, he turned to offer her a gloved hand. “Shall we?”

She saw, now, how the light of these halls had changed them. Or perhaps it was simply the dressing-up, the masks they wore. But he was not her classmate today. His movements, his dress, his speech, all were premeditated and practised—practised to be effortless, for so many guests before her.

She ignored the extended hand, springing from her seat with an unfamiliar click of heels. “Yes, let's get this over and done with,” she said.

Together they descended to where the black carpet lay, then followed it to the end of the hall. They rounded the banner wall: a screen-wall, hiding the lift from view. It was a square prism of glass and marble, hanging in a hole cut for it. The beaming operator awaited them at its door.

Ruthenia felt a shiver envelop her, footsteps faltering. Aleigh turned when he noticed her trailing. “If you must leave an impression,” he said, “make it a good one.”

They stepped onto the marble platform. The operator offered the Arcane Prince a bow, then one to Ruthenia, then extended an open palm towards her. She stood frowning at him before Aleigh whispered, “your umbrella.” Hastily she offered it up, feeling a little less safe without its weight. With a twirl of his hand, the platform began to descend, silently, through the shaft.

Ruthenia paced about inside the chamber, shivers rippling up her neck. Beside her, Aleigh stood motionless, watching his own reflection in the glass. She pulled her limbs around herself as they slipped away from the marble and the light. For a minute, the starry purple sky was all around them, glittering beyond the glass, the golden palace laid out all around, above and below.

Then the floating elevator was swallowed by the building below. A thin line of gold light appeared at their feet. The chatter grew loud and lively, full of laughter and clinking glasses. Sliver by sliver, the hall revealed itself: a hundred guests conversing amongst themselves between sips of cocktail, ranks of velvet chairs arranged like pieces on a board, a stage dressed in dark blue velvet curtains.

The elevator eased to a stop, and the door slid open, the roar of conversation tiding in. The bright lights sent Ruthenia into a sudden stir of nerves and she dizzily snatched her companion’s arm, and together they entered.

---

Chapter 21: Love and Rebellion

The tangle of lights and voices made Ruthenia stumble, and only her grip on Aleigh’s arm stopped her tripping over the steps.

Perfumes and wine vapours rolled in like a fog, and she stared at the velvet carpeting at her feet, wondering at how spotless it was.

At once there was a surge of gasps and shouts, as the guests moved to welcome the Arcane Prince out of the elevator. A wave of blazing camera flashes followed. She heard exclamations of “Your Highness” and shouted questions. Ruthenia blinked and shielded her eyes with a hand, letting his arm drop.

“My family’s in the front row,” he whispered amid the lights, carving a pathway through the crowd with the sternest glare he could muster. She raced after, fleeing the xenon flashes.

For many dizzying seconds they dodged through the glittering crowd, Ruthenia tripping and stumbling in her unfamiliar sandals. A man with an uncanny grin accosted the two with the bell of a recorder, shouting over the din, “Your Highness, care to introduce this lovely lady to us?”

She went still. “I—uh—”

But before she could keep talking, Aleigh had dragged her away on a detour down a row of chairs to the next aisle. “Don’t answer.” She staggered and caught her breath as they advanced to the front of the hall.

Lights glowed merrily in wrought iron sconces, on pillars between curtained windows. Towards the front of the hall, the crowd thinned until the aisles were clear and only the seats were filled, and they slowed to a walk. Her eyes surveyed the area: the mostly-blond gathering beside the stage that was Arcane royal family was impossible to miss over the heads of the seated guests. Her companion picked up his pace.

But that meeting would have to wait. A flash of blue cloaks stopped them mid-step. Ruthenia looked up, and felt the breath catch in her throat, as the face of the newcomer connected with her memory of every portrait she’d seen of it.

“Good evening, Aleigh,” said Ordinary King Hazen, touching a hand to his heart with the other extended.

“Good evening, Hazen,” the Arcane Prince replied, clasping the extended hand with a dip of his head.

She was not ready when the king turned to regard her, with the same hand held out. “And to you too, miss. Who might you be?”

“Good evening—Your Majesty,” she answered, face heating up as she ransacked her memory for the right gesture. She lowered her left knee, taking the hand he offered and touching her forehead to his fingers. By the time she rose, she was shaking. “I’m Ruthenia. It’s an honour to meet you.”

“I like your dress—the red matches your hair.” It took her several seconds to decide how she felt about being complimented on her clothing. But when she looked up to retort, Hazen was no longer looking at her. “Is she from the families?” he said, stroking his chin with a thumb.

“Not at all,” Aleigh replied. “Ruthenia is my classmate.”

“Interesting.” Hazen raised an eyebrow. “Then she wasn't Aligon's choice?”

“Excuse me, I’m still here!” Ruthenia cut in loudly. “I can speak for myself on that matter.”

“Yes, of course, how rude of me,” the Ordinary King muttered, sparing her a moment’s odd look before smiling. “How did this arrangement come to be?”

“Well, I did Aleigh's mother a big favour recently, and now he's returning it by getting me an invitation. Really appreciate it, by the way.” She offered the quietly glowering Arcane Prince a nod.

“Is that so! You're the one Talia was on about. You must have done them a great service.”

“Hey, it was nothing,” she answered with a giddy grin.

Hazen did not once lose his smile, nor did it ever feel forced. “You are a most unique lady, Ruthenia. It is lovely to have you here. Don't be giving the young Arcane Prince too much trouble.”

“He can deal,” she chuckled.

She saw Aleigh go tense at her response, but Hazen did not seem perturbed, only offered a nod. “I hope you enjoy your visit to the palace, and good day to the both of you. As you were.”

Only once he had departed did her compaion sighed. “Other guests would not have taken so kindly to your interruptions,” he said, to which she grinned innocently. “I'll be seeing my family now, would you like to come along?”

“I think I'll watch from afar. To start, anyway.”

She trailed after him, towards the merry gathering. A waiter with a tray of canapes intercepted her. She picked up a tiny strawberry cake. Munching on the confection, she watched each member of the family circle turn to him, glances turning to grins and greetings. “There you are!” exclaimed a woman in a dazzling gown of blue sequins. “Aleigh, come congratulate your dear cousin!”

With that, he was absorbed into the circle. “He’s here?” A high voice rose above the clamour behind, before a short lady with shocking red hair flew past Ruthenia to poke her head into the huddle, a startlingly long maroon gown trailing behind her. “Anio, get over here, it’s your little cousin!” She sprang upon the Arcane Prince with a hug. “So delighted to see you, Your Highness!”

“Good evening, Cathia, and congratulations,” he answered, returning the hug. The bride! thought Ruthenia, sneaking surreptitiously closer to listen.

“Aw, thank you, you're too sweet! Read any good books lately?”

“I've made most of my way through The Temper of Darkness. It's decent, but not quite the classic I was expecting, considering all the buzz.”

“Oh, disappointing, I was looking forward to that one. Tell you what, let's chat about it after the festivities.”

It was then that Lord Anio—or so Ruthenia assumed—swept in from the opposite side of the gathering and threw his free arm around Cathia, raising the wineglass in his other hand. “How are you, my love?”

“I'm so excited,” sang the woman, draping an arm about Anio's waist. “Can you believe we’re getting married tonight?”

“No lovelier match in the heavens or on Tierra, if I do say so myself!” answered Anio with a smile, bowing to kiss her head. Ruthenia saw that he bore a passing resemblance to Aleigh, but his hair was cropped short and combed back, and his manner was far more open, as if the polite geniality of nobility came naturally to him. Cathia laughed and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

As the conversation settled down and their attentions started drifting to their surroundings, Ruthenia began to inch away. But then it was too late, for the blonde woman in the blue gown had spied her, and, as if seeing a treasure in the distance, flew out of the circle at once with eyes trained upon her.

She stood frozen in place, still making sense of the sight, as the lady cried out, “Ruthenia?” and engulfed her in an embrace. “Oh, I have wanted to meet you for so long!”

“I—how do you know me—are you Aleigh’s mother?” Ruthenia gasped as the thoughts cascaded together. She looked up as the woman let go, the similarity of their faces only just beginning to strike her.

“You are completely right,” replied Talia. She offered her hand, which Ruthenia took in the same gesture as she’d made unto Hazen. “Oh, forgive me. My son—the elder, that is—would roll his eyes at my candidness. But I have so much to thank you for that I cannot treat you as any less than a friend.”

“I was just doing my job,” said Ruthenia, surprised at the Arcane Viz's voice. She cast a glance about. “King Aligon isn’t here yet, is he?”

Talia chortled. “He takes his time, simply because he can. How are you enjoying the palace so far?”

“He takes his time, simply because he can. How are you enjoying the palace so far?”

They were interrupted by a clatter of footsteps from behind. A pair of hands gripped her shoulders, making her yelp. Before she could wrench herself out of that grasp, she had been spun around. “And who’s this!” sang the newcomer, who turned out to be Cathia herself, beaming widely when their eyes met. “You look lovely! But I don't think I've seen you around.”

“Do I look like I’m from around here?” Ruthenia answered, starting to grin despite herself. “Good evening, Lady, Lady-to-Be Cathia.”

“Oh yes, this is Ruthenia,” said Aleigh from over her left shoulder. “She is a guest attending by my goodwill.”

“And a friend to the family,” added Talia.

Cathia glanced from one face to another, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Aleigh, I mean your Highness, is she your partner?” she said.

“No, no, no!” Ruthenia gasped. “I’m here on my own business. I have less than no interest in him.”

Cathia laughed. “Who let this eagle into the company of swans?”

Before any more words could be exchanged, a blaring voice burst through, cutting short all conversation. “Good evening, guests!” it declared. “And our very warmest thanks for your attendance at this wedding ceremony—of Lord Anio Veritian, son of Lady Hespera Veritian sister of Arcane Viz Talia Luzerno mother of Arcane King Aligon Luzerno, to his betrothed, Cathia Argola to be Lady Cathia Veritian, on this evening of the Twenty-First of August, Year Four Hundred and Ninety One! Sorry, big list of names to get through. I am the master of ceremonies, Lord Kamaro Arbel, although just Kamaro will do, if we should run into each other during the proceedings.”

The Arcane royal family hurried to seat themselves in the front row. The seats had already been decided, it appeared, and Ruthenia found hers beside Aleigh’s, her name printed in capital letters on the placard lying upon it.

There was a showering of congratulatory applause all around, and another wave of camera flashes. Almost at once, Kamaro launched into flourishes of prose concerning his nephew’s first encounter with his wife-to-be. The story became increasingly flowery as the scenes unfolded.

“…and in the summer of Four-Eight-Five, the summer of our era, as our good Kings Hazen and Aligon here ascended to the thrones of the country, so did Lord Anio offer his gift of engagement to Cathia, high on a balcony in a restaurant in the middle of Helika.” Now he whirled to face the pair in the middle of the central aisle. “Here we have them, Lord Anio and Lady Cathia!”

Kamaro gestured for them to rise—and laughingly, the couple stood to face their guests, taking each other’s hands.

“And, wait a second, who have we here?” Kamaro gasped, and his gesture towards the back of the room made every head turn in a single concerted movement.

At the far end of the hall, the lift doors slid open, and admitted the most gaudily dazzling couple Ruthenia had ever laid her eyes upon.

The man was unmistakeable with his head of wavy golden hair, a red uniform half-shrouded in a gold-trimmed red cloak glittering with gemstones. He waved as he traversed the centre aisle, offering his hand to those in the closest seats so they could kiss his fingers. Beside him, his wife wore luxurious gold silk, her brow and bodice adorned with almost as many gems as her husband’s cloak.

There were looks and squeals of adoration all around. Aleigh only shook his head and sighed. “Never one to forgo a chance to look ridiculous.”

There was a flurry of shifting and turning in Ruthenia’s row, as the Arcane King and his wife took their seats between Aleigh and their father. Queen Xenia fussed over her gown as she sat, apologising to Aleigh as she swept the folds under herself.

Before Xenia could notice her staring, Ruthenia turned to face forward, licking her lips. She could already hear the Arcane King chattering jauntily with his father, two seats away.

“My dear guests,” resumed Kamaro, “now that all our royal guests have arrived, we may proceed with the wedding ceremony! Could the bride and groom please join me onstage?”

There was polite applause for Anio and Cathia, Kamaro ceding the space to them as they ascended the stairs to the stage, hands still clasped in each other’s.

Kamaro exchanged a few greetings with the wedding couple, before turning to the left end of the stage. “And now, may I invite His Holy Grace, Archbishop Tiel, to the stage as well?”

Cold dread gripped Ruthenia like a cold hand. She watched with short breaths as the man emerged from the shadows to the left of the stage, and the fear clung and throbbed, threatening to spill memories.

Archbishop Tiel was robed in blue-trimmed white, a stark contrast to the glittery gathering below. A slender leather-bound book was clasped in one hand, his iron staff in the other; she bowed away, unable to watch, and listened to the staff thump on the wood as he made his gradual way across the stage.

When she finally found the strength to raise her gaze, he had come to stand before Anio and Cathia.

She’d never thought about the man’s age, but now she could see him close, she saw he looked barely forty, with an old haircut and an upright stature, almost too young for his ancient robes.

Turning to the audience, Tiel commenced a speech distinctly theological, about love as a force that made life what it was, every so often acknowledging the presence of the couple standing stiffly centre-stage.

“And so, as claims the philosopher Elode,” said the man, “love is the soul’s dissent against the selfishness that nature demands of us. It is an intellectual gift that raises us above animals—the gift to know oneself, and then to know another. Love is knowing we are all incomplete, and entrusting those shortcomings to the care of another. Loving is becoming, in part, another, and they becoming, in part, oneself. It is a beauteous act, to love, and to commit to that love. Love is the dissent of the soul, and marriage is an act of rebellion.”

“What do you know about love or rebellion?” Ruthenia muttered.

Tiel shut his small book, and paused for a moment. “Will the couple please stand,” he announced then. He stood his staff on the ground, the swan atop it rising above his head.

Anio and Cathia ascended from their seats. Till then they would not stop holding each other’s hands—clinging, as if it kept them alive. She watched them walk to the front of the stage where Tiel waited. The Archbishop turned his staff about in his hand, so the swan faced the couple before him.

“Lord Anio Veritian, swear by Ihir and the sign of the Swan that you will take Cathia Argola into union with yourself so you are hers as much as you are your own, and swear that this union, made sacred in Ihir’s name, will not be broken, no circumstances and conditions withstanding, no willing change of heart or mind.”

“I swear by Ihir and the sign of the Swan, the above and all things implied,” Anio said earnestly, but his gaze was all for Cathia.

The entire process was repeated with Cathia, identical words and gestures. But her answers came differently: as she spoke, her fingers tightened, and when the words left her, they came furious and high, and accented like a New Town Solan’s. It almost made the event, in all its cold legality, a little less frigid.

“Then by Ihir and the sign of the Swan,” Tiel’s voice rose again. “Your marriage is sanctified and officiated, Lord Anio Veritian and Lady Cathia Veritian.”

In a rousing tide of applause that ascended like a wave without warning, Anio jubilantly took his wife by the shoulders in a whirl of robes, Cathia leaping onto her toes to kiss him. Ruthenia clapped along. The cameras were clicking indiscriminately away once more. Their empty film rolls filled up with pictures of the new lord and lady.

---

Chapter 22: The Demolition of Strongholds

While the audience rose to join the applause and petals were tossed over the crowd, Ruthenia leaned back and folded her arms.

“Congratulations to Lord Anio and Lady Cathia! Aren't they lovely?” Kamaro was answered by more cheers and applause. “My dear little nephew Anio himself. I never imagined he would get married before I!” He flicked his hair out with a grin that won him more laughs, loudest of all from the married couple.

Someone came to take the seat beside Ruthenia, brushing out his robes. She stole a glance rightward, and at once her heartbeat began to roar. It was the Archbishop. Going rigid, she turned quickly away.

For a minute she stared resolutely forward, watching Kamaro strut across the stage with yet another crowd-rousing tale. But with the golden lights blurring before her eyes, she grew angry with herself.

Clenching her jaw, she turned, and found Archbishop Tiel already watching her.

Looking her parents’ killer in the eye did not feel the way she’d expected it to. Nothing about him screamed of evil. His eyes were unrevealing grey, like overcast sky, and now that she could see the lines on his face, she also saw that he was infuriatingly ordinary.

“Good evening, your Holy Grace,” she murmured. She gripped the edge of her seat and tried to feel anything, any of the things she wished she did and thought she should—anger, betrayal, anguish—but somehow she could not find it in her.

Against the sound of the audience’s laughter, Tiel’s voice was quiet as a dove's. “Good evening, ma'am,” he said. “You are?”

“Ruthenia.” Her legs were trembling to flee.

His eyes lit up briefly. “Ruthenia,” he repeated solemnly. “I have known of one other who bore that name. She would be about the same age as you are now. Pray tell, are you she?”

“Who?” she muttered. “I’ve never talked to you before.”

“A child I was asked to save from the streets.” He studied her face with a bizarre, unfamiliar kindliness. “The daughter of the two revolutionaries executed in the Year 485. She was gone when my messengers went in search of her. Tell me, are you she? Did she live after all?”

Ruthenia could not find an appropriate answer to give, not within all the rage she’d hoarded over all the years.

“I...I did,” she said.

He smiled. “Then my heart may rest at ease at last.”

“But I—I don’t understand. What do you mean, you were asked to save me? You delivered the clergy's ultimatum, you—”

He shook his head, eyes clouding up with the memory. “I am so sorry, my child. My heart weeps for your mother and father, too. I never wanted them dead.”

She felt those words slowly demolish her thoughts, the warmth drain from her body. “Then who did it?” Now that she was here, facing the man who had been there, seated in that white throne of power, she wanted an answer. “Who ordered my parents dead?”

“Not one person,” Tiel replied. “But everyone, the machine, acting in concert. The diarchs wanted an answer from the clergy. But the clergy was divided. So we cast votes on the matter. To the last day the halls were full of argument, more than should ever visit a holy establishment. We gave them a recommendation pieced together from the opinions of fifty.”

Two months ago, Ruthenia would have spat accusations, would have cursed the way he tried washing his hands of their blood. Today, she wasn’t sure where to point her rage. Her throat hurt with the beginnings of a fathomless grief, but she couldn’t fashion it into a blade as she normally did. She could not lash out at this man. Not even after six years of longing to.

“How…why are people killed in Ihir’s name?”

“Because everything can be made a weapon in the right hands,” he replied.

How could it be that she had misplaced him in this? She would once have called him a barefaced liar. But had she, in the firestorm of her agony, been the one who had misunderstood?

Ruthenia only nodded blankly, and brought her attention back to the stage, just in time to watch Kamaro close his latest comedic anecdote. The applause and laughter ascending resoundingly around them, drowning out the boom of her heart

*

With the close of the ceremony, the gathering was ushered out of their seats and towards the staircases at the back of the hall, one row at a time.

“Could we leave for few minutes?” Ruthenia whispered to Aleigh as they rose. Her head was still awhirl. “I just need some fresh air; I won’t be long.”

“I could show you to the boulevard,” he replied. “There is time yet before the banquet begins.”

Following the rest of the royals, they made for the corner of the hall and down the staircase. Arriving in the atrium below, where casement windows gazed out on the palace grounds, Aleigh stepped away from the streaming guests and waved for her to follow. Together they crossed the atrium to the foyer, the entire marble hallway faintly reflecting them.

It seemed the press had swarmed to the banquet hall, so there were few intrusions as they went. Paintings hung between the atrium windows. Ruthenia walked briskly until she was ahead of the Arcane Prince.

They passed a scant few guests on their way to the exit. Some were journalists in discussion; she’d come to recognise the badges of commission they wore. They lifted their eyes as the Arcane Prince passed, one scrambling pointing in their direction, but they hastened away before anyone could approach. A huddle of men in suits stood sipping wine by a painting of a fruit bowl. One woman was studying a portrait of Eduro, first king of Astra, lit from below.

They passed through the glass doors that hung open, stepping out into the breezy night. Bursting into the darkness, Ruthenia drank in the air, arms spread out. The sky was purple and only just beginning to glitter.

Down the steps she raced, coming to a stop near the bottom to gaze out over the palace grounds. Stars pricked through a thin gauze of clouds, visible between the towers and blocks above. Where the stairs ended beneath, a boulevard of trees was lain out, a fountain sparkling at its centre, and the breeze carried the fresh scent of the garden in bloom.

She paused for a while, letting the wind wash over her. She let the memories of the Archbishop and of the dizzying camera flashes soak out of her. A brief while later, she heard Aleigh arrive beside her.

“I don’t feel right here,” she said. “I used to hate the people who lived like this, and yet…I'm starting to see the allure. My friends would be furious if they knew where I am.”

“The palace is indeed…opulence incarnate.”

Gaze sweeping the grounds once again, she heaved a sigh. “It’s hard to imagine having such a huge home. Where did you live, before Aligon became Arcane King?”

“In the Lantern District,” Aleigh replied. “My mother was the chief administrator. She has a manor there, with a beautiful garden.” When he fell silent, the rustle of leaves from the boulevard trees rose to fill it.

“And meanwhile, I was pickpocketing to stay alive,” she laughed. “You had everything I ever wanted. And everything I did not. Everything.”

“I wish I had recognised this shameless excess sooner. Then I might have understood how it made me who I am.”

“It's almost like the ignorance was crafted, deliberately,” she asked. “I guess those walls weren't just made to keep strangers out. They kept you in, too.”

He nodded, a breeze setting his hair aflutter. “I never thought it unusual, either,” he replied, walking to the edge of the step to face the wind. “You were committing petty theft long before I was allowed in public unaccompanied. Afternoon detours…failing grades…I was never allowed those. Casual friendships. The freedom to move.”

Ruthenia scrunched up her face. “You ever tried defying your family?”

“When I was five, perhaps. But my father would lock me in the punishment room from lunch till dinner, and that taught me not to.”

She grimaced. “Punishment room?”

“Oh, a repurposed closet with the lock on the outside.” He laughed bitterly. “It taught me to Weave light early.”

Ruthenia cringed. “Ugh, the men in your family are such characters.”

“I am one of them, too.”

“But you're willing to change. And I think that makes all the difference.”

Silence fell over them. Water burbled. Two people were drinking on the boulevard, laughing and tiptoeing on the edge of the fountain pool.

“You won’t live here forever, will you?” she said. “Where do members of old royal families go, once their terms are over?”

Aleigh gazed up into sky beyond the palace tower. “We will probably return to the Lantern District, unless one of our relatives takes the throne next.” he replied. “But I mean to find employment, perhaps as an archivist or a secretary for a ministry.”

“A secretary!” Ruthenia laughed. “That’s a little far to fall, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn't mind falling.” He paused in thought. “If it means no press and no brothers breathing down my neck.”

She shook her head. The whistling gale carried the cold of the mountain. “I really misjudged you. You're nothing like the person I thought you were.”

“I think we have both misjudged each other, then.”

They stood in a comfortable silence for a while, gazing down at the palace grounds. “What's the time?” asked Ruthenia then, glancing backward at the lights in the lobby.

Aleigh glanced up at the tower. “Time for dinner, I reckon,” he said, turning around so the wind was to his back. “Let us return.”

Together, they brisk walked through the lobby, crossing the atrium and passing through the heavy double doors behind the curving staircases, where other guests were gaining clearance. The guards, both unarmed, nodded to the two as they passed.

The ceiling soared, and the bustle of conversation engulfed them in a tide. They followed the right wall, circumnavigating the crowd. Ruthenia stumbled in her boots as she dodged around other guests. A scintillating chandelier the size of a rowboat hung from the ceiling on an ancient golden chain, the pale vaults painted like the sky, arching three stories above their heads. Between towering pillars, windows almost the entire height of the hall gazed out into the night as it fell upon the palace grounds. Balconies with marble balustrades overhung the hall left and right, and thirty round tables, draped with red, surrounded a gleaming lake of marble floor.

A rousing bowed-string hum ascended from the orchestra as its instrumentalists tuned on the velvet-carpet stage. A swirl of aromas suffused the air, of roasted meats and rich sauces mingled with wines. To the left of the stage stood a table two-thirds laden with full wineglasses, already thronged by drinking guests.

Being with the Arcane royal family meant, as expected, a table at the very front of the hall, right beside the orchestra and the wine. Ruthenia checked the empty places one by one until she found the one with a small card bearing her name. To her left was the Arcane Prince’s seat—and, beyond him, the Arcane Queen and King. Ruthenia turned to her right, but the guest had not yet arrived; the name the card bore was Hespera Arbel.

Shrugging, she dropped into the cushioned seat, and unrolled the serviette in a flourish that had Queen Xenia giving her odd looks.

Chatter rose amongst guests as a great pair of wooden doors slid open and waiters in black tailcoats came wheeling trolleys in, great platters and shiny domed covers rattling. A gloved hand placed a steaming bowl on the table before her: a creamy soup with white chunks of something inside.

Ruthenia only barely stopped herself from picking up the bowl and slurping its contents up. A flash lit the surface of her soup, and she straightened, to find that the journalists and photographers were thronging the edges of the hall behind velvet barricades, their cameras flashing like lightning across the hall.

Hespera arrived minutes later, upon her husband’s arm. She was a slender woman of tall stature, blonde and pale as her siblings. Ruthenia watched as she seated herself, beige gown shimmering, then turning to her with a brief “good evening" that startled her straight.

“Oh, good evening to you too,” Ruthenia answered, staring dumbly at the lady’s offered hand before remembering the gesture and taking it with a lowering of her head. She dropped the hand almost too eagerly, and met the woman’s eye again. “You’re the mother of Lord Anio? Congratulations to your son!”

Lady Hespera took in the words with a brief smile. “I have never seen a man more eager to be married,” she said.

“Well, then, he is in for a very happy life hereafter.” She glanced about the table; the wedding couple sat to the right of Hespera’s husband—chairs pulled together, almost no space between them.

“Smile for the papers!” the exclamation made Ruthenia look up and stare wide-eyed as the grinning man pointed his lens at them. A white flare exploded from the xenon flash above the wooden camera box, freezing her into silence.

“Bloody—” She quickly pinched her lips shut, fuming with her fists clenched. “I wasn’t ready for that!”

“Good evening to all our beloved guests,” Kamaro’s voice turned all their heads, pushing the camera flash out of her mind. The master of ceremonies stood atop a black dais, arms held out in welcome. “Thank you, once again, for attending the wedding of Lord Anio Veritian and Lady Cathia Argola! Before dinner is served, I would like to offer the stage to the wedding couple themselves. I’m sure we all want to hear from them, don’t we?”

He waved at their table a bow, and the pair stood to uproarious applause, scurrying to the dais. Stepping up to the fore, Cathia and Anio took turns shoving each other to the front, to a smattering of laughs, until Cathia stepped forward.

She brushed her hair behind her ear, beaming widely. “Hello, everyone!” she said. “Thank you for joining us tonight, you’re all wonderful! This is my first time attending an event so grand, and I must say I’m soundly impressed! They weren't kidding about palace parties.” Her laughter was met with applause. “Now, I’m sure most of you know by now that I’m not from around here. In fact, I was born in the New Town!”

Ruthenia's head perked up at the mention, then she felt silly because her accent should have given it away.

“Nothing ever came easily to us. I studied hard as a child. My parents gave everything they had so I could have a future loftier than their own. My sister landed work with the royal orchestra, who are here with us today, by the way! And she worked so hard to cover our bills—I used to sit in the and live in the music and smile, knowing she was making something so beautiful while keeping us fed.”

She waved at a table beside their own, and the room erupted into applause.

“So, skip to a a decade later, and I've met Anio in an apprenticeship at an editorial company,” Cathia went on. “What was he doing, training to be an editor, you ask? He wasn't: he was the founder's son. And I was their first employee. One thing led to another, and here we are now. And I hear a few of you are wondering if I married this man for his deep, deep pockets.” A murmur swept the audience, punctuated with laughter. She cast a glance at Anio; he grinned back. “And I hear it’s a big debate these days, with you Arcanes—whether it's good to marry out of the big families. I hadn't any idea, for the longest time. Anio was simply the loveliest, warmest, most wonderful person I’ve known—” she jabbed him with her elbow— “aren’t you, beautiful?”

“And here I thought the only thing I was good for was holding your books,” he answered with the grin, and a look almost flirtatious. The two leaned in for a kiss that received growing applause as it grew increasingly fervent. Ruthenia looked away. Catching his breath after they had drawn apart, Anio continued. “Thank you, Cathia, my love, for your extremely flattering words. I’m delighted to finally be marrying you after we first talked about it five years ago. And I look forward to living the rest of my life with you.” Amid coos and sighs, he took her about the shoulders and pressed his cheek against her head. “More importantly, I am looking forward to tonight.”

“Oh, I know,” Cathia replied, placing a hand on his back.

“Oi, there are children here!” yelled Kamaro as he rose from his seat. The laughter that came now was the loudest yet. “Alright, now, thank you, Lord and Lady, but before you begin discussing your plans,” the master declared as he joined them, “shall we begin tonight’s dance, Lord Anio and Lady Cathia?” They nodded eagerly, stepping out onto the gleaming floor, hands locking. With a flourish and a grin, Kamaro gestured at the orchestra.

Across the hall there was an uncanny hush, as a stir of flutes and guitars ushered in the introduction of the very first dance.

The first dance of the night was not unlike the Helika Waltz, though it wasn't precisely the same. Ruthenia began to pair the steps to her memory of the dance. But the melody was spirited and wild, and its various more dignified steps were substituted by twirls and leaps. Anio and Cathia, so lost in their tiny heaven with every star in their eyes, spun and leapt like sparrows beneath the giant chandelier, capturing every gaze in the room.

The music swelled, and the spirit of the dance began to catch on like fire. Other guests began to join Anio and Cathia: nervous nobles, husbands and wives, pulling each other out into the light—they left their seats one by one, entering the breathless whirling dance.

“Ruthenia,” said Aleigh with a tap on her arm. “You will find your opportunity to speak to my brother when he leaves the table to dance.”

Ruthenia nodded. “How will I get his attention?”

He pondered. “I am sure at least one among the dances tonight will be a quadrille. An exchange of partners will be inevitable. You could single him out then.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“That does not matter. Have him leave the dance if you must.” Aleigh’s expression grew stern. “All that matters is that you decide what to say to him beforehand. That is all I ask.”

While the melodies began to entice their guests onto the floor, Ruthenia sat wolfing down dish after sumptuous dish. Soup was followed by a salad appetiser—lettuce, tomatoes and dried fruit drizzled with a tangy white sauce. The main course, roasted steak soaked in pepper sauce, got all over her hands and serviette despite her most valiant efforts. She wiped her hands every few mouthfuls, Hespera watching with a permanently furrowed brow.

Some part of Ruthenia, which stood apart from all the luxury and havoc, saw and knew that she should not be here. Not when her friends were robbing and killing to stay alive. But it was easy, too easy, drenched in these lights, to lose oneself in them.

“Oh, Ruthenia, please have my share,” Talia declared across the table in the midst of a course of beef dumplings. “I try not to have too much beef, but I'd be loath to have these go to waste!” Ruthenia looked up just in time to watch the Arcane Viz pouring dumplings into her bowl, eyes widening by the second.

“Thank you!” she gasped, swallowing a mouthful. “Thank you, that's enough—”

“A little more?” She poured two more dumplings over while, beyond her, her husband Coro watched with concern.

“Yes, that's more than enough!” Ruthenia exclaimed, pulling her plate away. It wasn't the worst predicament—their fried goodness was a symphony on her tongue.

She nodded, before shoved her last dumpling into her mouth.

The fourth course was served in the midst of merry dancing: raw fish in citrusy sauce. Ruthenia found it off-putting, but the nobles seemed absolutely delighted when the waiters uncovered the platters.

“Fresh from the sea, the way I like it,” sighed Aligon, taking a good whiff of the plate before him. Ruthenia turned at the sound of his voice.

“What a rare catch,” said Xenia. “Fish aren't typically on menus these days. The new maritime regulations are doing the industry no good.”

“Indeed, indeed.” She made out Aligon’s reply through the din of clinking forks, leaning a little closer. “The entire matter has weighed upon my mind, but tonight isn't the time for moping!”

“Didn't you mention there might be a solution on the horizon?”

“Oh, yes! The Ministry of Maritime Defence has noted that a dubious new tool has recently made itself available for the purposes of an investigation.”

“Is that so? How odd.”

“Yes, the office received the blueprints for a most interesting machine: a flying camera.”

Ruthenia fell silent, insides twisting up into knots. She dipped the slimy slabs of fish in the citrus sauce, but continued to watch the Arcane King and Queen.

“Well, surely that machine is illegal!” she heard Xenia gasp.

“Ah, but that is where the matter becomes complex, for the machine’s engine is powered by Thread.” He paused to slurp up a long filet, sauce dripping. “How clever. I reckon this may come down to interpretations of scripture and law.”

The Arcane Queen frowned. “Doesn't that make the machine doubly illegal?”

Aligon paused after swallowing. “Why, I cannot say! Either it is twice as illegal, or not at all. You know I would like to fortify the trust of the Ihirin this early in my term, but recently, with the...business with the biochemical laboratory, I suspect I could lose Candelabra town.” Ruthenia’s every muscle tautened.

“Did you not control that story?”

“Yes, but—” He fell silent. Ruthenia went rigid as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Oh my, a wren on the windowsill?” The king turned to Aleigh, who pointedly ignored him. “That lovely lady over there ought to mind her boundaries.”

Xenia’s eyes had followed her husband’s. Cold sweat broke out on Ruthenia's back, but it was too late to pretend otherwise. She glared right back, lifting her fork to her mouth.

“Aligon,” Aleigh put in, “surely you do not intend to allow the crisis to persist unactioned?”

Ruthenia bowed away as the Arcane King’s gaze left her. She proceeded with the meal silently.

“Of course—what would diarchs be if they did not have plans?” Aligon replied, assuming his brilliant tone once more. “Astrans are already suspecting Lilin. The mass dreamings have made sure of it. And we must face it: her reawakening has disrupted all livelihoods that depend on the Argenta Sea, and we cannot to outlast nor avert a problem imposed by a deity. It is starting to appear that the only answer…is to slay her.”

There was a collective intake of breath.

Aleigh shook his head. “Who could do that? Deities are gathered and maintained by their wills. The only way for one to die is for them to desire death.”

“A pity, then,” answered Aligon, hands outspread. “If Lilin is, indeed, intent on bringing death upon our nation, then we must drive her to death first.”

Ruthenia longed to scream in answer, to throw a plate at his head, but for Aleigh's sake, she said nothing.

For a moment, Aligon considered his brother like a raptor considered its prey—then turned to Xenia, rising from his seat with a hand extended. “I tire of this discussion. Let us go dance, my love.”

---

Chapter 23: Green with Spite, Red with Rage

Ruthenia stared after the Arcane diarchs as they departed. “Now?” she said.

“Give them one dance together,” Aleigh replied, skewering the last of the fish with his fork.

She watched intently as the music swelled, and the partners twirled in synchrony. Aligon, with his grand stature and his glittering cloak, was steady yet showy with every step. His wife glided in her finery, like an albatross over waves. They did not leap; they danced the way only royals did, and a few couples stepped aside just to watch.

As the music entered its flourishing, climatic measures, Ruthenia cast a glance at Aleigh. “Come with me,” she said. “I'll need someone to show me the steps.” He nodded back. They rose together, she with a kick of the chair. “Sorry,” she muttered. Her companion said nothing, only held out his hand, and this time, she took it. Cameras flashed hungrily.

“I hope you have enjoyed your banquet so far,” said Kamaro. “It is our greatest desire that you all enjoy yourselves as is fit for a wedding night. Tonight, we have with us the Astran Royal Orchestra, performing the standard nine piece set. The next is the Old Bel Quadrille!”

Together they crossed the dance floor; the spinning couples with their billowing gowns and tailcoats parted to let them through, like flowers across a pond. Everyone danced in drab blacks and blues and greys, even golds, and out here in her blazing red, she felt as bright as a firework.

There was a lull in the music, as they moved into the view of Aligon and his wife. On noticing their arrival, the two turned, beaming.

“Here at last, are we?” said Aligon. “I dearly hope this lady knows the dance. The quadrille comes next.” He cast her a glittering green glance that made her feel wrong.

“I can learn,” she replied with a glare.

“Why don't you watch for two cycles,” Xenia replied, taking her husband's hand, “and commit it to memory?”

On cue, the instruments stirred. From strings and pipes, and metal bars of glockenspiels, the first bar of a quadruple metre piece unfurled warmly across the hall. With no more than a nod, the Arcane King and Queen took swiftly to the dance.

Ruthenia observed diligently, catching the first step of each bar first. Then the twist and step of feet at each downbeat. Like the music, the steps were even and stately, rhythmic and repetitive. Once she read them as a series of foot positions, they stuck fast.

Then at the eighth bar, there was a whirl of movement across the floor, as women flung their partners across to each other. Aligon and Xenia cast a glance at the pair beside them and, seeing they were not ready, brought their gazes back to each other.

At the passing of the twelfth bar, Ruthenia turned to Aleigh, snatching his left hand with her right. “You lead,” she said.

He nodded, taking her right shoulder. “Left foot back,” he answered, and she gasped and almost tripped when the Arcane Prince stepped forward and she hurried to comply with a backward step, leaping away on one foot.

Their first quadrille cycle was a series of tardy steps, stumbles, and crushed toes. For all those seconds, she clung to Aleigh for her life as she stepped away to make room for him, the marble floor spinning below her. He obliged to steer her into the right positions every time she went wayward. She laughed with fright when he swung her away from him with a toss of the shoulder and she made a frantic three-step turn.

But when the next pair of bars came, she realised she already knew them. The panic loosened its grip on her heart, and she put her left foot behind her right, his feet following hers. The pounding of her heart was drowned out by the trembling swell of lutes. By the third cycle, it was as if she had known the dance before she had come here.

“You really do have an excellent memory,” said her dance partner, eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you ready to meet my brother?”

“It has to happen at some point,” she replied with an earnest nod.

He slackened his grip in preparation for the trade, and cast a glance to his right and to his left.

Then she released his left hand, and the next dancer down whirled into his hands at the very same moment that she flew into Aligon's. With no more than a shiver, Ruthenia took the Arcane King’s hand, and he reached out to grasp her shoulder. They rejoined the dance, she doing her best with her newly acquired muscle memory.

When her eyes met King Aligon’s, she could almost feel the world whirling. Studying his face, she found he looked a little like Aleigh, except he was older and stockier, and his hair was short, the same blond hanging in curls on his brow. He wore the grandeur like a mantle—so comfortable within it, it made him seem impossibly tall. She busied herself with dancing, and Aligon obliged, moving her with far more force than Aleigh had.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she managed to say. “I’m sorry about eavesdropping just now.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” he replied with a smile she could not decode. “I like a woman with a mind of her own. Ruthenia Fulminare Cendina.”

Fear sprawled through her chest like tendrils. She fought to stay in beat, taking the next set of steps before speaking. “You know me?” she replied.

“Why, yes,” said Aligon. “My brother’s business is mine as well, as far as it concerns a public event we are attending together, so I took the liberty to conduct some background research. And I must say, what an interesting choice of a partner! That is, if it were true he chose you.” There it was again, that dangerous glint. “But you were not chosen, were you?”

She spent a moment trying to regain her footing. “He owed me, for saving your mother,” she answered, but her heart was booming in her ears again.

“Ah, Little Brother, always so eager to please Mum and Dad.”

Ruthenia felt a sickness in her stomach, as if she had just watched a predator behead its prey. “She's your mother, too,” she said, as impassively as she could.

As this cycle of the quadrille came to a close, Aligon slowed to a pause, studying her calmly. Then his grip shifted from her hand to her arm. “Do you drink, Miss Cendina?” he said, stepping out of the dance, steering her firmly away with himself.

“I don’t,” she said, but it was clear that wouldn't stop him. She wrenched her fingers out of his grip, and followed the Arcane King towards the head of the hall.

They passed dancers in pink and gold, some staring confused at the pair. Occasionally they bowed to Aligon, but he only smiled curtly as they passed.

Passing the wine table, the king picked up a filled glass, gesturing for her to follow suit. She shook her head, watching as camera flashes lit the liquid inside the glasses blood-red.

“So, Miss Cendina,” he said, after a swirl and a sip. “What is it you wish to say to me?”

She frowned. “Why should you think I have anything to say?”

“I do not think the daughter of Lita Kyril would enter the palace with no purpose.” She felt her body go numb as a smile curved his lips.

Still, Ruthenia pressed on. “Then you would know that Titanio Calied is my boss,” she finally said. “He sent you one of his inventions recently. And I am here to make a request—that you to give it due consideration. It’s the only way you can prove it’s Lilin.”

Aligon laughed. “Oh, I'm certain Mister Calied knew that when he sent it,” he replied, sipping his red wine, smiling over the glass. “There is indeed no alternative that doesn't involve revoking one of our previous decrees. But you must understand, Miss Cendina…” And now his voice grew piteous. “If you paid any attention to the political tenor, you would know I have no appetite for bold policy moves. But that's not to say your employer's marvellous invention is useless—no, far from it…”

Ruthenia suddenly understood, in a blinding flash of clarity, what he was truly saying beneath these words. He would take the camera and use it, in secret if he had to, and whatever became of Tanio was whatever was most politically expedient. And he would steer the apparatus of the press, as he always did, to tell the story the way he saw it.

Cameras flashed. Bells glinted. She could tell from his grin that he liked toying with his prey. And there was only one way to rebalance this conversation: she raised her voice.

“I understand now,” she growled. “You see people as a means to an end.”

“No, Miss Cendina, I am merely being considered,” Aligon replied, his voice low. “Let me teach you something your parents never did. It isn't vision that matters, but popular support. I could be the cleverest diarch the world has seen, and I could make sweeping plans that would elevate Astra into a modern utopia by next year. But if, in the course of enacting them, I tore up my people's trust, then my head would be on a plate within a month. And then, my vision would become no more than a joke, shared around at dinner parties.”

“And how many citizens will you butcher just to save your own head?”

She went stiff when the man took her by the shoulder. “Ruthenia, Ruthenia, cool your head now,” he said with a stomach-twisting smile. “You are too much like your mother. Diplomacy is a game of strategy. And you clearly have none.”

White-hot anger wrenched her from inside, blinding her. She was nothing but pure hatred, six years of pent-up hatred. For this man. For his smile. For the silvery voice with which he had spoken her parents' names, had lied his way to power. She hated every gem on his cloak, every mark on his ledger. “A game! A game of lies, maybe! All our lives, our deaths, all pieces on your pathetic little board!” And she yanked the wineglass out of his hands, and flung its contents at his face.

Ignited by a lightning-flash of cameras, the red liquid met his shut eyes in a bloody splash, and rolled down his cheeks, dripping from the tip of his nose and his chin to soak the front of his robe.

Blinking his eyes open, Aligon raised a wine-stained eyebrow. Around her, Ruthenia saw guards leap over the barricade, and she froze and trembled, swinging wildly between the urge to scream and to flee. But the Arcane King only lifted his hand to halt his guards. He waved them away, and reached into his pocket for a napkin, saying nothing while he dabbed his face dry.

Shaking, Ruthenia set the incriminating glass down on the table. The gathering around them was frozen into a tableau, though the music continued undisturbed. The cameras kept flashing. Her heart boomed.

For seconds, they were, indeed, both pieces on a board—red and red, alike in hatred.

The Arcane King began to grin. “You certainly know how to make an impression!” he declared. His grin turned to laughter. It was a laughter that made her feel like running away. “You ought to be thankful that I have a generous sense of humour! Aleigh would most definitely have set the guards upon you.”

She did not return the laughter. “You know nothing about him,” she replied. "He is a better person than you'll ever be."

Aligon went silent, lifting and eyebrow. He reached for another drink, and this time downed the glass in a single gulp. “Shall we return, then?” His voice was dangerously kindly. “I’m sure that that half-dance did not satisfy you.”

*

When Ruthenia returned to the floor, Aleigh was covering his face with both hands. “Ten minutes,” he muttered through his fingers. “It only took you ten minutes to waste an evening's pleasantries.”

“I'm sorry. He just—he started grandstanding about politics being a game. And then he mocked my parents.” She heaved a sigh. “And it flipped my switch. It always does.”

He shook his head. “If you got that far, then you must have gotten deeper under his skin than I expected. So…well done?” He shook his head. “Still, disastrous, by any measure. But I can't deny the satisfaction of seeing someone stand up to him.”

She fought down pangs of remorse. “I'm sorry. I need to take my mind off of it. Do you want to keep dancing?”

He glanced up at the orchestra, who sat flipping their pages. “Well, we haven't much else to do now.”

While the music returned, the caterers carted out the first course of desserts: donuts. This was just as well, for the Arcane King and Queen immediately lost interest and returned to the table. A slow dance was the next on the set—the Reverie, according to Kamaro—and the steps were so simple that Ruthenia did not need to devote any thought to them. Then she muttered, “this is more boring than I thought,” and they broke from the rhythm and pulled into the shade of a balcony, where the press were thinning out for the night.

Watching the party from the margins, Ruthenia was overcome by a curious mix of awe and sorrow—a premonition of years to come when she would reminisce on this one strange night, every scene burned into her mind.

“Whatever tonight’s outcome...I did enjoy being here,” she said amid a tinkling of lutes. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“All else notwithstanding, you have been good company,” her companion replied.

“I just…hope I didn't completely blow it for Tanio. I mean, Aligon did say that the camera was pretty much their only option. But…” She heaved a sigh, shoulders sagging. “What if they do jail him? Oh…you were so right. I'm not good at this diplomacy stuff.”

“No, don't call your motion defeated yet,” he murmured. “Aligon is whimsical at the strangest of times. And he seemed to take your gesture as a joke. And I'm sure that is how he would like it represented.”

“He did say something about his sense of humour.”

“He always did take pleasure in his jokes,” he said, eyes lifting to the stage. “You know, when I was a child, and he a teenager, he would often tell me upsetting lies for his own amusement. As he said, he sees everything as a game.”

“A game of lives and deaths.”

Aleigh nodded. “And votes and laws.”

From the bustling silence rose a soft rumble of drums. Ruthenia lifted her head; her companion's gaze followed her to the stage. “The Helika Waltz,” he said. “They always save it for last.”

“Oh, the only one I learned!” she exclaimed. “At least all that work I put in won't be for nothing.”

Together, they stepped back out from under the balcony. As the first rousing measure of drumbeats declared the beginning of the Helika Waltz, they found a spot on the marble floor, close to the stage, where the music was so close it flooded out their senses.

As they linked hands, Ruthenia laughed. “Sorry to say, but you're going to have to lead this one as well.”

“Happy to oblige,” Aleigh answered through the pulsing hum of the strings, taking her left shoulder. “Have you heard the story of the Helika Waltz?”

“Hollia told me when she was teaching me, it’s the rhythm of Ihir's heartbeat,” Ruthenia said, easing into the beat of the waltz. “I bet Hollia would be having the time of her life if she were here, in my place. Not throwing wine at the Arcane King.”

“She taught you well.” He paused and let go, and she twirled, skirts swirling around her legs. “I assume you don't often attend functions like these?”

“They're not very popular in the New Town, believe it or not,” Ruthenia replied as she flew back into his arms.

Dancing to an orchestra was not like dancing to Ms Kelde's counting. For once, buoyed on a crescendo of strings and horns, she saw the shape of the ocean swell in the pull and push of dancers, heard it in the frenetic tremolo of strings, and all at once she understood what Hollia had meant. Her steps matched the rhythm—the double eighth notes chased by two quarter notes—over and over, round and round, but she moved as she pleased, and Aleigh followed, trading places between other dancers.

At some point she started laughing with the thrill. Her dance partner, perhaps accustomed to such dances, did not look quite so euphoric, but he did smile when she laughed, and she realised she liked to see him smile, if only because the sight was so rare.

But eventually, as they always did, the cymbals entered a shimmering roll, and the strings began to dwindle into a final, gentle repeat of the theme. Applause swelled over the music's final sigh, a polite pattering that resounded through the vaulted hall.

With that, the last note of the Helika Waltz also ended the ceremony. Ruthenia stepped back and let go, feeling a little stupid with the last of her laughter still sitting in her throat. Confusion flooded the joy out as she tried to regain her bearings.

By then, the hall was awake with the buzz of warm conversation as the glittering gathering came to a rippling standstill, the first of them exiting through the lobby and out into the night.

While the room began to empty and other guests drained their drinks, Ruthenia followed Aleigh up the stairs, her heels louder on the marble now that the noise had thinned.

The elevator stood wide for them, the new operator awaiting them with both hands tucked behind her back. Once they were aboard, the prismatic chamber slid quietly away, exiting the roof of the hall. Again, they were themselves immersed in the night, no light to see by but the glow of the neighbouring towers.

“I'll sleep like a log tonight,” Ruthenia whispered, staring out at the palace complex.

“Will you make it home safe?”

She closed her eyes. Water rushed into the dark behind her eyelids. Water and the sound of wings. Lilin. Lilin. “I was literally homeless in the New Town for four years. I'll be fine.”

The lift pulled to a stop at the top of the shaft. Down along the hall, some stragglers tipsily strolled and spun and laughed. There, Ruthenia asked after her umbrella, which the operator brought from the cloakroom and returned with both hands. Grinning to feel its trusty weight in her hand once more, she swung it once round in a circle, then released the catch so it sprung open like a bloom.

“Ihir, I cannot wait to scrub this muck from my face,” she muttered.

“Goodbye, Ruthenia,” replied her companion. “And thank you for your attendance.”

“Thanks for having me over,” she replied, reaching out to pat him on the back, before thinking that that was the wrong gesture for the Arcane Prince. She strung up the umbrella and lifted off without ceremony or regret, only exhaustion and phantom fears of a dance yet to begin.

---

Chapter 24: The Hangover

 Bracing herself, Ruthenia crossed the bridge for breakfast the next morning. As she stepped through the door, Tanio called her name from his armchair, and gestured her over.

“Ruthenia, you have a world of explaining to do,” he said, holding a tabloid open to the third page.

It was with a mounting dread that she snatched the rags and glanced down the columns. A smattering of black-and-white photos peppered the pages, the largest of all being that of a familiar scene: an euphoric Anio and Cathia mid-kiss on the stage.

But among the mosaic of text and pictures beneath, she soon found a photograph of herself in full-body, her skirt billowing around her, its red lost in the dark grey grain. She was holding Aleigh's hand mid-step, on the verge of a leap, with an expression of such buoyant joy that she immediately felt a red-hot flush surge over her.

“No, they didn't,” she breathed, but she could not avert her eyes from the article beneath.

Revolutionary's daughter makes a splash at nobles' wedding

The wedding between Lord Anio and Lady Cathia sprang no shortage of surprises last night. Among them was the Arcane Prince's partner for the night. This young lady was no noblewoman, nor was she an everyday visitor: she was the long-lost daughter of the disgraced revolutionary Lita Kyril, whose name was not known to the public until now: Ruthenia Cendina.

Cendina ruffled some feathers during the function. Towards the end of the night, she became embroiled in an argument with the Arcane King over an invention from Titanio Calied, Cendina's employer, supposedly designed to address the ongoing maritime crisis. The argument ended in her dousing His Majesty in wine. Other attendees took more kindly to her: Arcane Viz Talia was seen offering her food throughout the evening.

For someone with such prominent connections, it may come as a surprise that Ruthenia Cendina has remained outside the public eye until now. Lita Kyril was known to be secretive about her personal life, and rarely spoke of her daughter in public. It remains to be seen if these events will further strain the already tense relationships within the Arcane royal family.

Beneath the article lay a photograph of the exact moment when the wine had met Aligon's face, imprisoned and preserved indefinitely in ink.

She flung the papers back at her boss, who lunged to catch them. “Damn it!” she growled. “How will I show my face in school, now?”

“Well, at least they picked flattering photos.” The man glanced down at the crumpled pages. “I reckon we could make something of this. You really didn't have to go to these lengths for me, but I'm touched, Ruth, I really am.”

She could not bring herself to meet his eye. “Yeah. I really didn't have to. And I shouldn't have.”

“Well, I do say all publicity is good publicity. For the Aperture, anyway. As for the personal repercussions…” He pointed his index finger at her. “Just don't feed the rumours and you'll be fine.”

With a sigh, Ruthenia marched off into the kitchen, plucked a roll from the tabletop, and shoved it into her mouth so that she did not have to dignify him with an answer.

*

Perhaps she should have given school a miss that day, or—at the very least—given herself a long pause before entering the classroom. But all of this regretting was too late, now that she had appeared at the grey doorway of the 2-I classroom, and had been skewered by twenty stares.

Ms. Kelde lowered her textbook to squint at her. “Miss Cendina, sit, please.” Her voice was confused, missing the usual reprimand for her lateness. Ruthenia felt her throat go dry.

She completed the walk of shame down the aisle, in front of a perfectly silent classroom. "Here she comes, woman of the hour!" whispered Alacero, scrambling to make way for her to pass. She dropped into her seat, bag thudding to the ground.

“Was that really you in the news?” asked Calan.

“Yes?”

He chuckled. “You're so good at starting drama that you just had to demonstrate in the palace, huh. Talk about a step up from yelling at teachers.”

“My Ma doesn't believe that I sit next to you in class!” Alacero piped up. “And honestly, I'm just confused. How am I meant to feel about this?”

While their voices circled her like flies, Ruthenia laid her head on her desk and breathed a long, deflating sigh. “Ugh, please, I'm still the same person.” But neither seemed to hear her, and she buried her head under her bag.

It barely took until the start of tea break for Iurita to weigh in. “Miss Cendina, what a surprise.” Ruthenia froze at the door, as a thin hand gripped her shoulder, that voice with its perfect curling syllables murmuring in her ear. “You made quite a stir last night. I must applaud your cosmetic efforts, I almost didn't recognise you!”

“Do you want something?” Ruthenia muttered.

“Oh, I have some friendly advice, is all,” she said, grasping Ruthenia's elbow to pull her along on a stroll. “Watch your step.”

For the first time, Ruthenia saw it—a nervousness behind the biting words. Iurita felt threatened.

“I don't know how you’ve made the Arcane Prince accessory to your plots, and perhaps our classmates don't recognise the gravity of what you did last night,” she continued, “but you, I think, are more than just a nuisance. You're a danger.”

Ruthenia shrugged her arm off, brow furrowing. A thousand retorts writhed in her throat. But then she remembered the Arcane King. It's all one big game. And she wanted no part in it. So she kept her mouth shut.

She was saved when the elevator doors creaked open, pouring a flock of first year students into the hall. The boisterous crowd jostled the two apart, and Ruthenia took the chance to disappear, ducking into the crowd to scramble back to the classroom.

*

At the very least, throughout the quiet ordeal of being stared at through class after class, one social connection needed no tending.

Right on the closing bell, Hollia found Ruthenia at the door, and at first, there were several seconds of mutual, open-mouthed staring as they traded a thousand emotions through their gazes. Then Hollia squealed, and leapt into a hug. “I still don't know what to say,” she breathed, voice shaking. “You got up to so much last night, and I can't decide if I should be proud or worried, frankly, but—one thing's for sure, you did knock them off their feet!”

As they walked out in the corridor, Ruthenia made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah, tell me about it. I was just helping out my boss. And now I'm in every tabloid.”

“So, how was it? Was the food good? How was the dancing? Did you meet the bride and groom?”

Even hearing the cascade of questions, Ruthenia had to catch her breath. “The food? To die for. The dancing? Could have been much worse, and thank you for teaching me, it saved my life. The bride and groom? I just met the bride, but she was wonderful. Did you know she's from the New Town?”

“Yes! They met in the New Town too. It's such a dreamy tale!” She clutched her cheeks. “I can't believe you actually got to see them get married!”

“Yeah, and the Arcane Viz kept giving me dumplings, and I got to chat with the Ordinary King like any old acquaintance…it was just so much.”

Hollia stopped to tap both feet in excitement.

“Oh, Ruth, I'm so, so, so, so happy for you!” They had stopped outside the menagerie gate. “Remember last week when you didn't think you had it in you? Well, you did it!”

“And I soiled the Arcane King's precious uniform thing.”

“And? His mother gave you food! That's like, the sweetest thing someone's parent could do for you.”

“Oh, there was more to it than that. We have some, let's call it, history.”

Hollia grabbed Ruthenia's wrists. “Oh, look at you. Having history with the Arcane Viz. You never had anything to worry about.” She giggled, then let go to point at the menagerie gate. “I have to go collect Phore, you have a safe flight home.”

Ruthenia nodded, preparing her umbrella in hand. “Thank you, Hollia, you have no idea how much you helped.”

Hollia beamed back. “What else are friends for?”

---

In such a manner, Ruthenia's social life was swept up in a chaotic furor for all of three days. But by Thursday, the jokes and stares had begun to overstay their welcome, and the subject of Ruthenia Cendina was—to her relief—becoming passe. Perhaps everyone had realised that Ruthenia the person had not changed one speck, and the novelty had steadily and surely worn off.

A few things, however, had changed for good, it seemed.

As the tea bell rang, she sat trading jabs with her two seatmates, warm with the relief that their days of furtive silence were past. That was until Calan looked past her and fell silent, tapping her shoulder. “Ruth, I think, er, someone wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?” Her eyes followed his over her shoulder, and she found Aleigh standing in the aisle beside their row, waiting for an opening in the conversation. “Hey, how can I help you?”

With all three pairs of eyes watching him, he stepped backward, arms wrapping around his book. “I meant to ask,” he said haltingly, closing his eyes with an inhale, “if you'd like to join me at tea.”

“Oh! Yeah, why not? If you want.” She leapt to her feet, and Alacero eagerly leaned to let her pass, both boys crying oh! at each other as she lunged to grab her lunch bag.

As they strolled out of the classroom, Ruthenia elbowed him with a laugh and said, “I thought you didn't like company.”

“I thought you didn't like me,” Aleigh replied.

“I was wrong about you.”

“And I was wrong about not liking company.”

“Aw, that's the sweetest thing you've ever said.” She grinned. “Is the offer standing?”

“If you'd like it to be, then certainly,” he answered stiltedly.

As they entered the lift lobby, Ruthenia was only just aware of some chatter stirring on the opposite side—it was Telis and Lora, Hollia's friends, and they were laughing politely between themselves. “Oh look, the eagle and the swan,” the latter whispered. “Who ever thought that it would work?”

Ruthenia folded her arms and looked the other way.

They found Aleigh's favourite table in the corner of the mezzanine. While he settled into the seat and began flipping through his new novel, one called Heaven's Gaps, Ruthenia dropped her lunch bag onto the table with an unseemly plop.

“How long will all these jokes go on?” she asked, watching the sun brighten over the fields in the window. He did not respond, so she craned her neck to read over his arm, glimpsing but a few words before he hastily closed the book.

“A week at the very most,” he said. “They will get bored once the story has left the news cycle.” The afternoon was buzzing with crickets, the clatter of utensils accompanying them. Instead of returning to his novel, he turned to her. “How are you feeling about it?”

“A lot more at peace now that things are going back to normal,” she replied. “You?”

He laid his book on the table. “The truth is, I'm exhausted. My brother will not say it aloud, but he has been quite enraged by your stunt.”

Ruthenia laughed. “Well, at least one good thing came of that,” she said.

“No, I mean, the press has been hounding him about this supposed miraculous invention that he was hoping would get no attention at all. He is blaming me for bringing you.” He shook his head. “You've brought the machine to the public eye, and now he cannot pretend it doesn't exist. A prescient strategy, truly.”

For a minute, Ruthenia stared, taking in the fact that the impossible had happened: that her visit had yielded precisely the result she had hoped for. “You and I both know I'm no strategist,” she replied. “But, say, let's pretend it was my intent all along. Just towards your brother. I think he could use some of that fear.”

Aleigh nodded slowly. She waited for a reply—but by now, he was busy riffling through the paperback in his hand. Shaking her head, she said, “What’s Heaven's Gaps?”

“It’s one of my favourite books,” he answered absently.

“What kind?”

Fingers going still, he peered down at the page he’d caught. “A classical novel about a deity and a mortal. It has been translated twelve separate times from Cin-fa. I own every translation, but this one is my favourite.”

She leaned over to read it, and this time he did not shut it. Her eyes landed on a paragraph that described the gates and ponds of a pristine compound, before launching into descriptions of amorous gestures exchanged by the lead characters.

“Oh, is it some sort of tragic star-crossed love thing?” she murmured.

“Yes, and what about it?” He frowned, attention split between her and the book.

“What do you like about it?”

“The pathos of a futile struggle against a preordained fate,” he replied.

“That sounds so…sad.”

“Well, perhaps I like sad stories.”

Ruthenia shrugged and let him return to his beloved novel, while she confronted her beloathed pie.

---

Chapter 25: Open Wounds

Preface 05: The Basic Principles of Chemistry

Sharmon’s lab was not the sort of place one associated with scholarly pursuits, for it more resembled an artist’s painting room than it did a laboratory.

The bottled chemicals that sat arranged in ranks along shelves contained every hue of the rainbow, and every hue outside it too. On other shelves were bottled metals, dull, matte, lustrous.

The samples were as foreign and fascinating as tales of another land. Some fizzed when stirred together; others created pastes and sediments. It had always struck Ruthenia as strange, that metals meant to take on the most wondrous of forms should be incarcerated in glass vials to be treated with blue fires and tinted solutions.

Up on Sharmon’s wall, there was a bulbous chart of multiple merged circles: a line of cells that made a circle and wrapped around itself many times, budding suddenly in parts, sagging with the names of metals. There were words in the boxes, some familiar and others as peculiar as the colours of the bottled chemicals—“copper”, “lith”, “haf”—and Sharmon said that it was a scientist of Akido who had first thought to put them in a spiral.

The man had, like Ruthenia, been learning about science since his childhood, and while he’d always had a flair for painting, he’d also watched his parents create strange new pigments in their shed. At some point in his childhood, chemistry had swallowed him up, painter’s psyche and all.

Why did you join us? Ruthenia asked. He said, “It is the right of Astra—to know, and to rejoice in that knowing.”

Sharmon sometimes took it upon himself to educate Ruthenia in the fundamentals of chemistry. The chemicals seemed indecisive and ungoverned, even though every transformation was an immutable process. Why should they trade charges? Why should they combine the way they did?

Some of these questions, Sharmon said he could not explain in ways she would understand; others, he claimed the scientific community had as little of a clue as she.

---

On Friday, Ruthenia flew to the New Town to join her friends for lunch under the bridge. The river murmured below the cobblestones, and it wasn't hard to see how far the swirl of water had risen, how choppy the current had grown. She found their usual spot flooded out, her friends sitting on stones farther up the bank, munching on skewered meat and round loaves.

Each one turned to stare at her as she arrived, enraptured or worried. And with just a hint of a twinge, she saw that they already had a fifth member with them: Reida, who sat atop a suitcase on dry bank without any lunch in hand.

“Ruthenia!” Den called out over his lunch before that thought could go elsewhere. “Ruthenia, heartiest congratulations! Reida tells us you made a ruckus at some high society function over the weekend. Especially well done on soiling the Arcane King’s favourite robe.”

“Quite the story,” Reida put in with her own smile. “They're milking it for all it's worth at work. I'm still not used to hearing a friend's name in the offices.”

“Yeah yeah, Ruth's just off gallivanting with the royals while we're down here wondering where our next meal's coming from,” Tante muttered before tearing meat off a drumstick with his teeth.

Leaning over, Hyder passed Ruthenia their basket of bread and a pot of chicken, and a wooden fork. “Ruth, tell us what it was like,” he said as she began to pile chicken onto a slice of bread. “Being up there in the palace.”

“It was…excessive. There was too much of everything. Just like you’d expect, but with twice as much.”

“Must have been nice.” Hyder sighed. “Why didn’t you tell us? About the Arcane Prince, and about attending with him.”

“All I meant to do was get in and talk to Aligon about my boss!” she muttered. “I asked him if he’d help me, and he said yes.”

“And he just—let you?” Hyder burst out. “You don’t even tie your shoelaces, how did you convince him?”

Ruthenia shook her head. “We're friends. It is literally that simple.”

Tante scoffed. “Sure, just ‘make friends’ with a royal.”

“Anyway, Ruth!” Den cut in amid a crescendo of voices. “Now that you're here, I believe Reida has a thing or two to say to you. She's been looking for you since last Friday.”

“Don’t you worry, love,” the woman answered with a smile, waving Ruthenia towards herself. “I’m afraid I shall have to speak to Ruthenia in private. Excuse us, boys.”

“Ooh, I bet it's lady stuff,” Ruthenia heard Tante whisper to Gordo. Picking up her umbrella from where it lay by her feet, she followed Reida out of the alley.

Once they were at the junction under the sprawling oak where the bridge met the road, Reida turned. “So, how are you, love?” she said. “I mean, aside from getting in with the nobility and all.

“Tired,” she muttered. “Talking to the king I can take. The visibility? Not sure how much longer I'm going to last.”

Reida offer her a smile. “Fickle, isn't it? Fame, I mean. You do the right thing in the right place, and suddenly you're on everyone's front page,” she replied. “They’ll make sure it means something.”

“So I've learned,” she grumbled. “Anyway, what'd you want to talk to me about?”

“So, d’you remember the gun carriers I spoke of a couple months ago, in which you took great interest at the time?” Ruthenia nodded. “Excellent. Lately, I have taken to searching for an explanation, and my questing has yielded me a lead.”

“Really? Tell me you weren’t hunting down leads for my sake.”

“No, you silly,” she laughed, hand to her mouth. “I have business of my own, and it takes me strange places. The Swan’s Post could stand to gain from reporting on a potentially dangerous gang situation, what with all the guns about. If the boss will let me.” She paused. “But enough about the Swan’s Post. I have traced suspicious activity to the New Town East Laboratory, and intend to investigate further.”

“That’s my mother’s— It’s abandoned.” She frowned. “What did you discover?”

“I heard mechanical noises from inside the building,” Reida said. “I stayed an hour but saw no one come or go, and the front doors appear untouched.”

“What are they doing with the lab?” Ruthenia muttered, glancing at the blocks across the street. “Could we meet tomorrow about this? At, say, four o’clock?”

“Four would be perfect,” she answered with a temperate smile. “I meant to ask if you’d accompany me. Perhaps carrying a weapon of your own.”

Ruthenia grinned. “You didn’t ask any of the rest?”

“I trust you more than I do any of them. Tante gives me the shivers. And Den only knows how to use his tongue.”

“Does he?” She waggled her eyebrows. “How’s that going? Your business with Den, I mean.”

Reida laughed. “I barely know if he cares about me in any genuine way,” she replied. “I have never doubted that my standing with the bureau is a part of his motive, but I’m afraid I cannot tell just how great a part.”

Ruthenia smirked. “He’ll be disappointed to know that you’ve figured it out.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure he knows that I have. Besides, I dislike Marva almost as much as he.”

“Is he so bad?”

“Every month or so, a Royal Bird comes around, offering to pay the Swan’s Post to feed trash to the New Town. The boss is glad to follow stipulations.” Ruthenia grimaced. “Of course, that is the very reason I have worked as hard as I have. Already he is positioning me to become one of his managers.” Reida smiled, a touch slyly. “I’ll show him how to run a press.”

“Even if you end up losing funding?”

“We are in the business of telling the truth, not turning a huge profit.”

Ruthenia grinned. “You’re going to drive the company to ruin,” she said. “Should I leave you my messenger code?”

---

In what was the finale of three weeks’ fierce deliberation, Tanio's flying camera was found to fly on the power of Thread alone, and accepted by the government as a research instrument.

A tremor had sent a bank house crashing into the ground earlier that week. There was no doubt the mounting danger had had a hand in these concessions.

Tanio's porch was crowded with reporters the next morning. She saw many a camera flash at her shed, and one time she heard a knock on her door that she dourly answered by asking them to leave in less palatable language. She had been on the third page of the tabloids, but he was on page one, and was graced with precious radio airtime.

Listening to the interview in her boss’s little living room (he’d assembled a staticky radio from spare parts for that very purpose), Ruthenia began to wonder how she survived in the same house as this man. He could be speaking of religion and politics one morning as if discussing an exotic breakfast, and the next, making a breakfast decidedly the opposite of exotic.

*

A musicmaker awaited Ruthenia inside the door to her shed when she got home the next evening. She hefted the machine over to her workbench, and stared down at it, arms folded in thought. When she cranked it to play, it only rolled for a few seconds—a tinkling tune that made her think of the quadrille—before it wound down and slowed to a halt. But it was too late in the evening for.

That night, Ruthenia flew down to the riverside with her lantern. She draped her legs over the edge of the umbrella so it tipped slightly, dipping her feet in the frigid water. She listened closely to the murmur of the river. There were no voices tonight.

“Lilin,” Ruthenia said. “Are you going to destroy Astra? After so many centuries of truce? What’s making you angry?” She closed her eyes to the glow of the moon, and sighed in the cool wind. “I think I understand. Parents aren’t always reasonable, are they?”

The moon rippled in glittery circles about her feet. She thought she heard night sparrows flitting through the rustling crop.

“Are you angry, Lilin?” she asked again as her eyelids parted. “Are you grieving?”

As if in answer, a wave surged from the surface of the river, swirling once about her feet as if reaching to hold her, to pull her in. She held fast to her umbrella’s shaft, listening for an answer, hearing none.

---

Chapter 26: The Coiled Naga

At the end of work on Saturday, before Eldon had taken them to the dining hall, Ruthenia took her things and snuck away. She soared across fields till they segued into the grey patchwork of roads that was the New Town. Amid the afternoon roadway bustle of chugging engines and clattering wheels, she dodged smoke columns, surveying the ground for the old place of her childhood.

She knew it almost immediately, the dark spot in the landscape, two streets from the eastern plaza; descending towards its rooftop she was filled up with a strange bitter nostalgia. An image flashed in her eyes: the Candle Plaza, the line of guards. She wrenched her mind away from the thought.

She pulled a sandwich she had made herself from her bag, munching on the cured ham and soggy vegetables as she sprinted up the pavement in front of the smoke-stained laboratory block. The imprints of the old vines long torn off pockmarked the facade, the cornice overhanging ornate Belan windows. Reida was waiting at the front stairs, between a pair of white Astran pillars that Ruthenia had once loved. The doors were shut, a shiny chain strung up across it, and the steps were dusty with soot.

Reida was dressed too well for this part of the town, coat dress over petticoats, ribbons in her hair, and her flying suitcase stood on its side beneath her palm. “Is there another entrance?” she asked when Ruthenia appeared.

She cast a glance about, before laying eyes upon the circular drain cover by the pavement. “No doors, but there were a couple of drains in the basement that were large enough to climb through. I doubt they’d be able to fit an entire gang through those, though.”

“It’s worth a try.” They approached the roadside drain cover, Ruthenia squatting to grip the rings with both hands. She straightened slowly to a stand, and the cover slid out with her, making her palms burn.

With a sigh of relief, she dropped the grimy thing with a clatter. The noise echoed down the dark shaft. Then she dusted her hands on her pants while Reida sank to her knees and peered inside.

Her head rose. “Are you armed?” she asked. Ruthenia nodded, slipping the fruit knife, wrapped in a dishcloth, out of her bag to show her. Lifting a hand, Reida began to whirl her fingers about, a tiny loop of light materialising upon her palm. “If anything happens, we bargain. No running or fighting; if this outfit is illegal they would want nothing more than to ensure our silence. I know enough Weaving to make a flimsy net. The knife is a last resort.”

The woman seemed to be saying more than she knew. Dread glittered in her dark brown eyes. With a nod and a pat on the forearm, Ruthenia slid onto the first rung of the ladder, and began her climb, the dark, watery gullet swallowing her.

There was no sound but the sound of carriages chugging overhead, and the gentle splash of drainwater slopping at the bottom of the ladder, smelling of dampness and scum. Ruthenia guided herself down by touch alone, and glanced downward every few seconds. Outside of the rippling reflection of the hole above, nothing else was visible. She shivered.

The Thread light followed Reida in. As her companion approached, certain features of the nondescript black were revealed: a sloshing stream of water, the depth indiscernible, and holes along the walls of the underground canal, spewing water out.

Ruthenia tested the depth of the water first, lowering her left foot until the slurry engulfed her shoe halfway up the heel. Water soaked in. She cursed. Then her foot met the drain bed. “It’s shallow enough to walk in,” she called upward. “But your socks will be sodden at the end of the trip.”

“Secrets are worth a pair of smelly socks,” Reida replied, bringing the light with her while Ruthenia stepped off the last rung, her right foot claimed by the waters.

They paused and fell silent. The Thread light flashed across the water, lighting a patch of the far wall.

“There,” said Reida, pointing at the part of the wall where a circular outlet about two feet up opened into the main one. Splashing through the drainwater, they climbed into the branching way, Ruthenia giving Reida a hand up.

The ensuing drain was barely tall enough for their heads, and the water was no more than a puddle deep. They scurried along through the damp depths, hands on the sides.

Halfway down the tunnel, Ruthenia paused. A flicker of firelight lit the curve of the drain. “There’s someone there,” she whispered, tilting to a side with all her weight on one hand so Reida could peer over her shoulder. “They’ve been doing something under the lab.”

“Shush.” Then they went silent again, and although nothing seemed amiss at first, Ruthenia slowly began to realise that the sound of chugging was louder than it had been before, and that it filled the dim little channel inside which they stood.

“They’re using the lab machines,” she muttered. “I can’t bleeding believe it. How did no one realise?” She turned to look Reida in the eye. “Let’s go ask them what it’s all about.”

“Be careful. They’re probably armed.”

As they approached, they saw that the glow of flame was hidden around another bend. Their paces quickened. Scraps of metal and paper lay discarded in the water, churned up from the bed as they splashed through. Then they came upon wall paintings, which Reida paused to lift her Thread torch to. No Trespassing, read one. Ruthenia sniffed. “We’re not the ones trespassing,” she muttered.

“Who are you?”

Both were startled out of the water. Feet came stomping down the turning. The two glanced at each other and Reida crushed her Thread light in her fist. Ruthenia began reaching through the folds of her bag for her knife, halted only by her companion’s glare and a subtle shake of her head.

Nodding, she let her hand drop from her bag, and they turned to meet the newcomer as he emerged from the light at the bend.

He was a hulking man with a shaven head, his right leg wooden from the knee. Even though he was almost a silhouette with the light to his back, Ruthenia could make out his clothing. The shirt on his back was patched so many times one almost could not tell which fabric was the original. On his waist hung a belt, and on that belt hung a gleaming Ordiva, just like the one Ruthenia had found on the boy that day. Her ears roared.

“Get out!” he shouted, with a shooing gesture. “Get out or I’ll put metal in you!”

Ruthenia could feel her breath quickening by the second.

“We aren’t here to give you away,” Reida shouted down the waterway. “We just wanted to know why there was noise coming from the building—”

“I don’t care why you’re here. Back to the top with you!” In a fluid motion he plucked the gun from the belt and jabbed it in their direction, cocking it with a click. At the sound, fear snatched Ruthenia bodily, squeezing gasp after gasp out of her. “You have a minute to scarper.”

“No. No,” she only just managed. “This place was my home before you even thought to come here. I know this place better than you. Don’t keep me out.”

The man stepped forward with narrowing eyes, gun still raised. “You’re a scientist?”

“My parents were!” she replied. “In fact, my mother Lita Kyril was the last head of this lab!”

It took about five seconds for the words to register as a widening of eyes. “That's why you look so familiar,” the man breathed. His revolver barrel wavered. “Ruthenia Cendina?”

“Oh, you know me, good!” Ruthenia replied, heart pounding in her throat.

A change was coming over his gaze, like a thawing of ice. He studied her face as if he might find her name written in her features. “Why are you here?” he asked blankly. “Are you here to join us?”

“I’m here to find out where these guns are coming from,” she answered. “And why, specifically, they’re coming out of my parents’ lab.”

The Ordiva had vanished, and the man’s frown with it. “Ruthenia,” he said, tucking the revolver in its makeshift holster. He strode forward through the murk, swinging with a subtle limp. “I’m so pleased to welcome you. I am Greso. Please—you must come with me to see the rest. They would love to meet you.”

At those words, Ruthenia felt the heat and bravado drain from her. “Really? I mean, of course, but—”

Without answering, he waved for them to follow. Reida nodded in her direction before following him. With a frown, she followed suit.

“We knew you were our ally from the very moment we heard of you,” Greso said as they passed into the firelight and rounded the bend. “How delighted we were to hear of the king soiled by his own riches, in his own palace.”

“Whoa, I didn’t mean—” Reida shook her head, a trace of a smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. “Actually, maybe I did.”

They stopped inside a grimy stone chamber lit by kerosene lamps on makeshift metal-strip hooks. Six drainpipes gaped in the walls, wide enough to crawl through. But only one of them released a narrow trickle today; the rest were dry and caked with sedimentary stalactites.

And covering almost every inch of the damp floor, and stuffed into some of the larger pipes, were crates laden with glittering gun parts, wood and brass peeking from beneath the covers. Bent screws and barrels lay discarded in puddles on the ground.

Ruthenia opened her mouth. “Ihir burn me,” she said under her breath, eyes darting about. “You’re making them. You’ve been making them yourself.”

“We have our allies,” said Greso, a smile in his voice. “It’s gunpowder we have trouble with. And that’s what we’re under a lab for.”

“What for?” asked Ruthenia, though she had an inkling as to the answer.

Greso paused, a hand on the handle of the narrow old access door, its base already rotten to fibres. “These guns aren’t just for us. They’re for the town.”

All at once, comprehension dawned upon her. Again she gaped. “Rebels?” He nodded, shoulders squared with pride. Then she frowned. “I don’t think they’re using them the way you want them to.”

“Of course not!” answered Greso. “Better an unruly town than a town in chains.”

Ruthenia pursed her lips. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

The man grinned. “Little more than a year.”

“I leave for two years, and you guys come up with—” she spread her arms— “with this.” She was no stranger to secret basement projects, this put all others to shame.

“This is quite special, indeed,” murmured Reida.

The door handle screeched. It swung inward to reveal a dank staircase, lit flickering orange, as with the chamber below. The rhythmic clack of Greso’s wooden leg on the steps echoed up the stairwell. The sounds of lab machinery, and the ever-growing swell of chatter, rose into audibility.

The access staircase ended in an alcove of a room Ruthenia recognised by the low hum and clatter of machinery as the ball mill room. The air was humid and it smelled of something they shouldn’t be breathing.

In the corner, watching over the nearest machines, sat a woman chewing leaves. She made the barest effort to lift the head to greet Greso—but on seeing the two accompanying him, she straightened.

“Who’s that you have with you, Greso? I know her face,” she said, pointing a finger at Ruthenia. “Nudge my memory, will you?”

Greso cast a glance backward. “She’s the one who threw wine at the Arcane King.”

“Oh, fancy seeing you here!” the woman exclaimed, spitting leaves into her clay pot and breaking into a grin. “Why do you grace us with a visit?”

“We had to find out where the guns were coming from.”

“You did us all a favour.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she answered, warming up enough for a smile. Then Greso was waving them onward once again.

Through a broken door they passed, towards the heart of the noise. Ruthenia remembered these doorways; they looked different in the lamplight. And as they passed into the assembly hall, she began to understand that this was no longer the facility that had been her home.

It was still a home, just someone else's: paper bags and beer bottles lay strewn about, a village of folded-sheet mattresses and makeshift tents inhabited by raggedy folks with scars and tattered shirts, curled around rolled-up jackets, playing games on boards drawn with charcoal. The white-tiled sterility of Lita Kyril’s precious laboratory was lost in the warmth of the conversation passing back and forth.

A surge of silence accompanied their arrival, then a small smattering of “welcome”s and “who are you”s—and a few whispers of recognition that quickly grew into a rowdy exchange.

“I knew we’d meet, I knew she’d find us, what did I tell you!” cackled an aged lady. “You did good, you little demon.” Clamours of welcome paved their way past the gathering. Reida had the patience to spare for acknowledging each one, but Ruthenia offered no more than a nod.

Greso stopped at the head of the hallway, where there sat a figure at an old lab bench, robed in black and hunched over a notebook. He formed a singular contrast to the gathering about him, his dark hair combed back and his posture statuesque. He did not lift his head until Greso bowed to whisper something in his ear, and a quiet conversation proceeded between them.

He had a pale, narrow face and ghoulish eyes, and looking him in the eye was like being stabbed through the head. “Who are these,” he drawled, like an actor in a stage play. He squinted. “I know the one with the auburn hair. You’re the young lady who defied the Arcane King! Ruthenia Cendina!”

Ruthenia froze. All across the hall there was a wave of fervent conversation. A tinderbox clicked. The heat smelled faintly of hallucinogen smoke.

“My name is Derron,” he went on, “the leader of the hungry. You made a perfect portrait of rebellion that night.” His glare was like a plough through her thoughts. “Who are you? A proper rebel? Or just a child caught in the crossfire?”

A flash of annoyance dispelled the last trace of Ruthenia’s petrification. “My life was ruined by the king and queen,” she answered. “I am not caught in the crossfire. You are in my mother's lab. We were revolutionaries long before you were.”

“Ah, those are the words I like to hear,” said Derron, closing his eyes as if to savour them. “We would be very pleased to have you among us. We have been waiting. Waiting to bite back. Our plot has been a year brewing, but only recently has the climate become good. Your act of public dissent has fanned the embers. Oh, I feel it already, the fire waiting to devour all.”

To her surprise, his words made her feel squirmy. All the answers she could give felt wrong on her tongue.

That bladelike gaze met hers again. “The Arcane hegemony has harmed every one of us. But do you care to join us in dismantling it? I ask you in all seriousness, do you wish to be a part of this?” He swept a hand out at the gathering along the hallway.

“What do you intend to do?” the question was out of her, and she readied herself to be admonished for prying into their affairs.

But Derron only smiled, a sleek raven smile. “To flood the streets with fury. To bring death to those who deserve it.”

“And I hope you succeed. But I cannot join you in earnest. I have much of my own work to do—work that will lead us towards a common victory.”

“I understand,” answered Derron, dipping his head. “But let it be known that you are our friend, and that you are welcome here anytime.” Then, he turned to fix Reida with the same incisive gaze. “And how about you? You, the news lady on the street corner. Are you, too, an ally?”
Reida bowed. “I'm Reida Breyte. I am not only a news seller, but also a journalist with the Swan’s Post.”
In the chair, Derron studied the woman with a quirked eyebrow. “The Swan’s Post is complete drivel,” he muttered.

“It is an embarrassment,” Reida replied. “I too have had enough of us selling out to the government.”

“That is all well and good but, respectfully, you can’t possibly have sought us out without journalistic motives.” He nodded at Greso, and Ruthenia saw a flash of a blade at the corner of her eye, as did Reida, whose shoulders tensed.

“We were concerned that this supposedly abandoned laboratory did not seem to be abandoned,” Reida said. “But now I know of the truth, I have no intention of exposing this outfit. I swear it on my life.”

“Well then,” he said. “I know your kind—would talk their ways out of anything if they could.” He stroked his chin. “No, if we are to let you go, you must give us something in return, some surety. Ah, I have just the right assignment for you.”

She seemed ready to bargain, but Derron gestured at Greso, and he came up to the seated man’s side, knife gleaming. “What—will you have me do?”

“Put something in the papers for us,” he said. “Something small, a rebel call-to-arms. ‘The coiled naga hungers for swan’s flesh.’ We'll look out for it. And if we don't see it within a week…we know where you work.”

The unease had crept into Reida’s face, but she kept her gaze steady. She exchanged a trembling look with Ruthenia.

“Put your money where your mouth is,” Derron jabbed.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” Reida burst out. “You will see your message in the papers—tomorrow.”

Ruthenia swallowed. She’d spent so many years hungering for another rebellion—but now that they were closer to the cusp than she could imagine, she felt a bottomless terror bearing down.

“Oh, and, good sir,” she added. “We have a couple of friends whom I’m sure would be thrilled to join you.”

“Oh?” Derron’s head perked up in interest. “Do send them to my scout, the shoe shiner on Thyme Street. I would be delighted to welcome like-minded rebels into the fold.”

Nodding, he leaned back, arms behind his head. Greso lowered his knife and stepped away, resuming his smile. “You are both free to go. Thank you for gracing us with this visit, Ruthenia. I trust you to keep your friend in check.” He winked at her, and Ruthenia barely managed to produce a smile in answer. “Oh, and next time, please enter through the other drain.”

As Greso escorted them back down the corridor, they were wished goodbye. The man waved them both goodbye at the canal, where they took it in the opposite direction, trudging through ankle-deep water to a drain hole that opened in the ground beside a scrapyard.

As soon as she had clambered off the top rung, dripping soles and all, Reida heaved a sigh. “What an ordeal.”

“Why’d you tell him about our friends?” Ruthenia snapped from the ladder.

“It’s what they’ve always wanted, is it not?” answered Reida. “To join a revolution?”

Ruthenia sighed. “Too late to fret about it. Ihir burn me, this is a bigger tangle than I could have imagined.” She shook her head. “Well, are you really going to do what he told you to?”

The journalist closed her eyes. “Fair exchange is far from just good manners here; it is law…and more importantly, I want their victory more than their downfall. As long as I am not on the streets when the banks break, their plans line up with my own.” Straightening her skirt, Reida turned around to wave her goodbye. “Well, I'll let you know how it goes next time you visit. Take care not to start any revolts by accident.”

---

Chapter 27: The Plea Answered

 More rain fell that month than an Astran August had ever seen.

The rainy days were humid and full of wind. The pavements grew shiny, and the workers would find ferries home in the afternoon. The decks were always empty, the cabins full. The Wind Tunnel waters ran high, the roar of the current joining the howl of the wind, droplets splashing the fliers’ feet.

All over the country, the rivers had risen. Lower New Town streets were deluged, their first floods in a decade, and the kings had taken to the press with reaffirmations that something would be done as soon as they ascertained the cause. Meanwhile, fish markets were screeching to a halt and although the papers never said it aloud, everyone knew all was amiss.

A strange message appeared in a small rectangle on the last page of the Swan’s Post. “The coiled naga hungers for swan’s flesh,“ it read, in foreboding capital letters. Most assumed it to be a quote from a poem—but the few who knew what it meant felt either great fire or great dread at the sight of the message.

Ruthenia spent the dry afternoons at the milkshake stand, but the days when Hollia joined her were growing fewer, her restless birds usurping a growing slice of her hours. Many evenings, she found her dinner in a basket on the table, an apology note alongside it that told her Tanio might not be back before she slept. In the mornings she would find him reading the papers with dark rings around his eyes, coffee steaming by his feet.

“Everything alright?” she asked as he tiredly sipped his drink.

He lifted his face and said, “Just a few more days. A few days and I will be able to sleep again.”

---

On a Wednesday near the start of September, Ruthenia waited by the gate to the menagerie while second year students stampeded past.

When Aleigh passed on his way to collect Benedice, he stopped beside her, seeming to know she couldn't be there for any other reason. “What is it?” he said.

Ruthenia shrugged. “I know how you are about detours, but do…you want to join me at the milkshake stand?”

She wasn't sure why she was asking; Hollia had once again rushed off on urgent errands as the migration season drew towards its peak, and perhaps she missed the company.

“Milkshake stand?” he answered. The slanting afternoon light glared through the windows. “My schedule is a little tight, I'm afraid.”

“Not even ten minutes?” Ruthenia sighed. “It’s right between here and Helika City, too.”

His frown softened as he pondered. Then he said, “I suppose ten minutes in the direction of home wouldn't hurt.”

“Thanks for humouring me.” She grinned, leading the way to the stables.

Off they flew, in just a little less of a hurry than to Rae Threaders the other week. The island kiosk emerged at the end of fifteen minutes of golden sky, upon miles of meadow and gleaming lakes. Ruthenia was improving on her landing—she slowed to a hover in front of the counter. Benedice could not hover, and so he and his rider soared past the island and circled it once, landing in a clatter of hooves on the edge. She laughed as Aleigh dismounted, pulling a comb from his pocket to fix his hair.

Imessa, the shop owner, flew out of her chair and to the counter. “Your Highness,” she breathed, bowing eagerly with a hand on her chest. “It is my honour.”

He offered a small nod of acknowledgment. “I came at Ruthenia's recommendation,” he replied.

“Ah, yes, of course!” The woman piped up. “She has mentioned you many a time.”

He glanced at Ruthenia. “You have?”

Against her will, her face went hot. “I mean, I talk about my classes sometimes!”

“Oh, she mostly complains about you,” Imessa answered.

“That's not helping,” Ruthenia groaned, pushing him aside and placing an argent on the countertop. “The usual, please?” Then she turned to her companion. “You?”

Aleigh stared for a moment. “Do you have a menu?” he said.

Ruthenia buried her face in her hands, pointing at the boards hanging on chains behind the counter.

He studied it for a second. “May I have a sample of—”

With a sigh, Ruthenia held up a hand and stopped him mid-order. “Just choose one, pay for it, and don’t say anything else.”

“How shall I pay?”

“By giving her coins!” She mimed throwing coins at the woman’s face.

“I do not carry coins with me unless I know I will need them,” he answered with a pensive shake of his head. “I could pay with a bank cheque, however—”

“It's one argent! Are you telling me you don’t have one argent with you?”

“I do not.”

Ruthenia exchanged a very long look with Imessa, then began to laugh. She howled, banging a fist on the counter, then opened her pouch again while she wiped a tear from her right eye.

“I hope you know that you are absolutely beyond help,” she said, loosening the drawstring on her pouch and fishing another argent out of it. “I can’t believe I’m buying a drink for the Arcane Prince. Another honey milkshake, please?”

Sweeping the coin into her hand, the woman began to measure out the ingredients. “I’m sorry, this is all rather unfamiliar to me,” said Aleigh meanwhile. “Had this been planned in advance I would have been prepared.”

Ruthenia sighed. “It's no trouble,” she replied. “There really is no room for spontaneity in your life, is there? Not even an argent in your pocket.”

A clink soon announced the arrival of their drinks. Ruthenia snatched hers off the counter, then moved to take a seat on the raised stone barrier at the edge of the platform, barely inches from a hundred-foot drop, a hand resting on her wooden umbrella crook.

She gazed lazily into the windy golden afternoon as she drank. The shopkeeper’s rowboat levitated close beside the milkshake stand, with a few books stacked inside, and a straw hat tied to the oarlock. In the distance, a vast ferry made away with its host of evening passengers.

Her eyes returned to her companion; he, too, was sipping on his milkshake, as he came to join her at the corner of the deck.

“This is a lovely place, thank you for inviting me,” he said, with a smile that made her gladder than it should. Unlike Hollia, he spent a lot of time contemplating the surrounds.

“It's my favourite haunt after school. Good days, bad days…I come pick up a drink and talk to Imessa. Great listener, by the way.”

“My pleasure,” Imessa called out over the counter.

“The day we visited Rae Threaders,” said Aleigh, “you invited me to have milkshake with you. Would that have been here?”

“Oh, yes. That's right.” She laughed. “And you said the exact same thing about your schedule. The way you talk about it, it's as if you're shackled to your planner.”

“What can I say,” he said, pulling out that very planner to flip through it. “Mhm, meeting with the council at six, dinner with the mayors at seven, then,” he sighed, “homework.”
“Damn it, homework. Always getting in the way.” Ruthenia grinned. “It means a lot that you're entertaining my silly whims, then. Hollia's been too busy lately.”

“Ah, I am a stand-in for Hollia, am I?”

“No, no, I actually like your company. You're fun to talk to. Because you see the world in such a different way from me.”

“Well, I am glad that sentiment goes both ways. Sometimes, it pains me to remember how acerbic I always was towards you before.”

“I get it now, though.” It was odd to recall how much he had repulsed her, not so long ago. She wasn't sure what had changed. Perhaps she had learned something, about that game of masks and glamours he was always playing. Perhaps it was simply the clemency of his smile.

Finishing his drink first, Aleigh left the cup on the counter, offering Imessa a “thank you” that she answered with frantic gestures of gratitude. As he passed Ruthenia, he offered a nod. “Thank you for letting me join you, I must be going now,” he said, then leapt onto Benedice's stirrup.

Ruthenia returned her own glass to the countertop and swung her umbrella into her left hand, thoughtlessly rotating the ribbon around its ribs as she watched him. “Take care,” she called.

“You too.” With a flick of the reins, Benedice leapt from the platform, a single white feather swirling through the air as he vanished from sight, to land at Ruthenia’s feet. She stooped to pick it up, running her fingers along its edge.

“For someone you dislike,” Imessa said, chin propped up on one hand, “you're quite pleasant with him.”

“Well, I might have changed my mind.”

---

On the rainy Thursday that followed, Tanio forgot to mention his departure. But Ruthenia had grown accustomed enough to the routine of recent days. Carrying the repaired musicmaker across the bridge with her umbrella tucked over her shoulder, she left it on Tanio's coffee table, then found her uncooked dinner in the cold box, slathering butter on the pan and tossing meat onto it, all while furiously licking the oil off her hand.

That night, as the rain began to cascade in mournful sheets, she peered down over her patio rails and saw the river surging in frenzied whirlpools again.

As she watched and her shirt grew heavy with rain, she thought she heard screaming, or cries for help, each strain tearing her heart with a pang of sorrow. Sorrow like when she woke from dreams of her parents.

Some urge took her then, and she brought her umbrella out from the dryness of her shed, almost slipping in her haste. Even though the winds were flickering and wild, she managed to mount her umbrella, flying through sheets of the cascading water, the army of raindrops blinding her. Her flight swung with increasing ferocity as she sank to the roaring river. The air smelled of rain and wheat and broken stems.

She landed on the undulating bank and threw her umbrella into the grass, bare feet and knees squelching deep in the slippery soil. She choked with rain in the howling black emptiness. With a gasp that filled her lungs up, she counted to three, squeezed her eyes shut, and plunged her head into the freezing current.

“Lilin?” Ruthenia whispered into the gushing water, bubbles flowing from her lips, ticklish against her ears. “Lilin, you there?”

She shivered as the water sucked her in and spat her out in turns, no longer able to tell where the rain ended and the river began.

Then a wail pierced her ears like a spear, so loud she feared it might split her head open. The scream vibrated through every inch of her, called from the depths of her soul the part molded by the sea.

“Stop screaming!” she exclaimed with the rest of her breath, then flung her head out of the river, gasping while her head spun. Bright, grey rain and the guttural roll of thunder far above engulfed her. She had started to shiver.

She drew another bigger breath, eyes shut, and her head was in the water again.

The hum of the distant voice came almost at once, its tones swallowing her whole.

Is that you? Is it you? The one who spoke before?

“Yes,” she whispered, bubbles scurrying against her cheeks and nose. “I’m Ruthenia.”

Ruthenia— Ruthenia—the voice was distraught—where is my father and why won’t he answer me? Tell me? Tell me! Will he let me go?

“I…don't think so. He said forever.”

I want to be free. I’ve had enough of this ocean. I never want to see it again.

She felt an ache in her chest that crescendoed into a bottomless grief, barrelling her over. She burst from the river for breath, teeth clattering. She shook her soggy hair out between gasps, all loose and falling upon her wet shoulders. Her eyes were warm with tears.

“They’re going to kill you,” she whispered, bowing. “They don’t care that you did no wrong. They’re going to kill you.”

The storm was thinning. She sucked in a final breath, and thrust her head into the water a third time, eyes shut.

“I’ll make sure they free you. I don't know how yet, but I'll make sure it is done.”

Lilin’s answer was not in words, but an indescribable agony, so vast that it filled every stream through every town, every mile of every coast of the nation her father had founded.

Ruthenia began to see things. Skies spinning, and wings. The land of Astra when it had been young, and the people had drawn shapes in the mud, painting their faces with the swamp.

She watched a small band try to light a fire near the coast, and watched as a little boy—too curious to know—burnt his fingers in the flame. She heard stumble backward with a piercing cry.

That cry was the same cry Lilin had been repeating for centuries.

But the vision was broken by a storm, night and day whirling together, and the dart of a chain through the air. Then a bright flash of blood, spurting from the centre of her abdomen, from which all the pain of the world was suddenly screeching, staining the chain that ate its way through her.

Throwing herself out of the river, Ruthenia clutched herself with a wail, blood pouring down her fingers and onto the earth, the wound gnawing away at her.

She pulled her hands away, and found her hands clean, her shirt drenched with nothing but water. She gasped and collapsed onto the soil while a convulsion of sobs overcame her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered through her aching tears. Now her clothes were stained with mud, too. The river kept roaring and the rain kept thundering, and between them, she wept.

---

The rain did not cease, even as night was scattered by the first daylight, imperceptible behind the thick cloud curtain. Raindrops splashed upon the slats of her roof.

Ruthenia spent the morning staring at her empty desk while the shadows of raindrops raced across it, half-finished essays and sketches strewn and piled in every corner. The last of yesterday lingered, like an aftertaste.

It wasn’t just that she had made a promise to Lilin. It was that there was something familiar about the goddess' grief. Something she could not bear to see repeat.

---

Chapter 28: Eyes Wide Open

 

 The school day closed in a reluctant rustle of paper and a clatter of pencils, but even then the rainstorm had not shown any signs of subsiding.

The discreet, miserable grey that curtained every window seemed at once impermeable and endless, and the meadows below were hopelessly swamped, not the late warm springtime they were accustomed to.

Watching the shadows lengthen and deepen to blue, nostalgia washed over Ruthenia. She almost did not notice when Ms. Vina began dusting the board, and seats began clattering and rumbling across the floor.

Awakening from her daze, she began packing her belongings away with her eyes nowhere at all, and rose to leave. At the doorway, she said a hello to Hollia, who returned it timidly.

“How's migration season going?” Ruthenia asked.

Something about her expression felt to Ruthenia like a pulling-away. But she answered, “I'm doing my best for them. I fear I may have to start skipping classes, to meet all my duties.”

“Taking a leaf from my book?” She folded her arms with a grin.

“Well...knowing you has warmed me up to the notion,” Hollia confessed.

While they wandered up the hall, their conversation meandered through the subjects of work and the weather, until they were interrupted by a call of Ruthenia's name, whose perpetrator she discovered to be Aleigh.

“Good afternoon to the both of you, and my apologies," he said as he came up beside them, “but I must ask a favour of Ruthenia.”

“Well, I hardly know what I could do for you,” Ruthenia replied. “But sure, what sort of favour?”

He glanced out the arched window at the downpour. “I’m afraid Benedice wasn't feeling well today and I'll be taking ferries till he recovers.”

“Oh, with the riffraff? I'm so sorry.” She stuck out her tongue. “What’s this have to do with me?”

“It's raining. And you have an umbrella.”

It was only now that Hollia cleared her throat and took a step back. "I shall—leave the both of you to plan in peace, have a good evening!" she gasped.

“Hollia!” Ruthenia answered, but she was already brisk walking away. Then she turned back to Aleigh. “I use this umbrella to fly, in case you hadn’t realised.”

“You do not use it for shelter?”

“Well, I do, but not when I need it to fly!”

He nodded. “I understand. Well, then, I shall have to find some other means of sheltering myself.”

Ruthenia shook her head, lips curving at the corners. “I’ll do it if you pay me.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What are your rates?”

She laughed. “A tenth of the royal treasury, perhaps?”

“Ah, how enterprising, Miss Cendina.”

“‘Miss Cendina,’” she snorted. “It’s been a while since you last called me that.”

“Miss Ruthenia Cendina, most esteemed,” he replied with a mock bow. “You may refuse me if you wish.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” she said with a shrug. “I really should take the ferry home on rainy days, too.”

It felt too easy, walking side by side. She forgot he was a royal, though perhaps he wanted that forgotten, too. Past giggling classmates they strolled, until they had arrived in the lobby of the western tower.

“Have you been to the Central Circle south station?” asked Aleigh.

Ruthenia shook her head. “The one over the Es Orica? I’ve seen it at a distance.”

“It’s a fifteen minute walk away at the most. Not the most impressive of stations, but it serves its function.”

Exiting the lift at the bottom floor, it struck Ruthenia that she had never been in this part of the building before. The back door was underneath the cafeteria, connecting the building to the ground. The granite steps were pristine beneath her shoes, like holy ground. Perhaps no one at the Central Circle School ever deigned to walk home.

They paused at the base of the stairs at a small gate in the old perimeter fence. A wet breeze swept over them: the rainy afternoon whispered beyond the grilles of the gate, and a barely-used gravel path began there, meandering through the fields. As they left the campus boundaries, she released the catch on her umbrella and let it bloom bright orange overhead.

They began down the road, feet crunching on the pebbles, dodging grassy puddles here and there. Ruthenia rarely shared her umbrella, and she struggled to find a compromise between sheltering her companion and not accidentally bumping into him, so her walking path began to meander left and right.

In the middle of the path, Aleigh came to a stop and turned to her, extending a hand. “I’ll carry it,” he said. “You're the one doing me a favour by being here.” She blinked and stared, before shrugging and handing it over.

The gravel clattered beneath their feet, the gentle patter of the rain on the umbrella punctuated sometimes by gusts and flushes of rain. The cold damp sent chills through her body, so she drew in closer under the shelter—noticing, for the first time, the faint scent of lavender in the air surrounding them.

“Why do all your things smell like lavender?” she asked.

“It's Aligon's favourite,” answered Aleigh. “He insists that we scent everything with the herb, including our clothes. I did not realise it was that outstanding, sorry.”

“Oh—no, I think it's pleasant, I just—noticed.” Ruthenia wished she could burrow into the ground and never leave.

The Es Orica station hung in the air above the meadow, hovering over the southern border of the Central Circle, its shape blurred by the rain. The staircase of suspended granite slabs stretched from the path to its very edge. She began to climb, turning now and then to check that her companion was following.

Arriving under the shelter of the station drew a sigh of relief from Ruthenia. Every step echoed. She dropped into an empty bench and pulled her arms about herself. Aleigh hesitated to seat himself, but she turned with an insistent look, shifting to make room for him. Gusts howled across the platform while he joined her on the bench and put his briefcase down by his feet. There was one other passenger in the station but they were facing the other way.

“So, could I leave you here?” said Ruthenia, turning when he placed the umbrella in her hand. “Or do I have to baby you all the way to the palace?”

Aleigh shook his head. “This will do.” He paused as a sun ray broke through the rainclouds from the far horizon, briefly illuminating the platform in gold. “Thank you, it was very kind of you to take the time.”

“Don't get used to it,” she chuckled. “Being my friend doesn't mean I'm at your beck and call.”

“Ah, am I your ‘friend’ now?”

“It's not as hard as you think, you know. Making friends. And keeping them.”

He smiled, and again she found herself thinking that it was quite a beautiful smile, especially catching the late afternoon sun like that. What a perfectly unoriginal thought. “Not everyone is like you,” he said, “Earnest and trustworthy.”

“Alright, that's enough flattery,” she muttered, elbowing him.

“You can't take a compliment, can you?” His voice was teasing. “Well, you are also excellent company, and a delight to talk to.”

“Oi, stop that,” she exclaimed, shoving his shoulder. As she drew back her hand, he caught it in his own.

Briefly, their gazes connected, and Ruthenia felt her heart spill over with a curious effervescence, like when metal met acid and neither could withstand the other.

She laughed, a little too loud. “That's my hand,” she said, pulling her fingers out of his grip.

“Sorry,” he replied quickly, folding one hand into the other on his lap.

Ruthenia’s ferry south arrived first. It came in a creak of masts, the wind-battered hull looming over the station before it began to descend, all the sails furled. She stood abruptly as the shadow swept across the platform. The ropes were thrown and the gangplank lowered, cabin doors opening on opposite ends.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said with a wave.

“Goodbye, Ruthenia,” answered Aleigh, softer than usual.

Ruthenia left for the open ferry door, plunging into the shower without opening her umbrella. Once hurried payment had been made to the cashier under the eaves, she vanished into the cabin to escape the rain.

Once she was dry and had nothing but the wood walls and the indifference of passengers to look upon, she became aware that her face was flushed with warmth.

She pondered the storm outside the cabin, and the swamping of the fields down below. But thoughts of her classmate, of the sorrow hidden behind his gaze, kept creeping into the gaps between. They occupied her all the way to Beacon Way. Staring down at the crook of her umbrella between her knees, she gripped it tightly, right where he’d held it.

---

At last, the two-day shower ended in a glorious Thursday morning, the sky scrubbed clean of clouds so it glowed a dreamlike pale blue.

Ruthenia arrived at Tanio’s house this morning to find it empty, a seventh note of apology beside her breakfast of bread and softboiled eggs, bearing the following tip: You might want to pick up a copy of the news today. Not the Herald, something more open-minded.

With a shrug, she took two eggs and cracked them into the bowl, slurping the contents up without bothering for a spoon. Then, taking off, she flew through the spotless morning, following the Colura to the New Town. There was a newsstand on the outskirts that she could always trust to have the Eagle Eye in stock. Indeed, she plucked one copy of today's issue from the rack, dumping the three cupres' price onto the cashier's counter without a glance.

“Will you look at this git,” she muttered, opening the papers to find the inventor’s monochrome photograph grinning daftly from the bottom right corner. She turned her umbrella over for the journey home, the newspapers lain across her lap.

Today in alternative news:

Evidence of Lilin’s Awakening Recorded! Calied Co's camera provides stunning evidence of the deity’s activity

Tensions ran high yesterday, as the Calied Company’s Aperture I set off from the Centrelight Harbour on the eastern coast of Astra. The launch was not publicised by the government, but our insiders report it was a bash.

The controversial flying camera's inventor and chief operator, Titanio Calied, was fussy about the details of the launch, and a minor issue with lubrication saw launch time being pushed back by fifteen minutes.

The efforts gave bountiful returns, however. The Aperture I traversed an arc spanning twenty miles across the Deeps, two hundred feet in the air, capturing photographs of the surface every tenth of a mile. It arrived at the port after its three-hour flight with film rolls full of spectacularly clear photographs of the situation at sea.

“I’m just glad a storm didn’t start in the middle of the flight,” admitted Mr. Calied after the historic flight. “This could have gone wrong a dozen different way. Thankfully for us, our luck held.”

And thanks we should give, too, because the images captured by the Aperture I have provided the solution to a month-old puzzle. Now all that remains to be seen is how the clergy and the Kings respond to the confirmatory evidence.

There was no need for text, really, for the images spoke for themselves. Printed in the best quality the tabloid could afford, the two lone photographs claimed an entire page of the papers to themselves.

Above, a photograph of the sea surface with its many gleaming ripples, and a dark shadow smudged across its centre, beneath wave crests and reflections, the shape of a large shimmering tail. There was nothing beside it for scale, but if what the article said about its elevation was correct, then it had to be the size of a small island at least.

The other photograph featured something far more alarming: it was something white and sharp, glimmering beneath the waves. The immaculate shape of a wing. A pale white wing, black-tipped silver, neither bird nor fish.

Staring at the photograph, Ruthenia could feel and hear nothing but the sound of Lilin’s pleading. It wasn’t that she felt pity for this strange apparition, of which she’d only seen a wing and a tail. But she felt anger. Anger at all these things she’d couldn’t change in a lifetime, in ten. But what could she do to resist? The law of Ihir would always run the country—or, whatever the clergy and the kings could pass off as Ihir’s law.

Opening the door to Tanio’s house, Ruthenia flung the papers onto his coffee table, watching it skid to join the rest of the stack. She took her umbrella to the river below, but did not throw her head into it as she had before, sitting instead on the hard clay soil, soaking her feet in the breezy current as she pondered her choice. 

 

---

Chapter 29: Full Bloom

  It was on the the twentieth of September when the first bluebell bloomed.

It was up on the peak of Calmen Ihira, where a priestess had been praying in the rain. It had been there a while, or so she surmised, for it was already laden with flowers. No one knew where it had come from, the tiny sprig of blue blossoms, heavy with raindrops. A sombre sign, or so the clergy had determined: bluebells meant disappointment, but when they bloomed in the rain they meant unfathomable loss.

“Can you believe it?” Ruthenia said over tea on the mezzanine. “The Herald thinks flowers are worth reporting on.”

“Bluebells do not grow on mountain peaks,” replied Aleigh. “My brother believes that Lilin sent it—never mind that Lilin’s influence is not known to extend this far. In any case, it is not to be dismissed lightly.”

“You’re silly,” she said, “thinking a flower’s worth that much care.”

“Well, this one demands to be taken seriously, because of the time and manner of its appearance.”

She propped her chin up. “Symbolism sure means a lot to you.”

“Why else do you think?” There was a trace of wryness in his voice. “Most who smear my name in public don't do so because they dislike me personally.”

That evening, as the classrooms emptied and the sky cooled to foggy gold, she found Hollia and Orrem talking at the door. When she poked her head in to greet them, she only succeeded in making them fall dead silent.

“See you tomorrow,” said Orrem with a smile and a lazy wave. Hollia timidly echoed the greeting, eyes restlessly jumping between the other two.

“Take care, both of you,” answered Ruthenia, walking backward through the doorway.

Today, despite the sunshowers, Aleigh was not there to ask for her umbrella. Her heart sank, and then remembering the old pattern of his departure, she sprinted off to the menagerie.

The sun was falling just right and the entire room was golden as she barrelled in, warming the hay so it smelled like a barn the day after the harvest. He was just inside, just like that day two months ago.

Halting by the stable gates, Aleigh glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Ruthenia. Any reason you're here?”

She grinned. “No, just wanted to say goodbye.”

Amid the sound of clawing and beating wings, Ruthenia studied the creatures around her—nagas with wings tucked away, roosters of riotous colours scratching in the hay. A great crane lay with its neck between the bars, lethargic in the way all caged animals tended to be. She squatted to watch it, before haltingly reaching out to scratch its head.

“That one has seen better days,” said Aleigh. She rose to her feet to find him with his equine beside him once more. In the slanting sunbeams, his hair was aglow, his smile softened by the light reflected off the walls.

Ruthenia realised only ten seconds later that she was staring. She shook her head. “Ugh, I should probably head home.”

Lilin’s Bluebells? Are these flowers a symbol of Lilin’s anguish?

So read the rumour in the Swan's Post. Over the next three days, the rest of the bluebells came. Their heads pricked through the earth everywhere except where the wheat and corn grew, bursting into bloom all over the island. They hung their heads in sorrow—what for, no one knew—but the kings looked upon their island of flowers and saw nothing but bad news.

---

Today, in alternative news:

Dispatch Force To Be Deployed: Photographic evidence and theological writings tip scales

Eagle Eye, Tuesday, 26th September 491.

In yet another move that highlights the Ihira clergy's growing distance from any discernible moral compass, Astra's bishops have issued an official decree sanctioning the execution of Lilin.

Recent evidence, particularly the photographs taken by the Calied Company’s Aperture I, has led authorities to conclude that Lilin, the daughter of Ihir, is responsible for hundreds of deaths and the destruction of twelve marine vessels in the Argenta Sea.

In light of the developing emergency, the clergy voted in favour of an execution, and the Royal Diptych has issued an ultimatum to the Admiral of the Royal Navy to deploy ships to remove the ever-growing threat posed by Lilin.

The decree quotes the writings of philosopher Elode: “The first being condemned by Ihir for sin, Lilin is a taint, a symbol of holy treason and denial of His goodness.” It is believed that this argument was the basis on which thirty-four of fifty-nine clergy members voted in favour of the move.

---

It was on that Saturday that, riveting the last canvas sheets onto the right wing, the Swift finally assumed the form that had till then existed only on paper—albeit in Tanio's absence.

Gazing at the fuselage with a sun-bright grin, Sharmon declared, “What impeccable timing! I distilled a fuel of seventy percent purity last week. It will be no time till .” but on being pressed for a date, all he offered was a shrug.

The stack of letters at Tanio’s door grew thick; Ruthenia knocked it over every time she arrived. His coffee table turned unruly once again, strewn with cuttings from a dozen different publications. The radio buzzed and crackled in his doorway all day and night. In the evenings, he listened with blinding intensity.

Saturday evening, she found him in the dining room slumped over his dinner, chin propped on one elbow.

“I'm tired of these press hounds,” he muttered in the dimming evening light, eyes closing while he rubbed his temple. “Politics. Work. Public scrutiny. If I end up choosing the hermit’s life and depriving the nation of my genius, they have only themselves to blame.”

Ruthenia sighed as she passed. “If you need anything from me, just shout.”

“Yes…if I remember to.”

He was almost always gone before she could get a proper word in. Never did Ruthenia find the chance to speak up about Lilin or the nascent plan she’d begun to formulate, even though it continued to press on her thoughts, dulling her appetite.

Yet the next day, she found photographs of him peppering the news—of the great Titanio Calied feigning deep thought as he inspected blueprints, touting the engineering project that had turned the clergy's vote. And every morning, his living room was empty.

---

On Monday, Ruthenia intercepted Aleigh in the corridor, separating him from the stream of traffic with a hand on his shoulder.

“Could we talk?” she said.

“What about?” he replied. They resumed their walk towards the lobby.

“It's a long story, but I made a commitment recently,” she said. “And it’s making me afraid, and I need an outside opinion.”

The briefest concern came over him then. “Certainly,” he said.

They slipped into the lift, where they found a comfortable space in the corner, behind everyone else. Not a word was exchanged, but when he shuffled inward to make room, his shoulder pressed against hers, and she let herself lean closer.

Up on the mezzanine, amid the whisper of a quiet downpour, Ruthenia spent a minute trying to find the words with which to begin.

Then she burst out, “Tell them not to kill Lilin. Tell them to free her. Please.”

He frowned. “I did. And I was dismissed out of hand.”

She clenched her fists on the tabletop. “Why can't they understand? She isn’t some monster. She's alone and scared, and she can be reasoned with. She'll stop struggling when she's freed. The navy could do that, couldn’t they?”

He paused. “Where is this coming from?”

“I've talked to her in rivers. I've heard pleading. She's desperate to escape and she's struggling against her bonds.”

He reserved his surprise, and whatever else brewed beneath, to a widening of eyes. “She was chained by Ihir,” he said haltingly. “I do not know if freedom is a possibility for her any longer.”

“There are tools that can cut her free. Like the Glaive of Laveda, or some other holy weapon—the government could easily get their hands on those!”

“No, what I mean is, in what world could we cut chains that Ihir Himself created? In what world would the Ihirin, the clergy, the religion that is the bedrock of our country, allow that?”

“You're really going to play the popularity game over Lilin's life?” Ruthenia hissed. “She's not some nameless beast. She's a sentient, intelligent being.”

“We'll start riots if we free her.”

“You'll start riots if you kill her!” she snarled. Her voice broke. “I have no choice, then. I have to do it. I’ll cut her free myself. She'll live and they can pin the whole thing on me.”

“How could you possibly achieve that?” asked Aleigh, voice almost becoming a laugh.

With perfect steadiness, she said, “I will fly there.”

A comprehension dawned in his eyes, and a terrified relenting. “Why do you care for Lilin more than you care for yourself?”

“I care about this nation not being built upon the blood of innocents. And I care about not letting these royal pigs carry on unopposed—”

“Just stop and think, will you?” She flinched at the rage in his eyes; she had never seen his iciness shatter so emphatically. “Even if you do succeed, do you really think you won't leave a mess? What if you did defy Ihir? What of the unrest this would stir? What of yourself? What do you propose that wouldn't leave the door open to more death?”

She balled up her fists. She was trembling with the pain. “I just hate with my entire being, this—this politics of death—of fixing problems with executions—and I can't stand by. If my opposition tears the country apart, then so be it!”

He went silent, fury petering out. “You are right, Ruthenia,” he said, a storm of dread swirling in his eyes. “This shouldn't have to end in death, if there still remains another answer. And whatever you're planning to do, I will turn a blind eye to it. But I simply cannot endorse you throwing yourself in the government’s path.”

For a dizzying moment Ruthenia felt completely alone in the universe.

Pulling her arms around herself, she nodded. “No, I understand. You have priorities.”

“You are my priority.”

Ruthenia drew a sharp breath, and waited for words to come to her, but there were none. They glanced away at the same time.

“You're right—this doesn't have to end in death. Including yours.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to put you in this position.”

“I’d do more, if it were in my power.”

“But you do have power,” Ruthenia muttered.

He shook his head. “I am not the king, and there is little more to my title than a seat at my brother's table. It maybe nice to show off at parties—but really it is no more than a cage. I’m nothing but a canary, singing to please the people. You are an eagle. Soaring beyond these cages and walls.”

Suddenly, standing here in her unpressed clothes, hair unruly, one shoe unlaced, Ruthenia felt so small. She wished she were that grand. Then, for all her dirt and commonness, she might know what to do now. But she was just a schoolgirl who sometimes had honey milkshakes and forgot her homework, and she didn’t know.

“Don’t call yourself a canary,” she muttered, a smile curving her lips. “Swans can be fearsome when they want to be. You've had all this power and influence thrown into your lap, but all you ever do is avert your eyes from it.”

Silence fell over them, filled by the whisper of rain through towering windows. Aleigh unwrapped his tea. Ruthenia watched wordlessly, tears spilling out of her eyes.

---

“Ruth, do you remember the mourning doves?” Hollia said as Ruthenia dropped into the empty seat beside her. “Something’s been going on with them lately. They sing all night as if something’s dead, or dying. The birds of paradise seem to know something’s afoot too. And the swifts are going crazy.”

Hollia looked unkempt in a way she had never seen before. “Is it Lilin who's getting to them?” Ruthenia asked. “Or the Thread disturbances.”

“They've been trying to flee,” Hollia said. “I guess…I never thought to wonder why. But why raise a bird species that can only survive in captivity? If they’re never going to return to the wild? Now there are only two mourning doves left in the world, and they don’t love each other.”

Ruthenia folded her arms on the adjacent desk, sagging so her head rested on the tabletop. She hadn’t the heart to say that birds couldn’t love, and that Hollia should let go of her work if it gave her nothing but grief. What was the point of saying so?

She would graduate from the Central Circle School someday, with a certificate that she would never use. While everyone else flew off to chase their aspirations, sweet Hollia Canavere would inherit the aviary in earnest, and she would tend it for the rest of her life. The birds would never be free.

Just as her parents had, and their parents had before. It had already been decided.

---

“I have been talking with our ‘friend.’ He wonders if you'll join their coming party. The others will.”

There was a vagueness to Reida's message that told Ruthenia exactly what wasn't being said. Her throat felt tight. When do we pass the point of no return?

Sadly I am occupied with my own plans.

“By the way, I started teaching H. recently. Says he misses you.”

I'm glad he's getting to learn from you. Don’t tell the rest, but he was the only good friend I had with that bunch.  

---

Chapter 30: Helika's Light

As the next day's classes wound down in the seeping golden light, Ruthenia followed Aleigh up the hallway, barely feeling the weight of her bag. Now she noticed, on this rare rainless day, the first scent of summer grass upon the air.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, coming up level with him.

“Well…you have shown me where you go to quiet your mind,” he replied, turning to look out the window. “And I would like to show you mine. Though, it is in Helika, so if that is too long a detour…”

“No, I can spare the evening. Are you sure you have the time?”

“I have no business until six thirty.”

She hummed. “If you say so. Why now, though?”

He did not answer for many seconds. “Nothing, I simply enjoy your company,” he finally said. “And I am worried I won't have much more of it.”

A gentle thrill enshrouded her thoughts, like a golden haze. “Well, lead the way.”

*

With Benedice's reins in hand, Aleigh met Ruthenia at the bottom of the stairs to the landing platform, where the equine took to nuzzling Ruthenia’s shoulder.

She scrubbed at his muzzle, only to be rewarded with an ear-lick. “Hey!” she cried at the snort of horse breath against her neck. “Is he trying to eat me?”

Aleigh smiled. “Maybe you smell like hay,” he answered, a hand at the shoulder prying her away from the equine. He took a little too long to let go, and she, too, let him linger.

Both emerged at the top of the steps at the archway. Aleigh was atop Benedice long before Ruthenia had strung up her umbrella, and the horse trotted in polite loops around her until she had finally scrambled onto her mount.

They soared in a meandering line between houses and mills, rainclouds and blue meadows streaking by. Ruthenia was going about as fast her momentum could carry her, and only just keeping up. Perhaps Benedice could fly faster, but Aleigh kept glancing over his shoulder and pulling back when he found her trailing.

The foothills of Calmen Ihira peeked from the horizon, along with the flock of buildings that was Helika, suspended like a cloak of marble and light around the mountain. She began to recognise the route to Palace Street, which she saw every Saturday from the back of Sharmon's table, but today it all passed in a blur.

The palace lake slid like a mirror across the velvet land, and only within sight of the waters did Benedice begin to slow, sinking through the air into the gentle whoosh of its waves. Heaving a sigh of relief, Ruthenia swung downward with a snapping of Threads, towards the glow of the sky in the water. She leapt off her umbrella as she came level with the lake's embanked shore, snatching her mount from the air behind her.

As the whistle of air fell away, the burble of waves on stone rose from beneath. Not another soul was in sight. On the far side of the lake, the spires of the palace rose, the tower highest of all. To her right, Aleigh was offering Benedice a handful of grain from the other saddlebag.

He turned when she arrived beside him. “So, here we are,” he said. “This is where I go when I've had a bad day.”

She drew the sweet air into her lungs. “You have bad days? Why don't you just call a servant over with a hot chocolate or something?”

“True, but hot chocolate doesn't repair my relationship with my brother. Or the state of Astra.”

“Ah—well, this looks like a nice place to sit and sulk,” Ruthenia said, eyes resting on the cloudy sky in the water, through which cracks of luminescent pink showed. “Makes all your problems seem far away.”

She watched him lower himself onto the stone bank, cross-legged, and carefully she followed suit—sitting just close enough to converse as if indoors, just far enough to not quite be touching.

Lifting his eyes to the royal tower, Aleigh sighed. “I wish I could pretend this brewing crisis didn't exist, but it has filled every other hour of my schedule.” He wrapped an arm around his knee and gazed into the water. “The dispatch fleet will sail in two weeks time. If it fails, then I doubt Hazen would sanction another.”

She frowned. “Do you really think they can kill her?”

“You were prescient to mention the Glaive. That is the weapon they intend to use, though she is much larger than its last victim. And I hear explosives are on the roster, too.”

At these words, Ruthenia felt a lump form in her throat. Drawing a deeper breath, she let her eyelids droop shut, soaking in the warm silence, listening to the rush of water and the chirps of crickets.

That was until she heard Benedice's hooves trotting on the stone, and then felt him nuzzle her hair. Her eyes flew open. “Hey, not again!”

“Benedice...” muttered Aleigh, lifting a hand to push the equine's snout away.

She laughed, then returned to musing at the water. “Thank you,” she said. “For, uh, everything. All the help you've given me. You've done so much more than you ever need have.”

He shook his head. "I owed it to you."

She laughed. "You're attached to the idea of owing me something. It's like you want an excuse to help me whenever you please."

He smiled back. “Perhaps I do.”

An ache between fondness and anxiety speared through her chest, and she hugged her knees closer. “Could I ask you a question?” she said then.

“Certainly.”

“If I told you I was about to do something foolhardy and possibly life-threatening that could land me in big trouble, what would you say?”

“I'd probably ask why it keeps happening,” he replied. “And then I might try to dissuade you, even knowing I have no power to change your mind.”

She chuckled. “There's very few people who could talk me out of a terrible plan,” she said. “And you're one of them.”

“For your sake, I hope this is nothing but a hypothetical.”

She grinned. “Well, keep guessing.”

“Never a dull day with you.”

By now, Ruthenia had noticed that they had leaned together in the course of talking, and their shoulders were brushing. The gentle warmth through her sleeve brought a tiny jolt of surprise. Then the rest tided in. The scent of lavender. The realisation that it would be so easy to lean closer, to bury her face in his shoulder and drown in his warmth like falling into the lake.

Once the thoughts crossed her, she found herself battling them at every turn. Each time, the sensations of blushing became more undeniable. Stop it, stop it! You can’t go around thinking about the Arcane Prince of Astra like that.

Then a rumble of thunder rippled across the lake, accompanied by a frigid breeze, startling Ruthenia out of her daze. Clouds had thickened all across the sky.

“Storm’s coming!” the words spilled out of her mouth. She leapt to her feet, umbrella brandished. She fought to Weave it into place, until Aleigh, too, crawled to his knees and strung up the ferrule end for her. “Thanks! Take care, don't get too wet. I must be off now!”

“Oh—what a shame, but have a safe flight home,” he answered, still blinking in confusion as he retreated to Benedice.

The freezing rain-flecked wind bore down as Ruthenia leapt onto the umbrella and kicked off in search of a gate road to the southbound tunnel. The city gates were better marked than the ones beyond, with trails of round yellow markers leading in chains between mansions, towards the mouth of Gate 2.

As Ruthenia descended out of the flurry of rain and into the echoes of the gate tunnel, she let out a drawn-out sigh. But her thoughts slowly and surely drifted back to the companion she had just left behind.

She flew slowly, and wondered about him all the way home, about the things he’d said of the future, his dream of becoming a secretary and leaving this all behind. She hoped that she wasn't one of the things he'd leave behind—that that future contained her in some way.

Perhaps, after they graduated and went their separate ways, she would still find him sometimes, the way she still found her street friends. Perhaps they would sit together on the bank of a lake, and talk like they had today, forgetting the difference between them.

Picturing that future made her shiver with delight, and moreso when she imagined leaning against him, entwining her arms with his…

Growing conscious of these thoughts, Ruthenia angrily shook her head. It won't happen that way. It was never meant to. He'll inherit his ascendant future, and find someone worthy of his bloodline. And I'll still be here on the ground, little old me, dreaming of the lifetime where I wasn't a criminal's daughter…

---

Ruthenia could hardly stomach more than a mouthful of dinner that evening.

The night was stirred by breezes through the curtains. Across the oval table, Tanio ate calmly, looking quite content despite the lines of exhaustion on his face. On any other month, they would be bickering over something inconsequential. But tonight she couldn’t find the words with which to begin.

She sighed. The sound drew his eye. “You look unwell,” he said. She stared intently at her food. “Or uninterested, I should say, and a little lost in thought. Is my little Ruthenia thinking about someone?”

“Stuff your mouth with something. Like that burnt chicken, maybe."

Tanio stroked his chin. “Well, why were you late home today?”

“I visited Helika City on my way home.”

“On a date?”

“It wasn't a date. What's putting these ideas in your head?”

“There's a feather in your hair.”
Eyes widening, she reached up to feel about in her hair, till she brushed it from where it sat lodged in her fringe. She watching it flutter onto the table like a snowflake.
Tanio's mouth curved into a smirk. “Were you out fraternising with royalty?”

Growling, Ruthenia tipped back her bowl and slurped up the rest of the noodles, chicken and all. She stood up, kicked her chair away, and picked her empty bowl up. Then she vanished into the kitchen, where Tanio hadn’t turned the lights on.

Dumping the bowl into the empty basin, she peered out through the window into the dark. She saw faint pale patches beyond: the shimmer of an ocean of wheat, and a faraway glitter of lights. Helika’s lights.

The air suddenly felt colder, and a shiver rippled across her skin, with a pang she now knew to be longing.

Which of these is the light in your window?

She snapped her gaze from the distant glow and growled, but the thud of her heart pierced through any flimsy denial she mounted. “I refuse to become a cliche,” she muttered, blocking out the view with her hand, though she knew it was too late.

---

Chapter 31: Calm Before the Storm

It was on this one rare day that Hollia did not run straight home at the closing bell. This evening, she lingered with Ruthenia in the hallway, and they talked about their lives as they walked from window to window.

Ruthenia learned, then, that the sorrow Hollia always wore was not for the aviary alone.

“What happened?”

As Hollia stopped to stare out the next arched aperture in the wall, she murmured,  “Long story short…I asked Orrem on a date last week. And Lora didn't like that at all.”

“Oh, whoa.” Ruthenia tilted her head to a side, brow wrinkling. “You have to tell me about the whole thing over some milkshake.”

The sun was beginning to sink below the towers, casting mile-long shadows across the meadows. It showered the fields that they soared over in gold, setting the floating stand aglow as they approached and landed. Surrounded by that peerless view, they ordered their drinks, and leaned against the barrier to talk.

“So what happened with Orrem and Lora?” Ruthenia asked over her honey milkshake.

Hollia sighed. “Well, for context, and I don't think I ever mentioned this,” she replied, “I've been having a huge, dumb crush on Orrem. And to be honest, I was kind of embarrassed about it, it was keeping awake at night and everything.”

Now that she had mentioned it, Ruthenia found the fact that Orrem interested her to be simply self-evident. He was a rare Central Circle student who hadn't been born into his fortune, had worked his way up from the streets of the New Town. He had a breezy magnetism about him that made him easy to like. “I'm not surprised,” she said. “You like the sporty ones, right.”

Hollia giggled. “I mean, he's also a sweet person, and, you know, really good at what he does…”

“He really is.”

“Yeah. I had known for a while that Lora felt the same way about him. She always went on about how she dreamt of getting with him, and I just couldn't bring myself to tell her about my own feelings. I didn't want us to quarrel over it.”

Ruthenia folded her arms. “That makes enough sense.”

“Even then, I couldn't change the way I felt, and I guess I didn't think Lora’s interest meant he was off limits in any way,” Hollia continued, drawing her limbs closer. “So last week, I asked him if he was interested in going out with me.”

“Huh! What did he say?”

Hollia tucked hair behind her ear, eyes darting away. “Oh, he seemed surprised, and said he hadn't thought about that before, but that he would…consider it.”

“Consider it?” Ruthenia muttered. “Like a trade offer?”

“I guess so.”

“Drinks,” called Imessa, placing two glasses on the countertop. Ruthenia picked hers up—the golden hue of the honey always distinguished it.

Hollia took her own, a tea milkshake, and began to sip. “Well, while he was considering, Lora found out about it. And I didn't know it would be such a problem until she came in one day looking all angry at me. She said I…she called me a traitor, and said I'd betrayed her trust for the last time. So now Lora and I aren't talking anymore, and that was all it took for Telis to start ignoring me, too—”

“Wow, is that how it works in Arcane Land?” Ruthenia muttered. “Like boys are a limited resource and you have to wait your turn?”

Hollia laughed despite herself. “I clearly don't understand it as well as I think. I never wanted to take her dream boy from her, but I also just—have feelings too—”

She looked on the brink of tears right now, and all Ruthenia could do was lean over to rub her shoulder, heaving a deep sigh. “All this over one boy.” She threw her free hand up in frustration. “I mean, sure, he's popular, and she wanted him for herself, but…you have as much of a right to ask him out as she does? That's how it's meant to work, right?”

At this, her friend shook her head. “I think Arcane students think it works by a code of honour.”

“Code of honour, more like load of horse crap,” Ruthenia muttered between sips. “I say good riddance to Lora! That's not how real friends would behave.”

Hollia hummed in thought. “I'm glad you're saying this, it makes me feel less crazy.” She moved her glass from one hand to the other.

“So. Is Orrem still ‘considering?’” asked Ruthenia.

Hollia nodded. “I think so. He seemed not to be offended or like he's been avoiding me. He even found me to chat all on his own a couple of times. Maybe he really does have people queueing at his door for a chance with him.”

“Hate to say it, but that wouldn't surprise me either. Those racing fans are something else.” She shook her head. “Well, I hope he comes around, because you deserve him.” She smiled. “I think you'd make the cutest couple.”

“Oh, Ruth!” she gasped, smiling with her eyes on her feet. “Not nearly as cute as whatever's going on between you and His Highness.”

“What? No,” Ruthenia burst out, feeling a flush travel up her neck and over her face. “We just talk sometimes.”

“What was that he said the other day? That he needed you to walk him to the ferry terminal? Ruth, I find it hard to believe that he, of all people, doesn’t have an umbrella.”

Ruthenia folded her arms. “You’re not making me think about this. He’s the Arcane Prince. And I’m a convicted criminal’s daughter. I can't afford to start hoping.”

“Why not? Social class isn't an object these days.”

“Because—because we're enemies by allegiance. He's right next to a seat of power. And I'm…everything that the country can't abide.”

If Hollia understood the implications beneath the words, she did not show it. “I really wish politics didn't have to intrude so much sometimes.”

Ruthenia sighed. “You and I both.”

“But if you're afraid to start hoping…then I think that already means you want it.”

She cast her gaze to a side. “Maybe.”

---

The sun was beginning to wake earlier than before, and Ruthenia was reminded of it when she opened her eyes the next morning to the six-thirty sky.

The light was softened by a thickening cloud layer, and a moment of silence made her realise that a soft drizzle was ongoing. But under that muted grey, her mind was all knife-sharp purpose. Now was her last chance to align the pieces of this grand machine before it came time to take off.

The morning was well-spent between the New Town and Helika. She bought a messenger for cheap, the kind easily taken apart and altered.

Then she made a beeline to Eldon’s mansion. He seemed surprised at her arrival, but a look of knowing crossed his face as she asked to be taken to the basement, and he did not question her as he led her there.

Lit by thin beams of sunlight through slits in the ceiling, she laid her notebook—the culmination of two months’ planning—on the workbench, and began to fit the last pipes and gaskets into the machine's engine. Pausing to have lunch out of the cans in the corner cupboard, she laid the cheap messenger on the bench and dismantled it, scrounging up transistors and quartz from around the workshop.

Six hours' work got her tantalisingly close, but there was more to do yet.

The looming of school hours barged in on her attention, and right then, she made the decision to end her work, kicking tools under the curve of the hull.

“Just a little longer,” she murmured over the dashboard, a glittering collage of steel and brass and glass. She pressed a hand against the nobbles of the rivets. Just a week now. Her eyes hung onto that gaping cavern beneath the bonnet.

*

Rather than go to school, however, she detoured to the Lantern District. Rae Threaders was easier to locate the second time around, and she did not crash into a pillar this time. She stole into the shop, taking care to keep away from the perilous shelves.

Only Mister Rae was in attendance today, but when she showed her face, he said, “Nira would be delighted to know you came in today! What can I get you?”

“I'm looking for another thirty feet of Thread.” This time she knew she needed the full length.

“Gladly. It'll be thirty minutes. New project for your boss?”

“It's for me this time,” she said.

Today, there was no one to wait with her. She strolled along the boardwalks of the Lantern District, taking ladders and stairs to other terraces. She sat watching the afternoon sky turn grey, the rain fall, the clouds thin, coming and going in straggly blankets.

The Thread was offered to her in a wrapped package, which she traded for thirty aurs. Safe in the canopy of her umbrella, she floated back to Helika, descending to the balcony and down the stairs to resume her work.

*

In that very last last light of day, Ruthenia flew to the New Town, but not to see her gang. Instead, she made for the newsstand on the street corner, where Reida was ringing her bell, crying the headlines of the Afternoon Herald.

“Reida,” she barely gave the woman a second to greet her, before lifting her hand and pressing the modified messenger into it. “Please keep your eye on this.”

The newsgirl's eyes widened as she lowered her bell. “Oh, love, what is it for?”

“This one leaves no trace on recording instruments,” Ruthenia replied. “I cannot tell you why you need to have it; I want as little known as possible. But you'll know what it's for once I send you a message. Can I trust you to watch for it?”

“Of course.” There was a seriousness in Reida's gaze that told her she had picked up on what was not spoken: that there was a grander design to this.

Now all that was left was the last link in the chain: Sharmon.

---

It rained through the whole of the next day, and the day after, and when Ruthenia arrived half-wet on the school landing platform, the sky was an endless thick grey pudding of clouds.

She thought it seemed vaguely sad, the way it murmured on the school’s windowsills, no longer furious or cruel. The fields were bluer than they were green, for the bluebells were on every knoll, across the countryside. When she peered out the classroom window in the afternoon, she thought the clouds looked like wings.

She waited for a fragment of blue—Astra’s sky blue—to show. But all there was was grey, and the clouds filling the sky, and their rain flooded the drains and canals—Helika and the New Town alike.

Excusing herself from classes at break time, she detoured to the offices at Swan’s Cross. The building, a roughly top-shaped tangle of roofs and balustrades, gathered hundreds of units, each tacked onto others in every direction.

She landed on the deck of a north-side shop painted pink, five from the bottom named Illume Paints and Pigments researcher office. The wind battered her, and she peered down at glowing windows all along the surface of the block, hooking her umbrella to her shoulder. Platforms with black rails outlined every deck and balcony, doors opening and closing intermittently as customers and clients came and went, inviting the glows of lamps through, both gas and Thread.

It was a cold and unassuming interior, and made no effort to seem welcoming except with its carpeted blue floor. A receptionist sat in the lobby, his desk beside a polished door, filing his nails into a rubbish box.

Ruthenia strode up to the table and explained the cause of her visit. “You should have written ahead,” the man muttered.

“I'm one of his close collaborators,” she replied.

“Yes, yes, Ruthenia Cendina, I know.” With a sigh, he waved her towards the door.

She found Sharmon rinsing his hands in a paint-spattered sink. From here, every stained bottle of reagent in that windowless room was within arm's reach. Paint swatches and brushed lay on every open surface.

He turned at the sound of her entrance, grinning when he caught sight of her. “Oh, fancy seeing you here today,” he said, patting his hands dry on his coat.

“How’s the fuel coming along?” she replied.

Sharmon cast a glance at a section of the bench that bore flasks and tubes of conspicuously colourless liquids. “It’s...coming along.”

“Will it be ready by next week?”

“Whoa, Ruth, why the hurry!” he exclaimed, moving to tidy up the glass apparatus in that portion of the bench. “We have no deadline on the project.”

She folded her arms. “No, I need it by next week,” she replied, and slowly, a look of understanding dawned on Sharmon's face. “You said you had made a seventy percent purity fuel.”

“Ruthenia…don't do anything you can't come back from,” he replied. “I can have enough made to meet the engine's capacity in four days.”

“Perfect, thank you. Deliver it to Eldon's basement,” she said, turning to leave. “And deliver it as soon as you can.”

---

Chapter 32: The Verdict

The sun lay shrouded in blankets of grey, through evening to the next day. The entire land was blue. Blue and grey. Astra awaited its verdict in the rain, the seas churning against its rocky cliffs from all sides.

In the cold of the afternoon, Ruthenia submerged herself in fragments of stories, exchanged in black and white. The nation was restless. Everyone knew something was about to happen, something that would rend the nation eternally.

Weeks of research have been conducted into Lilin’s behaviours and patterns of activity, and five warships will be launched at seven o’clock on the Twelfth of October, and strike at eight in the night, when Lilin begins her sleep.

Celebrated hunter Leon Alemer will enter Lilin with the Glaive of Laveda and shred her heart. This will be no easy feat, and we ask that you send this future hero your blessings.

*

The low-lying regions of the New Town are experiencing the worst flooding yet. Yesterday afternoon, the River Colura overflowed and broke its banks, swamping the basin west of Calmen Ihira. The total damages caused are calculated to value over two hundred thousand aurs.

She clenched her teeth but every bone in her body ached. “You don’t care about the country or the people. The votes matter more than the lives,” she muttered. The blood in her veins burning.

Then she turned the page. And her insides turned to ice.

Slush Funds And Illegal Dealings Discovered: Royal family secretary Eldon Legars suspected of funding illegal engineering project

“Eldon,” she whispered. “Eldon?”

Her breath quickened to a pant, but she was too numb and dizzy to notice most other sensations. Throwing the newspapers onto the couch, she rose, eyes darting about in the living room for Tanio.

“Tanio—Tanio!” She felt despair bloom all through her, like poison as it started its attack. The world grew soft and muffled in her ears when she squeezed her eyes shut. Again she retrieved the papers from the couch. Blinked with camera-shutter rapidness.

The words were still the same, bold and unmoving.

In the latest development of the war on heretics, anonymous persons who suspected Mr. Eldon Legars of criminal activity tipped the police on the matter, leading up to what was one of the most shocking discoveries concerning sacrilege since the period that has come to be known as the Purging.

Investigations revealed that Mr. Legars, ex-secretary of the royal families, has been paying multiple steel factories with funds he previously claimed to have set aside for “miscellaneous property development projects“.

Further searching uncovered unsigned blueprints for a machine, its purpose clearly marked: flight.

On interrogation, Mr. Legars refused to reveal the location of the machine or the identities of collaborators. If charged, he will face a minimum of three years’ jail sentence, on top of twenty years’ house arrest.

Mr. Legars has been placed in police custody while further investigations are conducted on the matter.

If charged, all offenders may be sentenced to at least twenty years of house arrest.

Ruthenia could neither eat nor talk for the rest of the evening. The thought of food alone made her sick to the stomach. Tanio was hardly doing better. They stared soundlessly across the dining table, the wavering electric light making his eyes seem sunken with age, cavernous almost.

Her attempts at conversation withered in her lungs. Their food went cold between them. Her boss wordlessly swept half his plate into the scrap heap.

Late in the night, when the silence went on unbroken and the stars barely breathed through the smothering clouds, Ruthenia finally did speak.

She said “good night” to Tanio. He returned the greeting shallowly, his voice barely a shadow of its usual drawl.

Tonight she was afraid of the dark again. She was afraid of the things that hid in it. Restless, burning and shivering, she locked herself into Tanio’s guest room and curled up in the cold blankets, turning them warm. Blood stormed in her head as she struggled to keep her eyes shut.

*

The sun woke Ruthenia near ten o’clock on Friday morning. The rain had begun to murmur at some point past midnight, but she had barely felt the cool. She could hear every second passing, like thunder, heralding the storm about to come.

It seems, Lilin, she thought, resting fingers on the misted glass pane of the guest room, we are soon to be in the same predicament.

Your father killed my parents and now I'm going to be imprisoned because of him, too.

There was no message cancelling this Saturday’s building session—wise, of course, since any message now would as good as reveal them to the Royal Birds.

What would become of Lilin, of her plan? Perhaps she could flee, and finish what she’d begun. What did it matter if she added another crime to her list? Save Lilin, or die trying. It’d be prison after that, but better prison for being brave than prison for an unfinished project.

Ruthenia glanced up at her window. While the rain whispered outside like a prayer, the weight of this loneliness that she’d spent her life ignoring suddenly felt like a hundred feet of dark water, roaring to crush her.

“Ihir, I hate you!” she screamed at the sky outside, voice breaking on the second word. “Why do you have it out for me? Why do you try so hard to ruin my life?” She snatched handfuls of paper from her desktop and flung them at the floor, all crumpled. When at last all her belongings were on the floorboards, she curled up in her desk chair and cried herself back to sleep.

---

The teachers might have thought it strange that Ruthenia was being more agreeable today than she had been for the rest of the year. Beside the looming imprisonment sentence, school seemed like paradise.

The sky was blue and wide in the windows, and from here she could see the towers and ferries of the Central Circle, the columns of smoke and the gilded roofs of opera houses that she’d never visit.

She stopped by Hollia’s desk when she came, and smiled at her without explanation as they chattered as if nothing had changed.

The usual chatter died when Ms. Arina entered. It was life as it had always been, and always would be—even though the sky broke with rain every hour, and the New Town was flooding, and she was waiting to be arrested.

*

A cold silence held Ruthenia and Aleigh prisoner as they walked down the corridor, in which she drew inward, trying to keep a million words inside her.

It was Aleigh who broke it. “I heard about our secretary,” he began, before the words fizzled out.

Ruthenia’s eyes clung resolutely to the light of the lobby far ahead. He must already have figured out the connection. “I know,” she replied simply.

“The investigations will be carried out over the weekend,” he replied, some implacable fear burning in his green eyes. “You will be safe till Monday, when the paperwork is filed. But once this comes to light…my brother will almost certainly have me sever ties with you.”

“Oh.” A knife of grief plunged through her heart.

Haltingly, he whispered, “Ruthenia—what about…your earlier plans?”

She clenched a fist as she said, “I will go through with it. I have to. If it comes to that.”

People hurried about them, deep in their own conversations. Just an ordinary day. Rain breezing outside, muffled by the sound within the hall. Bluebells opening their flowers.

They pulled into a corner of the lift, as always, and she bowed her head. Then she felt his fingers brush the back of her hand. When she turned in surprise, his gaze dodged away. She found it in herself to smile, to lift her hand to wrap his.

“Hey,” came an unfamiliar voice inside the lift. “When's the wedding?”

Ruthenia glanced about as laughter broke out from the rest. The crowd left laughing at the bottom level. Lingering behind, they walked with hands linked for a few nervous seconds, neither looking at the other, until they let go as they entered the view of the cafeteria.

In a week, all this warmth would have vanished. All the joy and shame, all possible futures. By next week, there would be nothing left but a mere soundless nothing.

When they found their seats in the cafeteria, Ruthenia realised Aleigh did not have a novel to read. “Is there an hour of room in your schedule tomorrow?” he asked.

“What for?”

“If you must go through with this…I reckon I could help you.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? What if your brother finds out?”

He frowned. “Don't make me reconsider, this is hard enough,” he said. “But if I can help you avoid an untimely death, then I shall do so, at any expense.”

She could not meet his eye. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Helika Plaza, if that suits you.”

“I can make that. Four thirty?”

From his pocket he pulled his planner, flipping it open to the bookmark. “I'll see you at the Helika Plaza on Saturday, at four thirty,” he said. “After that, we shall go our own ways, and you may do whatever you please, wherever that takes you.”

She couldn't help it when her breath caught. “I'm so sorry. I have to do this. I only wish it didn't mean…”

“Oh, Ruthenia—” His eyes darted away. “You are truly like no one else I know. For better or worse.”

*

Tanio’s study window glowed well into the dusk, the Friday evening sun cooled by the fey of clouds boding another fall of rain. Ruthenia didn’t investigate, nor did she grow alarmed when he didn’t come to join her for dinner.

The gloom grew tighter about the house, and Ruthenia tried to focus on her plans. Tried to tidy up the routes she’d been drawing in her mind.

Then she picked up the pen, and began a new message.

Reida, I need you to do me a really big favour.

---

Chapter 33: The Liminal

In the spiralling morning grey, Tanio sat staring so intently at the pages of the Morning Herald that he wouldn’t have noticed if a naga had smashed straight through the floor. His eyes were ringed with black, like soot, and he was dishevelled, his coffee table even more of a hurricane-swept mess than usual.

“You’ve got two days of freedom left,” she said, then sighed when his expression clouded. “Don’t waste them in here.”

“I don't think I could enjoy anything right now,” he answered. “But your care means everything. Truly.” Shaking her head, she left the sullen inventor in his armchair.

Some rummaging in the kitchen revealed that her employer hadn’t restocked the pantry since they’d run out yesterday. Apparently he had been so busy sulking around that he’d forgotten they still needed to stay alive. She munched on stiff bread and gulped the old milk down, glad it hadn’t turned sour at least. Very soon, sour milk would be the least of her problems.

*

Mounting her umbrella in the drizzly wind out on her boss' porch, Ruthenia leapt and flew through the rain, over the fields, like a sparrow. The rain rolled off her leather jacket. Her heart raced when the wind twisted her flight into drops and swerves, and once, she even rolled in a full midair spin, the way Ms. Decanda had taught them three months ago.

At the time, watching the woman roll had struck such horror into her that she’d decided, before she’d tried, that she would fall every time. Yet now that she knew she might never be so free again, Ruthenia flew like it was the thing she loved most in the world.

She flew madly, tasting the wind and the drizzle, all this fear and pain scattering like snowflakes, until grey Helika Plaza with its four-swan fountain came into view.

It seemed the unseasonable rain had scared even the most eager of the customers away. The wet black lampposts with their iron curlicues seemed almost alien without pedestrians leaning against them, smoking cigarettes and breathing swirls of smoke into the air.

All the pedestrians stood in the shelter of the ambulatory that passed in front of the shops of the plaza, warming their hands in doorways and pulling their coats tighter against the chill. Ruthenia pulled her jacket tighter around herself.

She slowed to a landing near the start of the eastern row of shops, sighing when the shelter took the pounding of drops off her face. The warmth of the nearest café, the Liminal, soaked into her skin, accompanied by the scent of coffee. Other flavours soon joined the rich bitterness—jams and pies and that famous Astran toast again. She sighed.

The glass façade gleamed with her cold windswept silhouette and the grey of the sky behind. Ynder curling gold-leaf chandeliers laden with Thread lamps, couples and businessmen inside spoke and dined, rosy with health, all unaware of the girl watching them.

“Ruthenia.” She turned away from the glass in the direction the voice had come from.

The Arcane Prince was dressed in black, white, and gold today, and if his equine had come along with him, he must already have put him away in the stables. His sun golden hair hung in a braid over his shoulder.

She hooked her umbrella on her arm, dragging her gaze away before it became too obvious that she was staring. Stopping beside her, he turned to the café. “You like this one?”

Ruthenia gaped. “What?” People passing them by either tipped their hats or stared. “I don't have a hundred argents.”

He took her wrist, and then they had passed through the glass door, golden bells jangling. “I'm not expecting you to pay,” he answered as the air grew warm around her.

The walls were a creamy gold. Light refracted through glass in precise patterns that scattered the brilliance all over the room, and triangles of sunlight glowed on facing walls. Iron brackets held floating spheres of crystal. All across the ceiling, too, glass beads and crystals hung in arcs in the air.

The receptionist’s face went slack at the sight of the entering customers. ”Good afternoon, Your Highness!” he said with a bow, straightening his bowtie with two tugs. “I was not aware that you would be dining here, or else we could have made proper reservations…”

Aleigh shook his head. “Can't I make casual visits?” he replied.

The man’s smile was renewed. “Well, I suppose you are at liberty to do as you please, Your Highness, and you are in luck for we do have vacancies,” he resumed. “Two dining?”

“Yes, and get us a table away from everyone else.” With a nod, the man called for a waiter to show them to their seats. Ruthenia’s gaze wandered about while they wove between tables. Other guests’ gazes flew to the two, mouths opening.

“This place is too much, who even dines here?” she muttered as she caught sight of a full-height mural of swans in flight on the inner wall. More gazes came their way as they passed between the seats. Ahead of them, their waiter gestured them to a two-seat table in a corner, by the glass, where the empty Plaza and its forlorn fountain shone through.

She watched the rain shimmer on granite paving stones, all across the deserted Helika Square. Occasionally pedestrians hustled by, with open umbrellas swelled by wind.

Ruthenia unbuttoned her jacket and draped it over the chair. “So,” she said haltingly as they sat down. “What's new?”

From here, they spoke in hushed undertones. “The fleet leave at six o’clock on Saturday,” Aleigh said. “They will not launch the attack immediately. They intend to circle near the bay until eight o'clock, when they believe Lilin will cease her aggressive mood. They will weaken her with the first round of explosives, and then send Leon into the sea to incapacitate her. Leon will be in the ship leading the fleet. He will dive into the sea carrying the Glaive, and enter her to locate her heart. Once he’s safely retrieved and returned to the vessel, they will release a second wave of explosives meant to complete the task.

“As for the Glaive itself, the blade is capable of cutting through any material, physical or ethereal. It leaves a corrosion that prevents wounds from healing, and it is said that the eternal agony of a Glaive wound is what drives deities to death.”

She frowned. “On the hull, between six and eight…that gives me the perfect window of opportunity.”

He did not answer, only lifted a finger to his lips, then looked up. A hand reached into their visions, presenting them two brown booklets.

“Thank you sir,” she snatched her menu, fingers running over the gold-embossed shop name.

“Do you mean to take the Glaive?” asked Aleigh once the waiter was gone. Her brow knitted. “Yes. I will land on their deck and take it. I will dive into the ocean and cut her free. And once I do it, it doesn't matter what happens to me.”

Aleigh frowned, but said nothing.

“What? What's wrong with that? Do you think that won't work?”

For the longest minute, he was silent. And then he murmured, “I'm starting to understand. You don't see yourself as a person, but as a means to an end.”

“I have no choice!"

"You do have a choice!” he snapped.

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me,” she repeated. “If I can stop one more senseless death by the clergy's vote, then I would rather my life be spent that way, than that I sat aside and let it happen.”

“Please, that doesn't have to be your war to wage.”

“Why are you trying to stop me?”

They fell quiet, neither seeming to know what to follow with.

Their waiter chose to return in the midst of the frigid silence, but quickly doubled back. “May I—take your orders?” his voice came timidly.

Aleigh was first to lift his gaze. “I'll have coffee with cream, and the chocolate berry cake,” he said in a single breath.

“One slice?”

“Two,” Ruthenia answered.

The waiter nodded, turning to her. “Anything else?”

“Uh…” she consulted the menu again, “I’ll have this chocolate” —she twisted her lips at the next word—”or-queil?”

The waiter seemed to know which one she meant. As Aleigh confirmed the orders, her eyes drifted over and she began to study him: wavy golden hair loosely braided over his shoulder, eyelashes glimmering in the lights.

She tore her gaze away when his returned. Breathing out, she began to run her finger along the edge of the table.

“Ruthenia, tell me—what happens if you fail in this mission?”

“Well, if I fail,” she said, “then I will probably die at sea. But all I'd have to do is spoil their attempt on her life, so they never try it again.”

“And what if you succeed?”

“Then she'll be free. And I'll return to my imprisonment. Or jail, since I escaped my arrest.”

“No. You’d have participated in a project in mechanical flight, broken house arrest, and obstructed the military to save a being that the clergy voted to kill,” he answered. “You'd be the face of sacrilege, and they will execute you, Ruthenia. You know how such grand treason is punished.”

“I—well—” Ruthenia swallowed— “That's fine! It's—”

It was death in the name of justice. Of doing the right thing. For Lilin. For her parents.

Her parents? Hadn't they done this, too?

But as her heart began to plummet nauseatingly, she realised:

She didn't want to do this.

She had thought it would come naturally. And it had been easy, years ago, to hold herself as an instrument to some greater plan. That furnace of agony and hatred, stoked by every gunshot, had powered her this far, never winding down even after she had left the streets behind.

But there were people here now. The world was warm, and she had started to like it—to hope for something more than nothing. Cracks had veined through the walls, and now, she no longer yearned to throw herself into that bottomless pit and disappear.

Her heart roared for life. She wanted to live. Free as a bird.

But she'd be a prisoner in two days' time. Lilin would die in five. Or she would die. No, she would die, one way or another. In the sea, or on the plaza.

“I don’t know,” she croaked. “I don't know—I don’t know what I want.” Terror broke through her like spears, and tears spilled when they pierced her. She tried to wipe them off, but more kept coming.

“I’m sorry,” said Aleigh.

Ruthenia blinked the next wave of tears out of her eyes. The café came into focus again, as did her companion's anguished stare.

“No, don’t be, I'm glad you asked, but I'm—” she whispered—voice cracking on the last word— “I'm terrified.”

“It hurts to watch you throw yourself to near-certain death,” his blurry voice said.

“You’re right.” She stared at her hands, and all she felt was the roiling of waters around her, and all she heard were Lilin's screams. “I’ll probably die if I go. And I don't want to die, either. But I have to. I know I can help her. And I'm in too deep to give up.”

“If there’s anyone who could best such odds, it’s you,” replied Aleigh.

“And if I don't?”

“It would destroy me.”

“Stop, please.” With her sleeve she scoured those tears off her face. “There, no more tears. Now you can stop coddling me.”

“I quite like being sincere, thank you very much,” he answered. “Ruthenia, it has brought me immeasurable joy to know you. And it will tear me apart to lose you.”

She hunched her shoulders, grinning through her tears. “As if I’ve ever been more than a nuisance.”

“I'm sorry to say, but you've been a lot more than a nuisance.”

“I showed you how to buy milkshake once,” she said.

“You did.”

Ruthenia laughed. Then the warmth was eclipsed by a thousand terrors. “But after tomorrow, after the fleet sets sail—”

By now, she already knew what she had to do. Her cause was far greater than herself—one that wouldn't die when she did. There were people she loved as much as life itself, and she wanted for them a world where priests and kings could not toy with lives unchallenged. She wanted that for her friends and foes, the ones wronged by the law, the ones puppeted by it—a world where life was more than just a pawn in the political game. And that meant—

“Someone must stand up to this decree,” she said. “So I will. I will resist. That's what we must do until the law bends.”

“Laws don't change for one person, Ruthenia.”

“My mother changed the law,” she answered.

“I wish you wouldn't become your mother.”

Her drink arrived in a glass flute, placed on their tabletop with a clink. Even staring into the swirling cream flowers in the drink, the ribbons of chocolate that curled from within the glass, she couldn't forget that the meal lain before them was the very last they'd share.

Aleigh pushed the saucer of cake across the glass tabletop. “Why don't you have yours first? Let me know what you think.”

She watched him smile sadly, waiting for her to take her share. And she grew devastatingly certain that she was in love with him.

Before the realisation could reach her face, Ruthenia snatched her spoon and began stuffing cake into her mouth.

Seeming not to notice anything, Aleigh began to fish about in his pocket. “Oh yes, before I forget, I have something for you…”

She perked up as he placed a small bevelled black box on the table and slid it across. “What's this?” she asked, lifting it. For its size, it seemed almost too dense.

“Think of it as a reminder,” he answered, breaking eye contact, “seeing as my chances of meeting you again after this are—dismal.”

She ignored the sting of tears when he spoke those words. Instead she pried the lid open, and shook the concealed object out of its nest of rustling paper.

Out slid a glittering golden pendant bearing the image of a bird. She lifted it to the light. It an eagle spiralling around a star, surmounted on a circle.

“What should I do with it?”

He stared at the gift in her hands. “Well...you can wear it, or sell it if you need the aurs.”

Ruthenia felt her throat ache. Why now, when this was the end of it—friendship, alliance, or anything more? She slipped it back into the box. “Thank you so much,” she breathed, and a pang of sadness cut her short. She pushed the box into her coat pocket. "What does it...what does it matter now? I'm going to be dead in a week's time." She began to sob mid-sentence. "I'll be gone."

“You are still here, right now.” He reached out to brush her hand, and when she lifted it from the table, he wrapped his fingers around it. With one hand held in his, she finished her slice of cake, and pushed the saucer back to him.

Then she sipped her drink slowly, letting the flavours suffuse her mouth. Who knew when she'd have anything so good again? Who knew?

They left their empty dishes and glasses on the tabletop, though it alarmed Ruthenia that you could do that without anyone yelling at you. The receptionist greeted them chirpily, and Aleigh offered a compliment as he paid their bill of thirty argents with a cheque.

“Thirty? For just two slices of cake and two drinks?”

“I expected it to come up to more, frankly.”

They left the cafe's warmth and burbling conversation, out into the steady whisper of rain. As the glass door swung shut behind them, she listened to her shoes clack on paving stones.

“I must return to the palace,” Aleigh said, then paused. “You...really are going to go through with it, aren’t you?”

She thought of dying like that—of sinking, cold and dead, into the icy Deeps, or of debris exploding through the water in trails of bubbles, stabbing her through the gut. And she wanted to say no. But she nodded. “Everything is ready to go now—and I—” Her words caught in her throat, and she cried, “Why didn't you cancel your plans? Couldn’t we have made this meeting longer? I’ll never talk to you again after this! Never! No matter what we do, no matter how everything goes—once I leave, we’re done forever!”

Tears were spilling down her cheeks again. She sputtered and choked on all her words—until he gripped her shoulders, and she stood staring right at him. “Oh, Ruthenia…”

She gasped as he pulled her into a tight embrace and pressed a kiss to her forehead—and she sobbed and laughed in turns, as that gentle floral perfume enveloped her. “It won't be forever,” he said, voice trembling. “If anyone could do what no one else ever has, it would be you.”

She threw her arms around him. “I’m not that powerful,” she replied.

“I think you are far more than you realise.”

Her arms tightened around him, and for several dizzy seconds, she wished she could stay here and soak in his existence for the rest of time. But she sank away when she realised she was enjoying it too much.

And so her very last half-hour with Aleigh Luzerno drew to its close. Nothing in the world could change her course now—nothing short of the heavens descending to the world.

“Well, I’ll see you,” Ruthenia said simply, “in the news or something.”

“Likewise,” answered Aleigh, who extended a hand in a small gesture of farewell.

The girl—now no more than a rebel and a criminal—took the Arcane Prince's hand in both of hers, and bowed to kiss his fingertips. This was how she should address him, as a subordinate, and starting today, she was no more a friend to him—him and the Astran government—than she was an enemy.

---

Chapter 34: Transmissions

 Helika Morning Herald, Monday, 9th October 491.

Secret Plot Uncovered! Investigations into most recent flight machine case reveal connections with prominent inventor Titanio Calied

The discovery of blueprints of a flight machine and ongoing operations to build it have shaken Astra's capital. Six suspects have been identified, among them the famous inventor, Titanio Calied.

Last week, workers within the Legars mansion began to suspect their employer of illegal dealings. One servant within the Legars household claims to have overheard meeting room conversations in which his employer and his guests negotiated the prices of steel and brass.

“I’ve never known [Legars] to be a machinery enthusiast,” says one witness. “I had every intention to mind my own business, but I found this suspicious, in combination with the fact that he spent long hours missing from the mansion.”

Police were tipped off on the matter, who then conducted an inquiry, entering Legars' property near Palace Street on the Fourth of October. Inside a safe in his study room, the investigators found two folders of receipts and accounts, all undisclosed. These receipts documented almost fifty separate purchases with raw metals factories based in Sonora and Aora over the past two years, the total amount traded exceeding a hundred thousand aurs in worth.

The police then uncovered blueprints which strongly suggested that a flight machine construction project was in the works. Legars refused to disclose any details on the matter.

“We were horrified to see such damning evidence against Mr. Legars,” says His Majesty, Arcane King Aligon. “He has been dismissed from his role with great prejudice.”

The ex-secretary of the royal family was later arrested and taken into police custody. He refused to confess to any of the above deeds, nor to disclose the location of the alleged machine or the names of his collaborators. However further investigations were conducted on Sunday, revealing more related documents, including contracts and journals bearing the names of Titanio Calied, Sharmon Aldo, Ruthenia Cendina, and brothers Sef and Sandro Mora.

According to these documents, Calied was the mastermind behind this illegal flight machine construction outfit. Having recently come into the limelight when he played a key role in elucidating Lilin’s role in the ongoing weather crisis, Calied is once again in the public eye under decidedly less savoury circumstances.

His assistant, Cendina, was also noted as an active participant in the project. She is the daughter of famously controversial scientist Lita Kyril, who was executed in Year 485 on the grounds of spearheading a similar mechanical flight project.

Collaborator Aldo was a reputed fine artist whose primary job was as the chief chemist of paint and dye company Illume. The brothers Sef and Sandro are 14 and 15 respectively.

At the time of writing, all are being detained in the Helika Police Unit Building, where they will be interrogated this afternoon, before the official court proceedings.

This legal case has reignited debate over whether the law on mechanical flight should be abolished. It is based upon a line of the Holy Script stating that flight is sanctioned by Ihir and must at all times be practiced by holy means. Rebels and activists have fought for the complete revocation of anti-flight laws, although both kings continue to adhere to tradition.

It is not likely that these laws will be revoked anytime within the next week, during which Legars and collaborators will be put on trial, and if sentenced, may suffer up to lifetime imprisonment.

---

It all happened in a whirl of paper sheaves. Places in the sky, marble floors and old designs in ceilings and murals. When Ruthenia walked on the swirly marble of the floors, she saw reflections of herself inside, reflections of a person she didn’t quite know anymore.

They sat in the benches while file after file of damning evidence was read for the court. Hundreds of pages of receipts, correspondence, and journal entries, showing beyond a doubt that the four of them—Titanio, Eldon, Sharmon, Ruthenia—had gone about this project for years, in secret, with full awareness of the law. Even Eldon's best lawyer wore a look of quiet defeat as he mounted his flimsy case.

There was no outcry of surprise when the judge declared that Eldon, for his crimes, and his refusal to comply with searches, would be sentenced to twenty years' jail, and the other three to equivalent years in house arrest.

Ruthenia had slept in the guest room throughout the weekend. Maybe it was the comfort of stony walls, safe from the whims of the wind and noises through the cracks.

Every meal had been a struggle to swallow, her fingers so cold that she'd hardly felt the bread in her hands. The usual noises no longer pervaded the air: nothing but the crackle of static in the living room, like an erratic breath, trembling.

*

On that drizzly Monday morning, marsh birds were calling through rain, no doubt building their nests at river bends where no one would find them. The wheat was drenched, and Tanio's turbine continued to creak in the howling gales.

In these last hours, they sat by the crackling radio, hiding behind his cushions as if the fort they formed would protect them from the law. Fragments of mundane news punctuated the minutes. They heard their names, tossed through the fuzz of noise.

And at ten o'clock, there were two knocks on the door.

They glanced at each other. At peace and at one with his fate at last, Tanio rose from his sofa. Before she next blinked, he had arrived at the door.

---

“All persons are to take up permanent and unyielding residence in the property owned by Mister Titanio Calied as registered with the Ministry of Residence and Construction from today until the Ninth of October, Year Five Hundred and Eleven." I will be thirty-six then. "All necessities will be provided for by guards and servitors, stationed at all entryways to each residence. All persons are not permitted to move beyond a hundred-foot radius around the residence, or transact objects with visitors. All visitors will be checked thoroughly, both before entry and after exit. All messages entering and leaving the residence, both on paper and on Threads, will be vetted. If rules stated herein are breached, all principals are liable to be transferred to the Helika Prison and suffer a sentence equivalent to the remaining duration in years.”

Ruthenia did not struggle or protest when she was escorted into her shed. She stumbled through into the dark of her own room, and unfamiliar men outside began dragging the doors shut. The light in her window dimmed as another storm cloud passed in front of the sun.

---

Ruthenia did not spend a minute resting.

Her plan had moved from her mind onto paper. She wrote on sheets on her desk, copying the Astra map from her Geography textbook and annotating important locations—the River Colura, Palace Street, the harbour of Centrelight, the Deeps beyond.

River. Flight. Ocean. Death. The rhythm of her plan chanted in her head, growing clearer and fiercer with every mark she placed with her pencil. Death. Death. Death.

At seven o'clock, apparently under Tanio’s instructions, her guards knocked on her door and called her out for dinner.

She shoved her plans away and gathered up her laundry in her arms. Her mind brewed as she crossed the rainy bridge, crouching to keep her balance, bowing under the rain.

She figured from the crackle of alien voices under his door that Tanio had yet to turn his radio off. Indeed, as she entered, she found him kneeling beside it, a man’s voice murmuring in the hollow brass. He raised a hand in welcome, but barely moved otherwise.

Dinner was porridge of rice, stale meat and preserved vegetables.

There was no time to wait for the boiler. She burst from the bathing room full-dressed with chattering teeth and her towel about her head.

“Ruthenia, get over here,” called Tanio when she appeared.

Ruthenia towelled at her damp hair and stumbled over. “What's going on?”

Her boss waved her over to his side. “There’s a programme coming on that may interest you,” he explained, gesturing at the radio. “In ten minutes.”

While she settled herself on the carpet, under the scrutiny of both Tanio and the guards, Ruthenia hugged her knees close. “What’s it about?” she murmured, not meeting the man’s eye.

He stared at the tuning knobs of the contraption. “There have been developments in the palace.” Ruthenia drew a breath and held it. In spite of the gloom that sat heavy, like a blanket, upon the room, Tanio managed a tiny smile.

The girl only tapped her cold fingers soundlessly against the carpet, as the words of reporters hissed and shivered on the Threads, and this solid, unfaltering voice was replaced by another.

The static was like the clearing of a throat. “Breaking news. There has been a dramatic falling-out within the Arcane royal family. The Arcane King has stripped his brother of his title and banished him from the Helika Royal Palace,” said the reporter.

Ruthenia’s eyes flew wide. “What?”

“This move follows the ex-Arcane Prince's refusal to repudiate his friendship with the recently-convicted Ruthenia Cendina at his family's behest, after the pair were seen together in public.”

She felt her face heat up, from shame or horror or both. She hid her face behind her knees.

“Mister Luzerno has been ordered to leave his residence in the Palace, and will return to his mother's estate in the Lantern District.”

The track broke, and the voices changed.

“I am disappointed to hear your decision, Aleigh. You have shown a ruinous lack of discretion that has no place in the advisory council. I promise you, if you should ever admit to your errors, then we would welcome you back with open arms.”

Ruthenia felt her insides grow cold at Aligon’s sun-bright voice, its veiled cruelty.

“We spoke Mister Luzerno shortly before his departure. Take a listen.” The track clicked. “Mister Luzerno, what prompted this shocking decision?”

A new voice came on the radio amplifier, and Ruthenia felt herself stiffen. Even buried beneath interference, she’d know it anywhere.

“I thought that rather self-evident: I did it because I am on her side.”

Her heart swelled with a storm of things she’d never felt before. More than the voice, it was the cutting wryness that she knew, impossibly composed even on national radio.

Voices were clamouring, begging for a word with him—but none could cut his answer short.

“She knows this country just as well as we do, from a vantage point that few of us can access—least of all my brother. She sees beyond the fog of pride and civility that blinds us all, kings and priests alike. She grew up among the troubles that we have always averted our eyes from. I believe she has the best of intentions for Astra, and I regret that the rest of the advisory council cannot see this. The meaningless death must stop.”

“This has come as quite a surprise to the public, considering you have effectively chosen your friend over your family. Do you have personal reasons for doing so?”

“Perhaps. Ruthenia is one of the only people in my life who has ever treated me like a human being. When my brother threatened to disown me over her, I knew what I preferred.”

“Stop being an idiot!” Ruthenia cried out at the bell-amplifier, though she knew he wouldn’t hear a word. She was a hair's breadth away from tears. Something squeezed on her heart, anger and shame both. What happened to the act? Your pretences?

”Do you have anything else to say?” asked the reporter.

A pause. “Aligon, we grew up with everything in the world, and I was the first person you lorded over. You are a talented leader, and it would do you good to remember: you were elected to make change, not to protect the old way.”

She began tugging nervously at carpet fibres, fingers growing cold. She missed the last words of the interview. The radio clicked and the track switched once more. An unfamiliar voice telling unfamiliar tales drowned her friend's out. And then his presence—the warmth of knowing his existence persisted—was gone.

“It appears I have underestimated your skills in diplomacy,” said Tanio.

She glanced away. “All I did was make a friend.”

“Your ‘friend’ just publicly renounced his royal title in support of your crimes. Perhaps they are capable of changing after all.” Then he smiled. “Or perhaps he's just smitten with you.”

“Tanio…”

He sighed. “He would have made a lovely in-law.”

“Now you're just making me sad,” she murmured. For moments, the past week vanished from her thoughts. Here he was, same old Tanio, still teasing her despite everything. Perhaps his efforts to make this place feel like home had worked their way into her heart after all.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as she rose to her feet.

“Survive your first night and you’ve survived all twenty years,” she answered. Then the guards marched into the living room, and pierced them with glares, until she had stood, towel wrapped about her neck, and trudged out of the room into the coldly swirling rain.

---

Chapter 35: Falling in Place

The air of Wednesday, the Eleventh of October, was that sort of cold that made hair stand on end. The cold reminded Ruthenia that the world was boundless, even though it had never before seemed so small.

She paused at the window, where a thousand droplets of rain rolled down the glass. Beyond the glittery drops, she could still see Helika: its light had somehow crossed the twenty-mile distance between their windows and hers, and it was all she had left of Astra beyond these walls, where life and its myriad inky mysteries continued to seep through the fibres of time.

The evening grew deep, and the purpling of the sky turned her hands cold. The incursion began tomorrow. It was time to set the machine into motion.

At eight o'clock, she crossed the bridge for dinner, as she always did. When she stepped out into the balmy twilight, she found herself trembling, but forced herself to meet the guards' eyes. She had, for the past two days, done her best to establish a pattern of early departure. She spent no more than five minutes in the bathroom, and ate hastily, but not suspiciously so. Tanio watched from across the dining table, blond mop dishevelled. He met her eye, and must have seen the glint in it, for she caught a twitch at his mouth that could have been a smile.

She spared some minutes after dinner listening to Tanio's radio. The navy's plans were right on track.

So were hers.

Thereafter came reports on an upsurge of defiance and vandalism inside the capital itself, of upstarts sitting in lines across Palace Street. In the Candle District a protest had been staged against their convictions. It no longer alarmed her, hearing their names. Nothing alarmed her, now that her end loomed over everything.

By then, Tanio had moved to the kitchen to commence on the dishes. She peeked through the door, haltingly—stopped beside him and waited for the words to come. But instead of words, she sank against him with a vice-tight hug.

“Thank you,” she croaked, “for giving me a life I never knew I could have. But now I'm going—”

He returned the hug with one soapy arm, and whispered, “I know. I know, Ruth.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “Eldon bought you a lot of time. At his own expense.” He closed his eyes, and when they opened again, they were glistening with tears. “And I know better than to try and stop you. Just…do me proud, alright?”

“I'll do it for you,” she answered, and then they parted ways.

*

Door shut, winds dead about her, Ruthenia began her very last preparations. She tugged both windows open, east and west both, so that a cool breeze billowed through, rustling her papers, flinging them across the floor. It was the sort of wind that seemed to change whatever it touched.

She opened her wardrobe and yanked her only coat from the hanger: a deep brown one, with black lapels and cuffs. She ran her hand quietly through the other shirts and trousers hanging inside.

At her desk, she reached into her drawer and withdrew the golden eagle pendant, clasping it around her neck and touching it, slipping it inside her shirt. Nothing seemed more important than having it upon her when she died.

Then she pulled her coat on, and snatched up a pair of socks at the door, wearing those with jittery hands, and her shoes over them.

Her watch read eight forty-five. She turned off the light.

Breathing out—breathing in—so she'd always remember the precious scent of home—wood, smoke, rust, wheat—Ruthenia dropped to her knees beside her trapdoor.

She stared down at the steel bolt for a while—the one she kept kicking by accident, an inconvenience at best. Then she slid the bolt out soundlessly, and lifted the trapdoor with the most drawn-out of creaks.

A stinging gale slapped her. She studied the darkness. There it was: a telltale splash stirring the water a hundred feet below, where the lights of Tanio’s house glittered on the currents: a trail of crests, ploughing through the surface, and an irregular rippling, as if a large but invisible fish were breaching.

Beside her, Ruthenia’s messenger flared bright blue. We're here.

All she could hear was her heart.

I'm coming down, she wrote.

She swung her legs through the hole so she sat at the very edge, legs swaying in the battering wind. From the floor, she picked up her umbrella, and hugged it close.

This would be a quick escape. The less time she spent in the open air, the better.

Moments before the drop, a shiver swept her, from her feet to the hairs on her scalp. “I trust you,” Ruthenia said, squeezing her eyes shut.

Then she launched forward, and tipped towards the darkness, every nerve screaming—and then there was nothing beneath her, only blackness and wind.

---

“Ruthenia!” The gasp reached through the whistling wind and the throes of her terror. Almost at once, her sense of gravity snatched her bodily as her fall began to decelerate.

While she slowed to a head-spinning standstill, three feet above what she now saw was a tiny rowboat, an uncanny warmth came to enwrap her.

Ms. Decanda's Thread nets had felt like this, silken cocoons ensnaring her as she fell and tangled in them—yet not really, for this one crackled upon her skin, like electricity across hands. Standing on the deck beneath her, Hyder’s hands were spread. He began to Weave with careful tugs, and she felt herself sink through the fragrant night air, Threads shifting around her, just perceptibly.

“Flawless timing,” she said as she came within earshot of them.

“No trouble.” Tante quirked an eyebrow. “I have to salute you, this plan of yours sounds much bigger than anything we have ever dreamt up.”

With a last pull, Hyder lowered her into the boat, her knees meeting the floor in the space between the stern and the thwart. The boat bobbed and rocked on impact. Hyder scrambled to her side at once, offering her a hand.

While the oars splashed quietly and Gordo began to steer it in a full turn, Ruthenia groaned and twisted, rising to sit on the damp deck floor with one hand in Hyder's. She sat herself on the thwart, and her shoulders sagged as the excitement greyed to exhaustion.

“So I heard you joined Derron,” she said while the oars pounded in the water.

Tante tilted his head to a side. “He has big plans, and we like the sound of them,” he replied. “And those plans are due to commence very soon.”

“His and mine both.”

For a while, Ruthenia watched the dark wheat stalks drift silently by on either side. She closed her eyes and rubbed her right temple with a finger, trying to come to terms with the mission she had just begun. But when she opened them, Hyder was still there, with a fathomless grief in his eyes. A lump of regret sat in her throat.

“Hyder,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

A pause. “No, you have to do what feels right,” he replied, although she heard his breaths growing irregular.

She had known for years that he felt something towards her that she did not reciprocate. And he was looking at her perhaps knowing, even though she hadn't said anything, that whatever was coming may end her life.

Ruthenia could not find the words to reply. Instead, she shifted across the planks until they were side by side. “You'll be alright,” she murmured. “You have a whole future. You can mask, you can go invisible, and now you can make nets! The gang is lucky to have you.”

Hyder slipped his arms about her, squeezing her close. “But I’m—” a sob broke his sentence in two— “I’m just so scared to lose you.”

She closed her eyes as her own tears came. “I’m scared, too.”

He shivered with his sobs. She felt her hair grow damp. “What will I do without you?”

“What you've been doing these last two years. Carry on without me. All of you. Promise you will.”

“Of course,” Hyder whispered.

The ride proceeded in silence, oars swishing through the current as the lights of the New Town blossomed into view. The wheat rustled again, the Bollard District saying goodbye. The rhythm of oars around them was joined by the murmur of reeds outside the boat.

Her eyelids drooped shut in the warmth of Hyder's embrace. “Wake me up when we arrive,” she whispered. The last thing she heard was his breath convulsing into sobs.

---

A sharp jab at her shoulder came through her dreams, followed by the damp scent of mist, and the soft roar of what must be water.

Her eyes opened a crack, but no light flooded through. A few blinks cleared her vision. She was not in her shed.

The bare sky was deep black overhead, and the place about her was dim enough that the glowing points of the stars were visible from here, winding chains of light across the sky.

The world was bobbing up and down. At once, it all descended upon her—the memory of escape, falling, the boat. And then her muscles were pounded by aches.

“Ruth, we've arrived,” said a different voice from the one that had been there before she’d fallen asleep. Ruthenia rubbed her shoulder as she righted herself. The dark silhouette of Den looked upon her from the bench, one hand shaking her shoulder.

She sighed, though it came out as more of an exhausted groan. Peeking over the edge of the boat, she was surprised to find the ground no more than a foot away.

Another glance about made Ruthenia realise that the rest were staring at her from the river bank.

Her quest came pummeling its way into her thoughts. She struggled to a squat, and eventually managed to stand, almost tripping over a bench in the process. With a bound, she landed on the riverbank, feet crunching on wet gravel, dizzied by the sudden steadiness of earth.

She looked up to meet the eyes of her gang. “So, guys. This is it. This is where I must leave you,” she said. “It’s been a real pleasure, so—please… Please do good things with your lives, after I’m gone. Throw a funeral in my honour.”

“What do you mean?” Gordo retorted. “You're not going to die. You won't. Please promise you won't."

Her face fell. “I wish I could. But unless I am extremely lucky, this is—effectively—a suicide mission.”

She watched as her friends, these faces she had known for six years, cast stricken glances at each other. The dim streetlight glowed across their faces, from a road passing just some yards behind. She saw worlds in their fearfully glistening eyes: there were too many things to be said, too many to be contained in this short time that remained between now and when she had to go. Hyder covered his face, every sob piercing her like a spear.

“Well—you have well and truly showed us up,” Tante muttered, looking away. “What a way to go out. You really were more than we ever knew. And I’m proud to call you an ally.”

“We're honoured,” Den added, touching his hand to his heart, “that you have spent these six years with us.”

“Stay safe, Ruth,” Gordo said with a wavering voice. “I think you can last it out. I believe it!”

Her friends’ gazes met hers, each in turn, and they nodded at each other as if this were another prank, and she was about to run off down back alleys on a harmless caper.

Not many minutes later, a lone carriage came chugging up towards them, sputtering to a stop near the riverbank. Its driver, the lamplight revealed, was Derron, in a top hat and a surprisingly well-made black coat.

All at once, her heart began to quail, and her legs begged her to flee—but it was a fleeting idea, and she abandoned it with a grin.

Kicking the door open, the man leapt off the carriage, lifting a hand to greet her. “Are you well, Miss Cendina?”

“As well as I could be, and thanks for coming,” she replied.  She turned to nod to Hyder, who followed her towards the car.

“Ihir bless your cause!” called Gordo, the rest chorusing well wishes, as Derron opened the passenger door and gestured for the pair to board.

It was summer throughout the country. Ruthenia felt the humid air soak into her skin, as the night grew deep, and the scent of old soot was joined by the smell of flowers opening their buds to the sky. In that heady air, the wheels rattled away. Hyder whirled his hands over their heads and pulled the Threads into a mask around them, and the three bright faces of Tante, Gordo and Den melted into the darkness behind.

---

Chapter 36: Out of the Shelter

“Miss Breyte has gone about this plan with remarkable resourcefulness,” was the first thing Derron said, once they were bumping along through dark fields towards the bright lights of Helika. “She has a good head on her shoulders. But she tells me you planned it all?”

Ruthenia felt her teeth rattle as the carriage trundled along. “I told her what had to be done by the end of the night. The rest was her invention.”

“Mm, that lady makes an excellent ally indeed.”

The darkness blended trees with sky, until they passed under the gateway into Helika, strings and arcs of light making silhouettes of roofs and pillars. As they coursed down the old dirt road beneath the Ministry of Flight, Derron seemed to know every turn by heart, and the carriage bounced and chugged, until they had pulled to a stop outside the grounds of a familiar manor.

“It’s so quiet,” Hyder murmured, eyes trained upon the lit windows in the upper floors, above the vines.

Ruthenia felt her heartbeat thunder hot in her ears. “It may have guards.”

He smirked. “Can't be as bad as the palace.”

Derron alighted with a click of the door, crossing to her side of the carriage. “Here we are.” He opened the passenger door.

Ruthenia and Hyder scrambled off the carriage. “Thank you, Derron,” called Ruthenia, “and Ihir guide you.”

“Ihir will not help us. Your courage shall guide us, Miss Cendina.”

While the carriage rolled away into the dark, they peered up at the mansion before them, Ruthenia producing her watch from her pocket for the time. One o’clock. Her eyes scanned the wall for the thin window of the study while Hyder Wove a new mask over them.

“That one,” she said, pointing at a casement window beside the stairwell. They raced across the garden beds, leaping over bushes. There was a light glowing in the stairwell window, but watching it closely, she saw that it did not move. Some old nightlight, perhaps.

Both leapt up onto the windowsill and crouched, peering down at where the latch was nailed into the frame. Hyder kept his eye out over the garden. From her bag Ruthenia pulled her hammer and slid its claws under each nail head in turn. With a sharp wrench, she popped the nails off of the frame, and heard the latch land with a muffled clatter on the carpet inside.

“Ruth,” whispered Hyder with a tap on her shoulder. When she turned, he was holding out a glinting object in the dark. “Reida said to give you this before we parted.”

The fishbone key. It felt like years ago that she had last held it in her hand. “Perfect, I knew I could trust you.” She slipped into her pocket.

There, sitting upon the window's edge, her friend's gaze dip away from hers. “I—I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“That I can't be there to help you.”

Ruthenia shook her head. “I can't pull anyone else into this. I want you to live to see better days. You and everyone else I know.”

There was a long, impermeable silence. Then he leaned over and pulled her in a hug, so tight she wondered if he meant to hold her just to stop her from leaving. But he finally let go, and when he did, his eyes were spilling over again. “I always knew you were destined to do something amazing. And with luck, that something won't end in death, too.”

“Thank you for everything,” she answered with a simple smile. “For making the streets feel like home. I'll miss you, no matter what comes.”

He smiled as tears dripped from his chin. “Me too. Keep safe. As safe as you can.”

And with one last lingering smile, and a pat of her forearm, Hyder leapt off the sill. Then he, too, had vanished from knowing.

Now she was alone, Ruthenia could hear her heart in her ears. Hooking her umbrella over her shoulder, she slid the window soundlessly open, and launched herself feet-first through the gap. She landed next to the fallen latch. Once the window was shut, she plucked the fishbone key from her coat pocket.

The study was silent and inky-dark, its door locked to the hallway. The books and stationery were nestled where they always had been, as if the room had never been searched.

Years ago, when they had designed the basement entryway, they had done so with this very scenario in mind—the day the government might come along in search of a hidden machine. The floor yielded no hollowness when knocked, and the friction wear was always hidden by the slab, only the cracks around the edges to give away that there was something beneath.

She felt with a hand for the corner of the desk, then for the activation keyhole in the drawer's knob. She inserted the fishbone key into the slot, depressing the button on the tip. She waited as its pins probed and retracted, one after another, repeatedly, until it went silent.

With a full twist of the key in the drawer lock, the floor began to descend.

It was strange how different the basement looked in the dark: a cavern of steel machinery, benches, and toolboxes. Features of the floor slowly began to define themselves—the Swift in the centre, its wings grazing the walls, metal parts and tools lying everywhere, all the same as the day she had last visited.

She felt her way through the darkness with her feet, dodging stray screws and nuts until she was beside the grand machine.

Beside it, she knelt to the floor, barely conscious enough to keep herself from collapsing on her side and resuming her interrupted nap. In the stupor of her drowsiness, she scrunched her coat up into a wrinkly ball, and laid it down. Cold crept across her as her eyes closed.

She didn’t notice the transition into sleep; it came like a pouncing shadow. All she remembered was the clawing perfume of grease, which persisted deep into her dreams.

---

Light splintered on Ruthenia’s eyelids, fragments slipping through the cracks. She blinked and stirred awake, and lay there for some minutes, calmly contemplating the pipes of the ceiling.

Then, rising through her fog of sleep, she remembered—eight o'clock tonight. She started upright.

Crawling to a kneel, she stood, every muscle protesting. Her coat was smudged black, as were her elbows, but the only thing that bothered her was the gnawing of her stomach.

She raced to the tool cupboard in the corner, with its stock of emergency crackers and canned meat. She picked up a wirecutter on a lower shelf, wrenched a blade through the lid, then decided the blowtorch would have to do for cooking. Ensconcing it in a beaker stand, she lit the blowtorch and turned away, brushing the base of the can with the tip of the flame until it hissed with boiling.

The meat was scalding; she dipped the crackers in the sauce and crunched on them with all the haste she could make.

Then she returned to the Swift, whose body was all but ready, its great wingspan and two gleaming propellers making her heart swell. Beside it sat an unlabelled one-gallon tin. Unscrewing the lid, she sniffed, recognising the faint tinge of Sharmon’s fuel. She climbed up the ladder to peer into the cockpit. In the seat sat the jarred spool of Thread, right where she had left it.

Her lips curved into a smile. She was almost there.

For an hour then, she put the finishing touches on the Swift's four-piston engine, tightening exhaust pipes and beating the casing into shape. She put the housing over the dashboard, and then paused as her eyes crossed the gearbox.

One piece was missing: the joystick.

By now, there were no more parts in store that would fit: the pipes were too thick, and she didn't have the tools to work the sheets into rods. After half an hour crawling around in storage and sifting through odds and ends, she returned to the Swift empty handed, heart hammering in her ears.

Then, her eyes fell upon her umbrella.

Its crook peeked over the edge of the workbench. Its shaft would be the perfect diameter.

A pang tore through her. Surely there was another way?

Picking the umbrella up, Ruthenia expanded it with a click—and at the sight of that sunny orange, too bright for these walls, all her terror and anticipation, her hope and grief, surged together in a tidal wave.

Six years ago, she had watched everything—her home, her family, her bearings in the world—crumble to dust. This umbrella was the only thing that had survived, clutched in her hand as she had run away. So she had kept it, and had learned to fly with it, in the hope that she could save her history from washing way.

For six years she had hung by this lifeline. The world had changed and grown and decayed around her, and through it all, she had clung onto this tether, to the corpse of the life before.

“Why did you think this umbrella was enough?” she screamed, flinging it at the floor. It clattered and bounced. Her throat ached. “Why didn’t you leave some money? Or some food at least would’ve been nice! What was wrong with you?”

Six years of this tired sight, and she never wanted to see it again. Yet even the thought of pulling it apart felt like tearing out a piece of herself.

Blind with tears, Ruthenia fished around in the cloth-working toolbox for scissors. She picked up her umbrella, gritted her teeth, and slotted the edge of the cloth into the scissors' jaws. She slit the first seam.

Snip by snip her umbrella canopy bloomed. She dragged the scissor blades through the orange cloth in long straight lines, like a surgeon carving a body open. The lines in the fabric gaped like parting lips.

She tossed the canopy away, a bright orange circle, fanning out in ribbon-shreds. She stared down at the orange blur, paused, gasped with a paroxysm of sobs.

Clenching her jaw, she bent for a screwdriver among her other tools. With a few twists, she drove out the screw fastening the crook to the shaft.

Then, as she yanked it off, something pale and cylindrical popped out of the tube and rolled across the floor.

Ruthenia went still.

She stared at the thing lying between her feet, heart racing.

A piece of paper.

She stooped to pick it up, and unrolled the thin sheet—slowly revealing rank upon rank of brittle typewriter text, the old ink just starting to fade at the edges, beginning with:

Our dear Ruthenia,

Ruthenia let out a whimper as a pang stabbed her through the chest. Her fingers wrinkled the old paper as she read on, line by line.

By tomorrow, if all goes to plan, we will no longer be alive. We must confess: we know you may never forgive us for what we're about to do. But we must, and we pray you understand someday.

You see, we do more for Astra by accepting death than by fleeing. You may not believe that now, but perhaps you will when you are older and have seen the world for all it is. As refugees we may be safe—but as martyrs, we pave the way to a future where people like us may live fearless and free. But it will not be a battle of a few months. No, it will be years of struggle yet, and that struggle will begin with us.

But do not ever feel tethered by our deeds. Your life is, and will always be, your own.

We will regret to our dying breaths the one thing we couldn't do—to become the parents we once dreamed of being. Please know, dear Ruthenia, that you were the one thing we would ever have abandoned our cause for. But we are choosing this for you, too—for the hope that you'll grow up in an Astra better than the one we leave behind.

We know this umbrella can't replace us, but we hope it will protect you from the rain when we are no longer around to do so.

Someday, though, you must leave it behind, and see the sky above. And perhaps, if you're reading this, that time has come to pass. Whatever changes are sweeping over your life right now, whatever battles you are fighting—know that it will be alright. We know you will find your way through, for the sky has no boundaries, and the world is yours for the taking. The world is our true gift to you.

Mum + Dad

She let her eyes cross the text again. Then again. Her eyes darted from one word to another, trying to connect them. Every one of the memories was jammed at the gateway to her consciousness.

Six years of deafening silence. And now this.

Her gaze tunneled into the letter and the room grew bright, and the knowledge that they were gone, they were gone, finally came crashing through the walls of her mind—like a charging beast, smashing the fortifications she had spent six years building to rubble.

“I know!” she shrieked, slamming her fist against her leg, lip trembling. “I’ve always known!”

Your life is, and will always be, your own.

“It was all for nothing, Lita,” she snarled. “They’re still doing it! Nothing’s changed! You left me all alone in the world, hating the one person who could have helped me. And now you're gone, I'm the one paying for your choices!”

She tumbled onto her side atop the workbench, cheek to the wood. She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling with sobs as all the pain she’d tried to lock in the basement of her mind crawled back out to choke her. When she blinked, the stars of ceiling lights fragmented and coalesced again.

“You never cared. You were just two idiots obsessed with martyrdom. You were—my heroes.” She clutched her head through her sobs. “You could still be here. I could still be happy. We could have been a family.”

Suddenly too exhausted to speak, she let the sobs take hold of her. She lay at her workbench and cried for what felt like hours. But no amount of crying, she realised, would bring back the six years she had spent fashioning her own life after theirs, turning their dreams into hers.

A chill crept through the gaps in the ceiling, rippling across her. The flowers stirred quietly above.

No, there was no bringing her childhood back. It was time to stop clinging.

All that was left was to march on forward, out of the shelter, into the rain.

She righted herself again, and picked up the plasma cutter. Holding her umbrella, she gritted her teeth and sawed its shaft from its ribs.

---

By four o’clock, everything was bolted in and checked. Here she stood, before the prize of all these years of toil. Her parents had only gotten as far as this. Their fledgling machine had never left the ground.

She flipped open the cap of the fuel tank, hefted the tin up the ladder, and poured the translucent oil in. Then she gave the propellors a spin and cooked herself a meal out of the cupboard with the blowtorch. It wasn’t time to leave yet. That time would come soon.

For the remaining hours of the afternoon, Ruthenia waited. There was a lightness about everything, like the morning after a rainy night, vapour rising in the sun. She studied the roots pricking through the edges of the runway gate, hand resting on a lever. Though she could see no sun from here, she felt the air grow cool with the descent of the sun. Her senses sharpened to a fine point.

She thought, as the light began to dim to red, that she could feel a distant, hollow rumbling in her blood, like that of train engines, ready to be launched into the world.

Six thirty. At last, Ruthenia grasped the runway hatch's lever in both hands and gave it a tug. With a vast, guttural groan, the ceiling began to rise, showering earth and rainwater into the basement below. The orange sky peeked through, setting the ramp aglow like fire.

Now, time was running out.

She sprinted back to the Swift, picking up the work goggles beside the toolbox. She dusted them on her coat before pulling them over her eyes. Then she climbed into the cockpit, shut the door, and locked it.

A twist of the ignition, and there was a great, beastly rumble. Heat swelled against her toes, through the canvas of her shoes. There was a menagerie of sounds—hissing, humming, churning—rumbles of hunger and delight—for freedom—freedom—flight.

The engine was already fighting to propel her forward, and not denying them, she lifted the brake.

The Swift began to careen across the stony floor, over dust and grease stains, called by the burning sky ahead.

Her eyes scanned the visible runway. Up above the ground, the garden path led straight onto the grassy acreage beyond—enough, she hoped, for a proper running start.

Light swelled across her as the cruise became a heart-pounding canter. She felt the lurch as the wheels bumped onto the ramp and up into the brilliant evening. Her mind raced with calculations, none of them enough.

It gained and gained momentum, faster than a carriage, faster than flying on her umbrella. An engine like no other, Threadless, diesel powered, loud as the voice of Ihir.

The sky billowed vast above her, welcoming her back into its warm blue embrace.

Ruthenia felt an uncanny relief. It was like something lifting from her, an old black shroud of sorrow. As the machine hurtled through the meadow and parted from the grass, she fixed her gaze on the blocks in the cloudy sky beyond, clutching at the joystick, feeling the sweep of the wings as if they were a part of herself.

---

Townsfolk lowered their hats in the evening light to gape. A girl raced to her mother, questions tumbling from her lips.

The Swift's wings cast long shadows as it climbed, rumbling, into the evening air.

Ruthenia grinned in the wind, feeling her teeth grow cold, the scent of burning chemical oil and of oncoming rain all about her. Her heart pounded louder than the screaming wind, like the pulsing pistons at her feet, the metal vibrating beneath as air rushed through joints. Brilliant purple sky devoured her whole.

It wasn’t like flying on the umbrella—there was too much power in her forward thrust. And it was not Ihir's will that lifted her, but her parents', and Tanio's, and hers.

---

Chapter 37: The Sea

It was not long before Helika turned into a cluster of tiny white specks in the valley between a mountain and a foothill; now the contours of Astra took shape, rising out of the land.

She saw things she'd only ever known through her textbook: Calmen Ihira sloping towards the coasts like a great heap of sugar, around that central peak a turbulence of foothills, knolls, and human structures. Then the New Town was blazing beneath her, then it was behind. The grey line of sea advanced on the east horizon, where the land was flat and the sky was darkest. A sparkle of brilliant gold marked the boundaries of Centrelight. The greedy inkiness had grown to claim a greater portion of the sky.

As Ruthenia passed the border of the coast, the panic reached a spike. Her breaths grew shallow, eyes searching the black ocean beyond the lights of the jagged coast. It was not hard to find the V formation of five bright decks upon the dark eastern waters—half a mile out, by her estimates—still in the view of the bay, but quickly leaving it.

With a curse, she felt a fiery rush of blood fill her head. She trembled and gritted her teeth, wriggled her fingers to warm them, clenched her hand harder around the joystick.

She pitched forward once more, so the nose of her machine dipped into Centrelight's glow. Shivers rippled through her as she stared beyond the lights. Shooting past the glowing jetties of the coastline, she heard the roar of the waves, the wind growing damp in her lungs.

The sea was below her. Fright and thrill swelled in her gut.

Ruthenia tugged the joystick back with a clatter of cogs, pitching the aircraft back into horizontal flight. She gulped in the ocean air and the smell of brine, but she could not stop shaking.

It was a matter of minutes before the night grew truly deep, crystal-cold in this tiny space. Nothing but ocean lay for miles on either side, and the dial indicated the engine was emptying; she had ten minutes of flight left.

Clenching her jaw with a narrowing of eyes, Ruthenia tugged the joystick right, listening as the elevators creaked and the plane yawed.

The bloody red lights had resolved into brilliant glass bulbs at the tops of warship superstructures. Paler lights glowed across the decks, and as she descended towards the central ship, they elongated into islands.

She hadn't thought any sound could overpower the chugging of her own engine, but all she could hear now was the roar of monstrous propellers churning up water at each stern. Their smokestacks spat lurid billows of smoke into the air, nebulous white in the glow of their deck lights.

The lead ship thundered several yards ahead of the rest, frothy wave crests forming a V-shaped wake behind it. It was thronged with camera crews, their machines set up all along the deck, xenon flashes bursting across the water every half-minute or so.

There was a wave of silence as she approached. The cameras stopped, and for a moment she feared she had been seen.

She soon realised it was much worse.

On the superstructure of each ship, a cannon turned to gaze into the waves. Then, from each barrel, something gleaming pierced through the darkness. Something narrow and supreme.

She'd learnt the lesson of lightning and thunder as a child, because her second name meant “to thunder”, and when she asked why she was named after thunder if lightning always came first, they told her it was because it was lightning that birthed thunder, just like how she'd come into this world beside the generator room of the laboratory.

As each metal shell slid into the water, and the impact sparked a chemical trigger deep inside, she learnt it again.

The vision registered before the sound. A swell of water bulged like a dark hill from the ocean surface, brushing the warships aside like a tablecloth rising, knocking the glasses away. She plugged her ears with her fingers.

The pain tore each ear like metal spikes—except there was nothing but a frenzied rippling of particles.

Ruthenia curled up, body vibrating in agonising resonance with the boom. Her eardrums screamed against the assault of the noise.

Even after it had faded, her ears rang, and her breath came in gasps.

“I will finish this,” Ruthenia growled through chattering teeth, and shrugged off her coat.

Out here, beyond the Astran coast, the air was empty, not one trace of Thread fluttering. With her left hand, she unscrewed the bottle, fighting to grip the slippery Thread inside.

She hooked and swirled, sweat breaking out on her brow. “Ihir, help me out for once!”

Several seconds later, she’d managed to tangle enough around her index finger to Weave it.

Now, all that was left was for her to take the leap.

Sucking in her breath, Ruthenia snatched and yanked the thrust lever at her right.

The machine began to throttle against the wind. The dashboard flickered. The flyer swung into its final trajectory, pitching towards the pylon atop the lead ship’s superstructure.

With a single sweep of her arm, she tugged all the Thread out of the jar. She pulled and flung, every inch of the thirty feet unspooling—those thirty feet of Thread Melkior Rae had handpicked for her once upon a time. And where she had never felt it before, she began to detect, amid the ethereal hollowness, the teeming energy of the strand fluttering from the tip of her finger.

Her heart pounded. While the machine whistled towards the pylon, she stood. And as it passed, she did two things: she killed the engine, and she tossed the trembling loop of Thread into the air, letting it catch on the pylon in a tangle.

Closing her eyes, clenching her jaw so hard it hurt, she swept her hand through the air, and felt her heart swell as it found purchase on the Threads.

Then she Wove.

The Swift swung, falling into a descending orbit around the pylon. She looped the Thread, under and over, and it liked to loop, tying a knot around the machine. Beneath her she heard voices clamouring and thickening at the base of the superstructure.

She Wove the flyer into a clumsy arc, the way she always did, barely managing to release it as it swung towards the bow, where cameramen and naval officers were scrambling out of her path.

She was careening through the air in what had in a split second become deadweight.

A bang jarred the entire body of the machine was followed by a screech that put her teeth on edge, setting the entire warship deck rocking.

She leveraged her body weight into slamming the wheel brake forward, and groaned with her stomach against the gear as her wheels skidded past four gun turrets, stopping ten feet from the very tip of the ship’s bow.

Springing from her seat, she lunged for the door latch and hurtled into the floodlights.

Something cold struck her arm, then another, and then a proper barrage of drops from the sky.

Everything in her screamed for her to run.

Rain splashed and pounded at her face, seeping into her eyes and threatening to blind her—beneath her too the rain was a threat, slippery beneath her shoes. She saw no one but Leon Alemer, at the edge of the bow, beside a uniformed captain, skin gleaming in lights, the Glaive glowing like a torch in the fog to its very pointy tip.

The captain turned just in time for his eyes to widen with horror. “Go!” he bellowed to Leon as she dodged through the broken lines of navy officers. “Dive!”

The hunter shouted a frantic “yes sir”, and in a flash, he had vanished through the gap in the railing, taking the light of the Glaive with him.

At the same moment, the first gunshot exploded. Lightning-strike. Ruthenia swung almost and slipped on the deck as the bullet flew wide, and the ocean devoured it like a benevolent beast.

Without another thought to the plan ahead, she sprang over the rails, and dove into the sea.

Ruthenia had never dived before, or quite known this sensation—air rushing over her face, sea-spray and rain exploding in a glorious tumult. She didn't know how to anticipate it—the approach of the black wall beneath her in the ship’s shadow.

Waves shattered beneath her shoulder and her body jarred, and she gasped before the black water engulfed her head.

Up above, she heard a frenzy of bellows upon the deck: “don't shoot! Who in Ihir's name is she?”

“Leon!” she screamed again, launching towards that other head in the water.

“Who are you?” Leon roared with eyes wide as the moon.

Then Ruthenia pounced. Leon yelped when her hands clamped down on his arm. “Stay away!” he shouted between pants, struggling to twist his arm out of hers. Buffeted by waves, her grip moved to the weapon in his fist.

“Can you really do this?” she asked. “Murder a goddess? Tear her apart from inside her?”

“You're crazy! You're a madwoman!” The diver gasped, water streaming from his hair. The rain pounded yet, drowning the bellows from above. “Leave me be, leave me be—they hired me for this—”

A gunshot boomed. His words were broken by a rasping cry.

Thick black rivulets were flooding out of his right shoulder and dissolving in the sea.

At once she yanked the Glaive out of the man’s grip, stomach churning from the scent of blood.

“Damn it! I told you not to shoot!” came a shout from above.

“She’s the escaped convict, sir—”

Leon moaned with pain and clenched his teeth; his left hand was on his right shoulder, his grip so deep in his skin that it seemed he was trying to rip his arm off.

“You got our diver, you understand? You shot a serviceman! Throw in the emergency ladders!”

“Sir!”

“What is it?”

“Lilin is surfacing! “

Ruthenia stiffened.

“Get out of my face, you bloody fool! Once Alemer's out, I want the second round dropped. The girl's not worth saving. Go!”

Immediately Ruthenia felt terror girdle her; she fought it with a yell, gulping all the air she could.

Then she clamped her eyes shut, fingers curling around the Glaive of Laveda. She pulled her lips tight, and plunged into the sea.

Water swallowed her hair, fought into the cracks of her goggles, pressed into her nose, flooded her mouth with the taste of salt. She kicked up a thrash of bubbles behind her, fighting through the cold blackness. Before her the shimmering Glaive slit the water as if it were silk, setting a halo of particles aglow.

She tunneled deeper, deeper, deeper. For these seconds she forgot how to do all else. She fought with all that her body could offer her, the whole sea pounding against her head.

Up overhead, something flashed, piercing clean through the surface.

A fish-like projectile with perfect fins dove through the murk in a trail of bubbles, plunging almost as deep as she.

Her blood roared as she watched it descend, and she was seized with an emotion too strong to be understood. It wasn't terror, and wasn't rage. It was something akin to regret.

Her heart pounded faster than it ever had before. The sea shone and burned like a ballroom chandelier.

*

She heard the ocean itself screaming as it sublimed into an infinity of frothing bubbles and steel.

Something slit through the back of her calf—just a graze, but the wound throbbed, and she knew she bled.

The second was not over.

*

Ruthenia shut her eyes in a torrent of burning seawater. The screaming went on around her, a light swelling from below, fading beyond her eyelids.

The world winked out.

---

Chapter 38: The Helika Waltz

Ruthenia?

The world trembled gently, like a child shivering with cold.

Ruthenia thought she must be dead, because she was hearing voices. Something was glowing behind her eyelids.

Everything faded to darkness at the edges of her thoughts.

Ruthenia, it hurts.

Was it her mother, calling her under Ihir's wings at last?

No. She recognized that voice, and this pungent wetness beneath her… The air was briny…

Air. Her head throbbed, steady and warm. She coughed and water sputtered from her lungs. Ruthenia found her fingers trawling through ocean scum. She removed her hand from knuckle-deep.

It hurts. It hurts.

She twisted over. With a few dizzy sways, she pulled herself up on both knees. Her fingers ran over her throbbing calf, and found a sticky gash. It hurts. The Glaive glowed from her left, its blade the only fresh gleaming thing in her vicinity. Digging it from the muck, she picked it up. The blade was shaped in curlicues, and its shaft was threaded through with leafy patterns.

As Ruthenia rose on trembling knees, a shiver wracked her. She swung forward in a coughing fit, each making water spurt out between her lips onto the sea-scum below. She began to gasp midway, throat rasping, before her lungs convulsed again and she coughed up more water.

Blinking her tears out, she surveyed the space. Mist washed over her, so thick she could not see beyond a few feet. But she saw the roof of the chamber, silvery and glowing, about as high as the palace ballroom's ceiling, but gently arched. Whatever ground she saw was carpeted with decaying algae.

Wandering with a slight limp some way through the mist, she found herself passing by rotting tables with seaweed for tablecloth, tarnished telescopes, even shards of dinner plates, all foundering in algal mats.

Ruthenia shivered and stumbled on, through a maze of scattered furniture and discarded cloth. Ahead of her, an odd shadow loomed, jagged and dented, towering many times taller than herself.

Another smell assaulted her nose then, surging above the pungent algae: the thick, nauseating scent of rust.

It was a small steam boat. The remains of one—its hull, crusted with a bumpy corruption of rust, was old enough not to have arrived in the past year. She trudged a little further down the length of the hull, coming to a rust-ringed porthole that she peered through.

She felt a chill creep over her when she came face to face with a shadowy gambling room, the skeletons of players slumped across their decaying table.

“Lilin.” Ruthenia glared, raising her head to the ceiling, which must be the roof of her mouth. “Lilin! I'm here to save you!”

Ruthenia.

She hadn't thought an answer would come. She staggered back, and drew in a breath. In the river, the voice had only seemed distant and ethereal—now it shook the ground, the metal, her bones.

“I don't understand,” she said, drawing away from the window and the boat. “Why have you been swallowing boats? You've made enemies of the entire nation.”

No answer.

As she stepped over shattered compasses lost in the mist and dirt, she began to shiver. She'd reached the edge of Lilin's mouth. Close to the wall, the mist thinned to nothing, and all was visible along its length. Lilin's skin seemed more like porcelain than anything resembling flesh, a single great tooth larger than herself towering beside her. Trickles of seawater poured from between her lips, swamping the sea-scum and the broken furniture.

I'm lonely, she finally replied.

“I have a plan to get you free,” Ruthenia said. “I have the Glaive here, and I can use it to cut your chain. That might work, won't it?”

Will it?

“It's the best chance we have now. And it's worth a try.”

There was a period of silence from Lilin, just a soft, steady tremble beneath Ruthenia's feet.

“Let me into the sea again, Lilin. I'll do my best!”

At the centre of my tail.

An enormous gurgling began—Ruthenia gasped again—a frothing wall of water had formed at her lips. Behind her, she felt a gust build behind her as the ceiling descending, the air forcing her towards the ocean. She gulped another lungful, like a stranded fish. With the pressure building against her, she tried to imagine the collision, the creak of her bones, the pummel of the tide—and plunged into the watery wall.

Seawater smashed against her, soaking her hair again. Ruthenia was adrift again in the immensity of the sea again, but a great glowing floor rose from the depths beneath her feet, white wings unfolding on either side. Her feet met the monumental curve of her flank, and then that loomed over her: the chain.

It was much larger than she’d expected—shaped like the chains that suspended anchors from ships, except each link was as thick as she was tall. The structure ran straight into Lilin’s tail like an insidious burrowing worm, a shadow beside the glow of her skin. Her scarred flesh had grown around the chain, but there were tears through the skin, where she'd struggled too hard and it had begun to wrench through. The links were not metal: there were no welding seams, no irregularities, no rust even in these briny waters.

Glancing at the Glaive in her right hand, so tiny beside it, Ruthenia felt a despair crawl over her—then she beat it down with a surge of anger.

She looped one arm around the great pillar-like curve of the closest link. She felt the metal grinding at the goddess' flesh, flecks of scales crushed between steel and muscle. Gritting her teeth, she pressed the Glaive’s blade against its spotless surface.

One deity's work met another, both of the Upper Empire. Sparks dissipated in the water.

With the force of her hand, she sawed at the link—back and forth, back and forth against the resistance of water, shoulder straining as the blade screeched. The Glaive had made a nick in the surface.

The gurgle of water was poor encouragement, but it was all she had. Time kept stretching and buckling. She sawed away at the metal, deepening the crack stroke by stroke.

---

It was difficult, accepting her failure slowly.

Here under so much dark roaring water, Ruthenia already knew she was trying to do the impossible. One minute of sawing had left only a gash deep enough for her fingertip.

She could not finish in time. Not before she drowned.

Yet she carried on anyway, like a machine built to a single purpose, paying no heed to convulsions starting to seize her body and the fanged ache in her lungs.

Her vision began to sparkle and sway. Things were darkening at the corners again, slipping out of her mind’s grasp, as if ink were being spilled over patches of her consciousness. She only barely felt the shaft of the Glaive, but even now her grasp was loosening.

Lavender sparks swallowed her vision whole, and her limbs began to lock up. Even then, she pushed on, now with the force of her torso, deepening the cut. She would let nothing stop her, now that she’d gotten this far—

---

When next she woke, Ruthenia was staring up at the roof of Lilin's mouth.

She kicked convulsively twice, as if she were still in the sea, choking and gulping air. But then she became aware that her right hand was empty, and that the Glaive of Laveda was not beside her.

A scream burst out of her. The scream became choking, as ocean water spurted out from between her lips. She coughed and screamed but her lungs did not stop hurting.

Her screams turned to weeping. She sprung to her knees, ripping seaweed from the ground, ploughing through fronds and dirt. But the fog was as forbidding as ever, and nothing was there. Nothing but she.

Exhaustion barrelled her to the ground, and she curled up among the devoured things. Sobs seared her lungs. Her head burnt hot and cold; colours swam through her vision. She reached about for something to hold, trembling while the cold and nausea wracked her body, wave after wave.

“Lilin,” she croaked. “Kill me. Kill me, please.” Her voice broke on the last word, fading to convulsive sobs.

No, Ruthenia. I won’t kill you. She felt the wrenching sorrow in every syllable.

“I should’ve known. I should have known I couldn't do it. I really thought I could save you. I really did. Ha! Do me a damn favour and kill me, so I don't have to do it myself.”

I won’t kill you, she repeated, the chamber trembling about her. You came here to save me, so I can’t kill you.

“And what good did that do you?” Ruthenia laughed, then screamed.

Everything was cloudy in the fog, now—every sensation, every thought.

Ruthenia gasped, and screamed, and gasped, and felt her breathing grow level as the fit slowly drained out of her. Now nothing but an immense exhaustion sat upon her, pinning her to the ground.

Why have you fought so hard for me?

“I hate—” she fought her own trembling down— “I hate Ihir. He took my parents, and my home. His law turned the nation against us. I haven’t forgiven them, and I haven’t forgiven him. And I thought saving you was the right thing to do. Because I felt for you. Lilin. I felt like you.”

Pausing to let the last of her quivering subside, Ruthenia began to scoop the muddy grime beneath her aside, till a glow of blue peeked through the mat of decaying leaves, barely three inches down. She swept the debris aside and laid her head in the depression, closing her eyes.

I hate him too. The curtness of her voice belay a thick and writhing hatred. The mist thickened to a storm, the glow of the chamber dimming, the air flaring warm. I should have known what he had meant, when he said forever. I thought surely he would not be so cruel, for I adored him. I thought it was a brief penance for my insolence and I smiled when he left. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, when he chained me, I didn’t know, I didn’t know—

All around Ruthenia, vaster than the sea, an anguished keening resounded that felt so familiar it was as if there were a space in her soul meant to house it. She felt tears of her own grow hot in her eyes and spill out to meet the dampness beneath her.

“They say your parents are meant to love you,” she replied. “But it's a bloody lie.”

Lying in the depths of the murk and silence, Ruthenia heard a low booming rise into audibility. It came from Lilin's flesh, where her ear met the glowing smoothness. Soft and rousing.

It vibrated through her fingers, too. It seeped through her bones and fibres like warmth.

It was the beat of the Helika Waltz.

“Your heartbeat sounds like...the beat of a dance I know,” she said. “I danced to it once, at a private palace function. A wedding.”

She paused to let it wash over her. It was there, this ancient dance, echoing across this ballroom of ships and seaweed. She lay there for several minutes, closing her eyes.

“I went there to tell the king I would not take Ihir’s word as law. But something else happened on that day. I began to realise they were people, like me. I began to see that they it was all just one big mess, that some of them were puppeted by power, that they made mistakes too. That there's so much they don't know because they've been living in white towers all their lives.”

It is odd to me that your people have ceded their freedom to the kings.

“I know.” She rolled over so she lay on her back and saw just the dimly-glowing ceiling. “But…sometimes, I think I understand why others prefer to be led, to live by the laws The laws keep them safe…from people like me.”

Ruthenia fell silent, and so did Lilin. She lay with the booming of the Helika Waltz, older than fire, older than joy.

Were you happy, asked Lilin, when you learned that they were people like you?

“No. I wanted to believe they weren't. It made things...easier.” She paused. “They think you’re evil. But who gets to be the judge of that? Who gets to decide?”

*

For an hour or so, Ruthenia talked to Lilin, about ordinary things. Because now, with the last vestige of her life burning out, talking helped her feel like she wasn’t simply waiting for her death. And Lilin begged to hear it all, every detail she had to offer. If she couldn't save the goddess, then at least she could be good company.

As she did, she stood up, and explored. Stumbling towards the ship in the murk, she put a crate by the porthole, and clambered into the cabin. Inside, traces of its old lavishness still hung upon the walls. She found, gleaming in a shallow puddle on the carpet, the shards of an old beer bottle. She picked one up and picked her way past piles of bones into the darkness, shivering as she splashed into the cargo hold.

Inside that room of crates, she squinted about at the dim shapes scattered about her. With the glass, she slit the rope bindings of several boxes, finding by touch a few bottles of rum, a meat skewer, some spoiled meat, and a gold-leafed tinderbox.

She cut threads off the frayed end of a rope, and twisted them into a single strand, tying a knot in it. Then she pierced the cork of a rum bottle with the meat skewer and pricked the knotted thread through. Once it was damp, she lit her makeshift lamp.

Things around her glittered gently in the firelight. By its light, she found some old preserved fruit and meat, none too difficult to ingest—particularly not when she had been running on nothing but crackers and canned beef for...who knew how long?

As she sat and ate, and listened to the beat of the waltz, she remembered all those things she had left behind. The palace, the lab, the school and the streets, all drowned in rain.

Her eyes widened slowly as something dawned upon her, a memory that was had slowly faded, but still here, somehow.

“Hey, Lilin,” she said. “Do you think your father is like the people I know? That he might be flawed, that he makes mistakes?”

It doesn’t matter, Lilin roared. I am trapped here forever.

“I don't know an awful lot about deities, or what they can't do. But if he were to plead for forgiveness, would you forgive him?”

A long silence followed. Without waiting for an answer, Ruthenia popped a gleaming jar open and picked a piece of peach from inside it, nibbling it in the dim light of her makeshift lamp.

He will always hate me, and I shall always return his hatred.

“Lilin, I…don't think that's true.” The sound of Lilin’s heartbeat boomed louder, a dance without fixed measure. “I think he wants you home.”

He chained me here. He cursed me to rot.

“It’s been raining so much. Almost every day. There are bluebells everywhere...a sign of mourning, they said. But it isn't you who's mourning, is it? You didn’t send the rain. Or the flowers.”

A tremor rocked the ground, making crates slide about. Fog was pouring in through the doorway.

“It was your father.”

Lilin was silent for a minute. Ruthenia continued to eat pensively.

His sorrow is wasted on me. He made these chains to never break. And now he cannot break them, he has only himself to blame.

“It has been a month now. You are better off knowing this.” Her vision blurred as she passed through the doorway. “Streets are flooded. Buildings are falling. It's him, Lilin. He’s destroying his nest in grief.”

What use is weeping? She could hear it everywhere, now—the waltz, thundering in the air, and in her blood, becoming part of her. What use is apologising for a wrong you cannot right?

In the silence, the fog was thick with eddies and swirls, and as Ruthenia stood in the abandoned corridor, she stared out through the dim windows and pretended the sky was beyond.

What is there left to do?

I’m trapped.

He trapped me here. And now no one can free me.

As Ruthenia watched the mist tide over the ship and break into tiny swirls on the sills, an idea dawned upon her.

“Lilin. Deities are held together by their wills, aren’t they? So surely they are able to will themselves apart as well. Maybe, you could dematerialise and coalesce beyond the chain. Could you do that? Just for a minute?”

It could kill me.

“It's a risk. But would you risk that to be free?”

The fog began to pour through the windows like froth. She could no longer see the windows, but the white billows of cloud glowed with the light from her lamp. She stumbled through the doorway towards the room from which she’d entered.

I’m afraid.

I want to die. But I’m afraid to imagine dying.

“I know,” answered Ruthenia. “I feel the same.”

I’m not as brave as you are.

“There must be things you would live for, or fight for. Like the sky—do it for the sky.”

She felt the floor rock, and she thrust out her arms to keep her balance.

“For your freedom. For happiness.”

No. I shall do it for you.

Ruthenia smiled, and with her smile came a cascade of tears. Once Lilin vanished, she’d be under a hundred feet of ocean, and who knew how she’d survive that? But better to die like this than to die for nothing.

I’ll do it.

Lilin was dissolving into the finest, most brilliant dust. It tumbled through the potholes into the dim chamber and curled around Ruthenia's fingers as she lifted herself onto a desk and slid one foot through the pothole, rising upwards as if drawn to the sky. When she clambered out into the open, her feet sank through it as if it were quicksand.

As she did, she felt as if her life were unravelling from her memory. All the words she’d hurled in hate. All the chains, the basements, the cages, the graves—the memory of guns. Her work shed. Her umbrella.

Down she sank, through a universe of whirling glitter, the roar of the sea growing louder in her ears. Everything was bright and stormy. Flecks of Lilin got caught in her hair. The entire ocean was crying out around her.

Then the bubble of dust and light…began to flicker.

“Lilin?” Ruthenia called. It was something about the air. Bursts of water punctured the bubble from above, showering her. Lilin was beginning to thin and scatter.

Ru— — the goddess screeched beyond the hurricane of froth and mist, but her voice sputtered, as if heard through a faulty radio.

—I— I— I can’t—

Ruthenia screamed as the light flickered in the whirl of glitter around her and Lilin’s will began to decay. “Lilin!” her voice tore from her. “Think about freedom! Or the sky, or me, or whatever, Lilin, don’t you dare!”

But the glowing dust could not hear her voice, and the sea continued to crash inwards, breaking the eddies of particles as they tried to coalesce.

“Lilin, no, you’re going to live!” she began to sob, like a child as snow melted through her fingers— “You were always meant to live—please, Lilin—”

---

Then, there were wings.

Gauzy, misty wings. Burning white wings.

Light unfolding from the swell of the ocean beyond. An infinite wrath trying to tear the ocean in two.

Lilin! cried a voice of twenty different tones, twenty different versions of the same anguish. It roared down upon them like storm rain through windows, a swan song.

The whiteness circled and whirled and bloomed and slashed at the jaws of the Deeps. It swallowed all the silver dust in that hollow, turning seawater to steam, to clouds, to rain.

Ruthenia knew that the being that enveloped her, many-winged and endless, was Ihir, the patron god of Astra, returning to the world after three hundred years.

But when he opened his mouth, it was her mother's voice that spoke.

“You were wrong, my dearest,” cried Lita. “I love you, I always did, and always have!”

“Then why? Why did you leave me behind?” screamed Ruthenia, with Lilin's voice. “Why did you leave without a word? Do you know how much it hurt? How many years I spent alone, terrified, in a world that hated me?”

“I'm sorry,” Lita answered. “I knew you would be angry. I knew you would never forgive me. And I was a coward. I was afraid—to watch my own daughter stop loving me.”

She wanted to scream all the vileness in her at her mother. Her hatred swirled around her like a supercell, the only thing she’d known how to feel for years. Hatred that had defined her, made Ruthenia Cendina who she was.

But she could not do it. She could not be cruel. And she realized then that it was not hatred that blazed in her throat, but longing, for a life that would never be.

“No,” answered Ruthenia, curling up. “I was afraid that you had stopped loving me.”

Then her mother was gone, and all that was left were Ihir and Lilin, dancing around each other.

And Ihir said, “Will you ever forgive me?”

And Lilin replied, “I will try.”

And it was Ruthenia’s voice that spoke, thin and ragged and terrified.

*

She crashed out of the dream, the matter that formed her rippling and trembling. The light deserted her eyes.

Ruthenia felt her death begin—the pressure of the sea or some similar darkness, like claws in her chest.

She let herself enter it.

---

A universe expanded, right before her eyes, embryonic and developed and complex, pulsing with self-awareness—then it was shattered by the crush of the tides. A palace of blue light stirred into a hurricane blur.

In Astra, a storm began—a storm to destroy as none ever had before, a poem without rhyme. Lightning struck the pinnacles of towers, and every Thread creaked, making buildings sway through the air like birds.

It was like a stormy ballroom, all the world dancing across its floor to the beat of Ihir’s heart. Two flourishes, two leaps. Lightning slit the sky like a scalpel. But it was the thunder that shattered the shell of the city and snapped its pillars in two.

---

Chapter 39: the sky has no boundaries

Adjunct 02: The Uncaging

The storm had been raging since yesterday evening. Hollia heard a high lamenting cry in her sleep—a frightful sound that shook her straight out of her nightmares, thrust her headfirst into the night.

Rubbing her eyes, she stumbled out of her room and towards the kitchen—and her mind was occupied with the thought of just one thing: her mourning doves.

They’d been building a nest before the rain had begun, and it had suddenly become so clear, their singing, their flying, the twigs in their mouths. Hollia had found the beginnings of a nest in the upper branches of the great circling tree, and her heart had grown tender with joy.

That joy was all but absent in this booming darkness. Snatching a lantern and a box of matches from the mantel, Hollia struck a flame and lit it. She crept into the kitchen and through the back door.

A second bright cry startled her straight—a cry that travelled across the shivering netting. She gasped and scurried outside, forgetting her slippers and umbrella.

Rain immediately tumbled upon her, soaking her gown and her hair. But for once the rain was the least of her concerns.

The cry had been a mourning dove’s. But strange, strained. Distorted.

She raced between roots and over low bushes, twigs tangling in her rain-soaked gown, just as the dove raised another rumbling cry through the rain—where are you? Where are you?

She glanced up through the branches. A dove sat alone in their half-built nest. But the other—the other wasn't there.

She strained her ears in search of a reply in the thundering rain. Then, gently, she heard it, far, far away, from the great tree down the sandy road. I'm here, it sang. I'm here.

Hollia could only listen, wide-eyed, as that cry shrieked helplessly through the rain, here, I’m here, as lightning tore from the sky in a blaze brighter than heaven, and crashed into the tree.

The father dove kept crying out through the night, where are you? Where are you? but there were no more answers. He could not comprehend death so sudden; he pulled his eggs closer, still calling for his mate as if his voice could bring her home.

And that night, a great boom shook the entire beech cottage—followed quickly by the snapping wood and twanging of wires and a tumult of crying birds. Hollia tossed in her bed, tears of terror beading on her eyelashes.

Down crashed the tallest pole of the aviary, cracking through the middle. Down through the wires it tore, ripping them from their joints, plucking them from the wood as if they were no more than hairs.

The roar of light and gushing rain ascended, and for the first time in half a millennium—for the first time since those dreaming Ihirin had strung these wires up and sawed the wood into pillars—the aviary split wide open.

---

…wake up…wake up…

All was trapped in glowing stasis. Nothing seemed to move or breathe, not the icy air itself.

The creature could not blink—it hardly even knew what blink meant. It lay supine, like a limp doll.

…awake…

The pealing resonated through the white room. But the thing felt no more significant, nor sensible, than a stone.

Something was creeping across its eyelids now—snowy light.

It blinked this unremembrance away.

It became she.

She drew breath through her mouth. She knew this feeling; the place that cradled her was coming into focus, too, along with her knowledge—arching white walls, flawlessly shimmering floors (marble without veins? What was marble?), the scent of rain, a chill down the spine, frigid cold…

She yelped, flipping on the floor and realizing she could move. The floor was cold. Pulling herself upright and hunching over her crossed legs, she rubbed at her arms, as the remains of her memory trickled back through the maze of her brain.

Name: Ruthenia Fulminare Cendina.
Age: 17.
Hates: being ordered about, the clergy, Literature classes.
Loves: flying on her umbrella.

…my umbrella…

…is gone.

Like a cold slap in the face, the thought jerked Ruthenia's mind back through the layers of hazy unconsciousness, landing right where it belonged inside her skull.

And the first thing she said was, “Did I die?”

Her eyes shot up to survey her surroundings, tracing the pillars and searching for detail to remember—but deeper inspection only revealed a lack of it. The network of archways on either side of her seemed almost nondescript, smooth, impossible to pin down exactly. The clear blue sky glowed in them.

The quality of the floor, seamless and smooth, was such that the light split into glittery pieces inside it. Blank lace banners rippled like ghosts overhead. Farther down the corridor, there was a sort of altar raised on a rectangular dais, carrying a single rectangular artifact she couldn't make out.

The faraway dais was white, too. Lights glittered across the steps, and further looking made her realise that that light came straight through the transparent ceiling: more sky shone through, blue without summer heat.

Ruthenia blinked.

She remembered the gushing of water into her lungs, the slow squeezing and crushing of the sea. But now as she dragged herself to her feet and stood up, she felt as tireless as a child.

She broke into a dash, and dozens of pillars rushed past her, all the same. The dais and the object on it began to drift into focus, details beginning to clarify themselves. Ruthenia's heart leapt: like an apparition, a person had shimmered into being upon that box she'd only just realised was a throne.

More details rose out of the pool of light. The person—or humanoid being, in any case—sat straight backed, feet flat on the ground. She smiled briefly. They seemed neither male nor female; their robes glowed so white she imagined any sort of stain would sooner cower from it than attempt to mar its purity.

But that was not all. A second figure blurred into being at the foot of the throne, like a mirage. Wearing a blue skirt and a ribbon around their waist, with wings instead of arms. But it was not the skirts or the wings that reeled her attention in. In the middle of their abdomen, like a rose, bloomed a bright patch of blood.

The child's eyes were shut. The enthroned person's hand sat in the silver locks of their hair. They had no eyes for the visitor, only eyes for the one by their feet.

"Excuse me!" she yelled, racing down the slippery floor, but without once slipping. "May I know where I am, and how I may leave?"

She stumbled to a stop, three feet from the dais, gripping her knees and bending over to pant. Suddenly Ruthenia felt terribly small, and devastatingly unworthy of the spot on which she stood.

"You are awake," they answered instead, in a voice both ordinary and distinctly ethereal.

Ruthenia quailed, and stepped back. She knew who this was. Her eyes moved to the child beside the throne, bleeding more profusely now, the red blood seeping down into her skirt.

"Li—Lilin?"

The girl's eyelids did not stir; her sleep was deeper than the sea. Her gaze drifted upward, but she could only make out Ihir's eyes.

He nodded, with a wayward glance that could almost have been sadness. "What a surprise," He said, while Ruthenia averted her eyes, "but so it is, that I find myself in the debt of a mortal, for doing in my stead what I could not do myself. And that absolutely will not do."

She stared up at Him oddly. "For saving her?" she asked, and choked back a guilty laugh. "All I did was convince her to kill herself."

He shook His head. "Yet you freed her, with simple words, where I have spent a hundred years fighting with every drop of my power to revoke a curse I cast in my rage." His eyes closed, almost refusing to see her. "I must thank you."

Ruthenia bowed deeply to receive His thanks, deeper than she remembered ever bowing before—but she felt so awkward, and little, here before the God of the Sky—that her courtesy only seemed crude and clumsy.

"Now," He said. "Your act, and indeed your life, have brought to my attention a problem of negligence on my part. I do not intervene in the corporeal world without serious cause, but I see cause here. And now, I must have you send a message to my people."

"Me?” she shouted. “There are far greater people in the country who could do that job better!"

In a flourishing flutter of robes, Ihir stood from His throne. "Perhaps so," He said. "But if I were to make you my messenger, then it would save your life."

"But I am a sinner, a blasphemer—I have done things to spite your name! Are you sure they will listen?”

While she shook, Ihir strode to the edge of the dais. If He had divine shoes, or divine feet for that matter, His robes did not reveal them, though they were beginning to flutter as if tossed by eddying gales.

"You may not love me," He said, twenty wings unfolding in a blinding flash, "but I do not ask for love. You do not love nor hate, you who are your own. You always knew I was flawed. It is your refusal to delude yourself with visions of my perfection that makes you the right voice for my message. So I say this to you. My old laws are no longer sufficient, nor relevant, to the country that Astra has become. Go to the people, and tell them it is so!"

---

Chapter 40: Lightning Strikes Twice

Ruthenia burst from troubled sleep. She came out of it as if breaking through the surface of a cold lake, from the longest nightmare.

There'd been all sorts of things in this nightmare: ocean and crushed ribs and a shipwreck in a goddess' mouth and dead people at poker and a bullet in a diver's shoulder. And Ihir.

It all replayed in her memory, over and over—surreal and suffocating. It floated in the ether of her subconscious as the memory of a dream did.

But when she strained and twisted, all tangled in linty greyish blankets—and when gashes of pain lit up all across her ribcage, front and back—Ruthenia was forced to realise that the dream had been real.

Gasping for breath, she began to study her immediate surroundings, dragging herself with bumps and moans into a sitting position. The room was nothing more than what it had to be. There wasn't a window; the space was lit by clean white Thread lamps floating overhead. Austere grey walls grazed both head and foot of her bed. The bedposts were wooden stumps. The door at the far corner was no better-worked. Adjacent to her bed, a simple dresser stood with its rectangular mirror turned towards her.

She stared into her own face for a while, bruised on her left cheek.

Three knocks clattered against the door, followed by a rusty creak. "Good morning, Miss Cendina," a voice muttered perfunctorily from the open doorway, snatching her gaze. Ruthenia stared on as a uniformed man she did not know, stocky and greying on the head, marched into her room with a tray. "Breakfast."

The tray carried what-smelled-like-gruel and a steaming drink. Her stomach growled.

The man smiled wanly at her eagerness, laying the tray upon the dresser. Grudgingly and with moans of exhaustion, she stumbled onto her feet and crossed to where her tray of consumables gleamed.

She ate all the gruel while she stood, like livestock guzzling feed. The scalding heat of the water was only enough to deter her from gulping it down in mouthfuls.

"Miss Cendina," the man said once she was done, "please be informed that you are scheduled to be transferred to the holding room in twenty minutes."

"Holding room?" Ruthenia answered. "What holding room? What for?"

"Your execution," he replied.

The gruel turned cold in Ruthenia's stomach. She found her limbs locked in place. Half of her heart had been ready; the other half had been clinging to the hope that they'd known about her conversation with Ihir somehow. Her skull felt too small, the air too tight in her ears.

“Won't there be...a trial?”

“No. You have been declared a threat to the nation. The decree bypassed the court.”

She only dropped onto the bed, hoping she hadn't paled though she felt so dizzy. "Alright, then," she replied. "I will...I will be there. Where do I go?"

"There is no need for you to know," answered the warden. "You will be escorted."

He nodded and turned to depart. She hardly heard the slam of the door, or the turn of the key. She bowed her head and stared at the grey fabric of her pants, spotted with teardrops.

Curling up both fists, Ruthenia pulled her feet onto the bed's edge so she could hug her knees.

Executions of this sort were never kept quiet about. Who knew who'd be watching—her friends? Her foes? The ones who'd always told her she couldn't be anything? They'd finally know how wrong they were, and they’d also watch her die for it.

Ruthenia scrubbed uninvited tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. Why cry, when she had nothing to lose?

Then she began to think of how Tanio might finally shed a tear when she died. Or Hollia. Or Aleigh. Her gang. The flight machine team. Imessa. The Arcane Viz. For no reason a laugh seized her at the thought—a laugh interspersed with violent sobs, tears suddenly flooding down her chin to stain her grey shirt collar.

Ruthenia squandered the rest of her minutes crying her heart empty. She lay in bed among the covers, sobbing and clenching her fingers deep inside the layers of linty grey cloth, thinking suddenly how wonderful it was to feel their texture and this spearlike pain inside her head, to know this sharpness of sensation.

She watched how the light sparkled dazzlingly through her tears. She loved how the bulb became a burst of flowers in her eyes, and blinked so their petals changed, again and again. In minutes she would no longer know this vividness. In minutes she'd no longer…be.

And it should not matter—because you are the hero you wanted to be! The thought pounded in her head. You have done more than a lifetime's worth. You were brave enough to give everything.

They'll always remember Ruthenia Cendina now.

Yet the loss engulfed the second of bravado, and she bent to her knees again. She didn’t want to die. Life had only just become something she liked.

---

Ruthenia was glad that she managed to choke back her last sob before the escort entered. They marched in—six of them—faces clean-shaven and hair cropped, boots clicking. Rifles rested against their shoulders, but these ones weren't for killing her. If she was meant to die before a crowd, then she would.

She tightened her fists as she held her wrists out behind her for the handcuffs. She saw her own mother, walking with the same posture, hands behind her back. One of them shoved her head down, and before she had caught her breath, she felt the steel collar click around her neck.

He tugged on the jangling chain to test it, jerking the ring against bones. "Get her moving," one man snapped. The metal abraded her skin as they kicked her forward.

Head bowed with the weight of the ring, Ruthenia glared up at her handler as her feet began to move. They shoved her out of her room. She let them.

The prison floors gleamed around her, made of rock that wasn't marble nor granite. She saw no cell doors on the way to the holding room. They took her up ramps and stairs, rough hands pushing her on course at every bend, bruising her shoulders, then through a heavy door that they locked thrice over.

They pushed her onto a bench, and took position around her. Staring resolutely at the single iron door at the end of the room, she thought about that vision of Ihir, seated in His gleaming marble throne, declaring her His messenger. As she never had before, she whispered a plea in His name.

Then the fifteen minutes were up, and she was dragged off the bench to stand. Chains scraped on the floor. She stumbled towards the fateful door, and as she approached, a sound rose to audibility.

It was the noise of a crowd. Hearing it, the escort men's strides turned robust and purposeful. They kicked at her heels, and she found herself being dragged, her thin prison shoes scraping dirt. Yet Ruthenia fought their callous yanking, and lifted her head against the weight of the chain. Put up the fight of a hero! Even if you are hero to no one else.

They flicked the steel door open as if it were paper. The exit loomed, blinding with daylight, and the roar of crowds upon Candle Plaza swelled. There was a path marked by wooden barricades, splitting the crowd in two, and this was her runway from life to death.

With the storm of screams and bellows in her ears, she believed for a while that they were all here to watch her die. But through the tangle of noise, she noticed something else.

"Queen of the rebels!" someone cried. There was a flash of colour, red petals scattering in a burst across their path. The guards on the perimeter barked at each other, and she saw the offender being dragged away.

But it had been there, and everyone had seen it. The crowd roared and surged in answer, like a fire fed oil.

"Your death will not go unanswered!" "The kings have made their last mistake!"

With one valiant sputter of rage, Ruthenia lifted her head and yelled, "We will bite back!" And the crowd swelled, held back by buckling wood. In retaliation, the head of the escort yanked on the chain so she choked while their gun barrels flashed towards the crowd.

Step by momentous step, they marched her to the heart of the historic plaza. There, four gunmen waiting patiently with glittering rifles, heads masked in black, eyes following her.

She set her jaw and raised her head to glare at them, the way her mother and her father had six years ago.

"Down!" With the order, she felt a kick connect with her back, and lights flashed through her vision as her manacled arms swung to break her fall. Before she could steady her breathing, hands had grabbed her shoulders to straighten her into a kneel.

Her eyes met the gun barrels, those tunnels of death. A rush of blood pulse threw sparks in her eyes. Panic finally engulfed her bodily. The fact and reality. The despair and the smell of her end.

Still, she didn't cry. The crowd's noise surged in answer, hisses and jeers and curses at the kings' names.

Her skin bloomed cold with sweat as the guards lined up their barrels. Today was the day of six years ago. Time folded back on itself. The stones beneath her knees were stained red—red as rose petals, red as the Arcane King's cloak.

"Ihir, please," she breathed, "hear me."

"Ihir won’t save a treacherous heretic like you," growled the head of the escort against the roar of the audience. "Any last words?"

She steeled her face while the rifles clicked in a chorus.

Here before the barrels of four guns, she was at the end of her tenacity, her life, her selfhood.

But if there was one thing to which she would always hold true, it was that she wouldn't lie down and take it. Always and forever.

Lifting her head one last time, she cried, “Ihir! Save me!”

*

And she was answered.

A dozen lightning bolts leapt out of the sky. Thunder rolled like a gun salute.

The longest second in the universe followed. She heard the entire world rush through her ears. She tasted the sea splitting the skin on her lips. She smelt the rain. She felt her eyes fly wide open. She watched a blinding spear of lightning shoot out of the sky and connect with her.

Gunpowder boomed, but the bullets exploded in midair. The air hummed, like the tuning of strings before a concert—and all about her, there were thousands of feathers—white and brown, eagle’s feathers, swan's feathers—swirling and fluttering in a whirlwind.

A sweltering gale lifted her to her feet, and a furnace lit up inside her belly, the flames licking at her throat, roaring to be released.

With a blazing lurch, she spoke that fire to life.

This I tell you! she bellowed in twenty voices. Before her, executioners, escorts and crowds bent fearfully away. Her mind was her own but her throat no longer was, and she could not help but to keep speaking. Once, in ancient days, I called it sin to trust a power not of my making. But time dashes these powers against each other; they dance, weave, and the thorns turn to verdure.

Now you have taken my old law to the letter, in ways I never asked for, and now you have committed homicide in my name, and now I see they cannot hold. They cannot stand. They should have been torn down a century ago. And so I give you a new one. It is not sin to change! It is not sin to welcome all that will lead my nation to life and prosperity!

Let it be yours. Let it raise you. And let it be your flight!

As sudden as it had come, the blazing heat deserted her, and she felt herself fall back to the cobblestones with a thud that knocked all the breath from her lungs. She lay there for a minute, heat and pain banging on her skull, as the lights swam and swirled and slowly began to make sense.

Then the sky itself exploded upon Candle Plaza. With another boom of lightning, rain began to gush down upon the stones, upon heads and shirts and cloaks, washing everything cold and clean.

A tug at the ring on her neck startled a yelp out of her. "Up! We're not done, convict," snapped the head guard as she ascended on her knees. "We don't know what strange kinds of Weaving you've got in you, but this is not rewriting your death warrant—"

"It is."

The interruption made the head guard drop the chain. Simultaneously, the entire party turned, as did Ruthenia.

It was the Archbishop who had stepped into their midst, white robes greyed by the downpour.

"Miss Cendina’s death sentence must be revoked," he repeated, walking serenely into the midst of the firing squad, any of whom could have shot him to death. But Archbishop Tiel lifted his hand, and they bowed their heads meekly. He turned to Ruthenia, who knelt trembling, struggling to stay upright. "My child…I cannot fail you again. I shall have you transferred to the cathedral house."

Only the head guard did not back down. "Good afternoon, Your Holy Grace." He offered the courtesy of a bow. "I am the official in charge of this execution. I mean no disrespect, but who grants you the authority to decide what is to be done with the convict?"

"I do," said a voice from behind him. Again they turned. King Hazen had entered their midst, grave as he'd always been, but with a hint of a reassuring glance at Ruthenia. The Ordinary King came to a halt, eyes going cold. "Ihir has spoken. This is an unprecedented circumstance. I, too, ask for Miss Cendina to be held at the cathedral house, lest we incur His wrath."

"I—if you so command, Your Majesty," muttered the man, dissent melted to nothing. "Men, unchain her."

---

Ruthenia breathed deeply, counting the seconds. She counted steadily and faithfully, hoping that the methodical and endless chore would somehow reinstate some semblance of order to her mind.

Still sitting listlessly on the stones, she felt the wardens removing the chains and bolts. A period of dazed staring and being-stared-at later, a carriage of the cloister arrived on the square in a smooth clatter, and she found herself being escorted aboard by a woman in the grey-and-white cathedral service garb.

Her speechlessness persisted as the carriage lifted away from the plaza. She slumped in the seat. To her right, the Archbishop’s turned.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cendina," said Tiel, once Centrelight had sunk out of the windows. "I hope you are well, in spite of all that has transpired."

His voice was muffled and faint. She'd been staring at her lap, studying the rough weave of the pants.

"Miss Cendina, are you able to speak?"

This time the question came with a dash of concern, and she finally opened her mouth.

"I am," she answered, no drop of life to her words. "Your Holy Grace."

“Are you aware that Ihir just spoke through you?”

"I am," she answered. “I am relieved He finally saved me. After promising He would.”

The surprise emerged upon Tiel's face, and the widening of his eyes was followed by her own. She pulled her shoulders back against her seat.

"He did speak through me," she murmured.

"Proving it will be trivial, I imagine, considering the number of witnesses," he said. “As Saint Somnia’s successor, I believe I should offer you my mantle.”

---

Chapter 41: The Landing

Ruthenia could not be gladder for the privacy of a hostel room by the cathedral. The maids attending to her room—Nerita and Riun—were eager to take her straight to the vacancy in the east wing. It had a blue wallpaper reminiscent of a pale sky. A window without grilles was set in the wall, overlooking the sprawling cathedral gardens.

Yesterday, she had refused Tiel’s offer of the title of Archbishop, and when he had offered priesthood next, she had denied that, too. She needed some time to recover before making such a major decision, she had said, and he had uncomplainingly dropped the subject.

But now, as the only person to come in direct contact with Ihir since Saint Somnia had brought His laws to Astra, she was indelibly connected to Him. His greatest detractor was now His icon. It would be irresponsible, and dangerous, to pretend it meant nothing.

Well, icon or not, Ruthenia was still in need of sleep, perhaps more so than anyone in Astra had ever been. After a bath and a sumptuous lunch of beef-stuffed bread and salad, and too many bows from devotees for her comfort, she went to sleep in her accommodation, and did not wake for the rest of the day.

---

The sky was pale and cold when Ruthenia finally returned to consciousness. A breakfast of cheese rolls and hot chocolate awaited her, left by whom, she didn’t know. The cheese rolls were bland, and the hot chocolate had become lukewarm chocolate, those posed little obstacle to someone famished from two nights' worth of sleep.

At nine in the morning, there was a knock on her door.

“Yeah? Come in?” she called.

In stepped Nerita, with her hair in a bun, one hand folded into the other. “Good morning, Miss Cendina, I hope you've slept well,” she said. “I'm here to inform you, on the Archbishop's behalf, that you have a trial coming later today. The court has agreed to expedite your case.”

“My case?”

“Yes, if you need a ride to the courthouse, speak to the reception desk to arrange a carriage.” She smiled sweetly. “Well, that is what I initially came to tell you. But on my way here I was interrupted and told to inform you…you have a visitor in the lobby who goes by Miss Canavere.”

Within the minute, Ruthenia was racing after the maid through the corridors in her borrowed slippers, under floating Thread lights and past other doors just like hers. They burst into the marble lobby through an archway.

By the double doors at the entrance, there stood a familiar figure in green, clutching a paper bag.

Ruthenia's face lit up, her heart racing as she broke into a run. “Hollia!” she cried, and Hollia spun around, dropping the bag as they flew into the fiercest hug they had ever shared.

“Ruth! Oh, it's really you!” she cried, voice disintegrated to sobbing midway. Ruthenia rubbed her back while she cried into her shoulder. “I can't believe it. I can't believe you're here!”

“Me neither,” Ruthenia gasped.

Stepping away so they were an arm’s length apart, Hollia’s eyes lit up, wet and bright. “We were all so worried about you when you stopped coming to class,” she said. “It's just been the most terrifying week, Ruth."

“I know, so much has happened," Ruthenia answered. Her memories still swirled like a storm, pierced by the singular sunbeam of Hollia's smile. “But all that matters is that we're all safe now.”

Hollia smiled sadly. “Well, not quite,” she said.

Ruthenia's face fell. “What do you mean?”

“While you were asleep, there were riots. They'd planned them to start right as your execution ended. They stormed my town, shot the mayor and torched the offices—”

“What? But—” Like a trapdoor opening beneath her, she felt as if she were falling, down, down through a mile of darkness, all over again. “I—never—asked for anyone to die—”

“You didn't do this.”

“They timed it with my execution!” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Well…what happens next?”

At this, Hollia glanced down at the bag at her feet. “Next, we get you to that trial.”

“What's this trial for?”

“Oh, the Archbishop is pressing the case—he's hoping to get it in official writing that Ihir spoke through you, and have your engineer team acquitted of your crimes.”

“Does everyone know this but me?”

“It was in the evening news yesterday, yes.”

Ruthenia stared. “This is all moving so fast.”

“I know, it starts in three hours.”

“Well, I—I’m not dressed for it.” She gestured at her hostel pyjamas.

Hollia beamed, stooping to pick up the paper bag. “Don't worry, I figured you might need help on that front.” Then she thrust it into Ruthenia’s arms.

In that same moment, the door squeaked open. Both heads turned, and Ruthenia found herself staring right at the last person she had been expecting.

“Hyder?” she gasped. The memory of their last exchange replaying, it was impossible to keep the tears away. All their things feel from their arms, clattering on the floor, as they flew together in a long, steady embrace.

“Ruthenia!” Hyder cried, voice wobbling. Her name was the only word he could say for at least a minute, as she rubbed his back and trembled with her own tears. As they sank apart, he swiped his hand over his eyes. “I'm so happy you came back, this has been the second worst week of my life.”

“Same,” she replied. “It's so good to see you.”

“It's like you've come back from the dead.”

Now, Ruthenia noticed he wore a crisp brown jacket, the finest garment she had ever seen on him. “Why are you all dressed up?”

“It's for the trials—figured I'd come say hello, since we're both headed there,” he replied.

“Oh yes, did someone drop you off?” she asked.

He glanced at the stepladder he had dropped a few paces back with an abashed smile. “I flew.”

Ruthenia gaped. “Did you...figure that out yourself?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “With help from Reida.”

“What did I tell you? You're a natural!”

“Oh, it was…it was easier than I thought.” But even as he said this, she saw that some sliver of the sadness was refusing to desert his eyes.

"Where are the rest?"

“Den is being called on as a witness, for—” He pursed his lips in an attempt to smile. She went still when two glittering tears rolled down his cheeks. “Tante and Gordo—they never got out of Candelabra Town last night—”

At once she snatched him by the shoulders, face contorting against her tears. “They joined the riots. Didn't they?”

He scrunched up his face, to no avail. “I begged them not to join, I swear I did,” he said between sobs. “But Derron was shouting your name, and that was all they heard—and I ran away, but they went with the mob, and now they're—”

“I'm sure they're still there. They have to be,” she burst out, but her own eyes were welling up. “We don’t know where they are, that’s all.”

“I’m...just so relieved you’re alive,” he answered, voice trembling. “I thought I’d lose all three of you.” She caught him about the shoulders in another hug, and she felt his body shake with sobs against her, felt him strain with the effort of not letting his grief burst through.

“There's still the three of us left. And Reida. And we have to build back, for them.”

Right then, the door swung open again. This time Hyder was the one facing the door, and he immediately flung her from his arms, wiping his eyes.

Ruthenia turned around. Aleigh had halted halfway from the door. “I hope...I'm not interrupting?”

Crying out wordlessly, she sprang forward and threw both arms around him, squeezing him so hard he began to gasp for air. “You came too! This is turning into quite a party.”

“How are you, Ruthenia?” he asked over her shoulder, laying a hand on her back.

“Could be better, but could be much worse. By which I mean, dead.” She stepped back. “Why are you here?”

“Well, I heard you were due for trial, and I wanted to see you,” he muttered. “And besides, I had the sense you wouldn't have your umbrella with you, so…I thought I'd help take you to the court.” He glanced away. “If you would like, I mean.”

“That's sweet of you,” she said, with a curious mix of fondness and rue. “You're right. I don't have my umbrella anymore. It's gone.” Before he could answer, she dusted out her pyjamas and whirled to face Hyder. “Oh, I forgot to introduce you! Hyder, these are my classmates, Hollia and Aleigh.” She gesticulated in their direction. “Hollia's a birdkeeper in Candelabra—”

“I was,” Hollia said.

She paused. “Oh. What?”

“It has been…a spectacularly bizarre week,” she said simply, and the other two murmured their agreement.

Ruthenia blinked, looking back at Hyder. “Right. Hollia…was a birdkeeper. And Aleigh…was the Arcane Prince.” She spun around. “And you two—Hyder is my friend from the streets. We go back six years.”

“N…nice to meet you?” Hyder mumbled, unable to meet their eyes.

It was an awkward five or so minutes, in which each of her companions made halting attempts at conversation, and Ruthenia gradually realised that she hadn't any idea how to break the silence.

Eventually remembering her bag of clothes, Ruthenia excused herself, scurrying away from the lobby in search of a public bathing room. Washing up as she had done for the past two days, she unpacked the contents of the bag. There was a blouse—thick brown fabric, two rows of shiny black buttons—and a matching skirt with a side split. It could have been worse. She replaced her slippers with the socks and polished shoes, and tottered back towards the lobby, practicing her walk as she crossed the suspended bridges.

She tripped into the lobby, cursing as she went, and found that her friends were finally engaging in polite conversation—conversation that dwindled to nothing when she arrived.

Immediately, she felt them all studying her new outfit.

“Ruthenia!” Hollia called, waving. “We should leave right away, there's barely two hours left.”

She sighed. “I'll see you there,” Hyder called, waving with his wooden ladder under his arm.

Ruthenia shrugged as they led the way outside. Wobbling in her unfamiliar shoes, she stumbled up beside Aleigh. “I should really find a new flight mount,” she muttered.

“I hope I'm not imposing too much.”

*

On their walk to the landing deck, Aleigh suddenly seemed unwilling to look Ruthenia in the eye. He mounted Benedice wordlessly, then he nodded down at her and extended an arm. She snatched his wrist and swung herself up onto the stirrup, and after pausing to oscillate once, leapt onto the saddle, Benedice whinnying when she landed with a thump.

"I'm sorry, but you'll need to hold on," said her companion, and with just a moment's nervous pause, she looped both arms around his waist.

With just a flick of the reins, the beast cantered and lurched, wings spread on the wind. The flight curved into a glide, and she felt her stomach lurch with the changing gravity.

Ruthenia quickly learned that flying an equine was not like flying with an umbrella. Benedice could not hover in midair nor make acute turns, so both manoeuvres were substituted with an excessive number of loops.

Such flying, she decided amid her vertigo, required too much planning, and she began to think that umbrellas were not so terrible after all.

Soon enough, their flight went level, and they soared over the grounds of the Ihira Circle towards the heart of Astra, the afternoon heat warming them.

Once they had entered open sky, Aleigh turned to look over his shoulder. “It's good to have you back,” he said.

“Well, it's good to not be dead,” she replied in a chuckle.

“You truly have managed the impossible. The entire nation was sure you would never find your way out of this mess. But I shouldn't be surprised…you did always have a knack for this. Survival.” He sighed. “I have never met anyone who got into half as much trouble as you.”

“Well, how about you?” she replied. “Did you really have to cut ties with your family?”

“You heard about that?” His shoulders tensed. "Well, if I'd denounced you, how would I have explained myself when you returned?"

“Assuming I would return.”

“You did.”

She sighed. “You're dodging the question.”

There was a silence. At the corners of her eyes, white clouds blurred to streaks as the sun vaulted to the top of the sky. Now, Ruthenia couldn't keep her mind from noticing his warmth gathered in her arms.

“What would you like me to say?” Aleigh replied. “That I truly believed you would be proven right in the end? Because I didn't. I was simply willing to be on the wrong side of history, if history chose to let cruelty win.”

She smiled oddly. “Four months ago, you would never have done that. What happened?”

“Well, you did.”

Ruthenia flushed hotter than the sun. Around them, the hills evened out into farmland.

---

Chapter 42: Straight from the Source

It seemed the entire Astran administration was at the courthouse that day: the Kings, the Archbishop, the Minister of Flight, the admiral, and every manner of witness they had thought to pull in. Even Ruthenia’s new least favourite person, the guard in charge of her execution, was there.

Along the barricaded walkway, Ruthenia found a dozen reporters waving recorders in her face. Most asked after her feelings about the moment, and she gave short answers that amounted to “relieved” or “grateful”, despite Aleigh's warnings. They were inseparable as they braved the flashes of photographers eagerly filling film with their faces. But today, for once, Ruthenia hadn't any care about what picture the press would paint of her. Perhaps nearly dying simply did that to one.

Before she reached the door, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Tanio drew up to between them, trailed by two guards. “Break a leg,” he said. “My fate rests on your shoulders now.”

“No pressure,” she muttered back, and he patted her the shoulder before he was escorted into the courtroom.

Proceedings took place over the course of four hours, throughout which Ruthenia struggled to parse every word. The archbishop testified. Then her jailers, and then the executioners, one by one. The theologists presented their findings, read scripture for the room, describing the nature of Ihir's past conduits and conductance. Feathers, rain, lightning. She testified, too. She had not hidden a bag of feathers in her shirt. Her jail warden testified again: that she had been checked before she had been taken out of holding.

Through it all, the writing was on the wall. Though she didn't understand a word of the legalese that everyone else spoke, she could understand the feverish anticipation that crescendoed around her.

And at the end of the four hours, Chief Justice Ceidana ruled, at last, that the words Ruthenia had spoken on the execution ground had come from Ihir Himself. She declared all charges against Ruthenia and against the machine company dropped in light of the emerging new holy law. The law had yet to be enshrined in writing by the clergy, but Ihir's word, she claimed, did not need documentation to come into effect.

In the neighbouring courtroom, she later found out, the Swan’s Post was found guilty of deliberately disturbing order in the New Town and for inciting the riots.

The publication, on account of these charges, was to be defunded and put under probation. Because Reida's managerial duties had not been officially documented, it was Galino Marva, manager of the Swan's Post, who was slapped with charges of instigating violence.

Ruthenia exited the courtroom just in time to watch Galino Marva storm red-faced out of his trial, steering Reida out with him. “I trusted you to do good things for my company!” he roared.

“Maybe you could have started by respecting us,” she snapped back.

“You had me for a fool! You are hereby terminated, and forever soiled in my eyes. All my peers shall be aware of your duplicity!”

He stormed off fuming through the crowd, in time for Reida to catch Ruthenia’s eye. Today, she wore a dark cherry lipstick and a maroon coat, her hair brushed into a bob.

“Oh, don’t you mind my ex-boss,” she muttered. “The company's good as dead now.”

“Now that he's off the royal bankroll, maybe he'll finally get into some honest work,” Ruthenia answered, then paused. “You didn’t say there would be an assassination.”

She shook her head solemnly. “I didn't know it would happen either. I don't think anyone realised it would turn so bloody, least of all—our friends.” Ruthenia couldn't help her heart sinking like a leaden weight. “But how are you coping with it all?”

Ruthenia hummed in thought. “I'm still waiting for the shock to sink in. How are you?”

“Getting by,” Reida answered, face going grim. “I think I've been numbed too. It has all been too surreal to take in just yet.”

“What will you do, now that the press is gone?”

“My talents are probably better spent elsewhere,” she replied. “I reckon there are places needing a writer, or a reporter.”

“And may I join you, dear Reida?” A new voice cut in from behind, that they quickly found, on turning, to belong to Den.

“Oh, hey, Den,” Ruthenia said, glancing between Reida and he. “The game's up. Reida's not a manager at the Swan's Post any longer. Why don't you tell her the truth now?”

“The truth?” he answered, eyebrows raised. “The truth is, I think you've been misunderstanding me. I never cared for a stake in my father's company. Seeing it go up in flames is infinitely better than anything I could have dreamed.”

“Wait, but, you—why did you talk about getting with Reida like you were planning some sort of war?”

At this, Den put a palm to his cheek. “Ruth, don't expose me like this…”

“Oh, love,” sighed Reida, turning him by the shoulder to face her, “If you want me so badly, then there's no need for pretences.”

Den was silent for seconds, then he said, “Well, now my father's company is in ruins, my heart is still aflame for you. So perhaps it never had anything to do with that company—”

As the pair sank together in a kiss, Ruthenia realised her presence would not be of interest to them for much longer. Shaking her head with a grin, she left them to it.

*

Tanio and Sharmon were waiting in the archway of the lobby. When they turned, she broke into a sprint and launched straight into a hug.

“You did it, you treasure,” he said with a laugh to his voice. “I always knew you had it in you. Work resumes this Saturday.”

“Oh, please,” she groaned. “I guess we'll have to start from scratch. Considering I, uh, crashed the Swift into the deck of a warship.”

At this, Tanio grinned. “We'll call that a successful test flight. Anyhow, I hear that more funding will be flowing our way soon, now that we're out in the open. And all this was only possible because of you, Ruth. My employee and ward of all time.”

Ruthenia smiled despite herself. “Can't wait to be back at Beacon Way.”

“Can I at least get you a proper bed?”

“You know…maybe you can. The hammock's lost its novelty.”

“Aw, this is too sweet,” Sharmon sighed, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “How high did you get the Swift to go?”

“Higher than the peak of Calmen Ihira!” she exclaimed. “I felt like I could have reached the clouds…if only I'd had enough fuel.”

“Well, I'm itching to find out too,” Tanio put in. “We'll see you this Saturday, Hedgehog Head?”

He beamed. “Ten o'clock, on your porch. Same as always.”

*

Ruthenia chanced upon Aligon by the receptionist's counter, mingling with his entourage of uniformed guards. Before she could change course, he had lifted his gaze to meet hers, and waved her towards him—an invitation she knew better than to refuse.

“How do you do, Most Blessed Lady?” he asked as she entered the circle.

She cringed. “Are people really going to start calling me that?”

“It's what you get in return for changing the nation,” sighed the Arcane King as they passed a stampede of journalists. He spoke with a jovial smile and swept his furry red cloak out for the cameras, and she walked straighter just to look like she was holding her own beside him.

“Will you be letting your brother back into the family?”

“I'm sure he'll be flattered that you care so much,” he laughed. “We were ready to welcome him back if he changed his stance. But now that you have been acquitted, and have earned the favour of Ihir, no less, I'm afraid we are the ones who must change.” He sighed. “Congratulations, Ruthenia. You have turned the tables on me. That does not happen often.”

“It's just the beginning,” she muttered. “A lot of change is about to sweep the country, and you ought to heed it.”

Aligon sighed. “I know only too well. Our little game of checkers carries ever on. And now that you’re a holy emissary, we are almost on equal footing. That'll make things interesting, eh? Blessed Ruthenia, Saint of the Death Row?”

Ruthenia did not get to reel with his words, for the Arcane King gestured to dismiss her then, and she took the cue, slipping out of his circle of guards.

Left without protection, she found strangers and acquaintances descending on her with a torrent of queries and declarations. First, Hazen’s son, the ten-year-old Ordinary Prince Rian, made sure to inform her that he had slept through her entire testimony. On the foyer steps, a reporter asked after her thoughts on the riots, which she declined to answer. Then another pointed a conical radio receiver at her and shouted, “How do you explain this very sudden turn in your fortune?”

Ruthenia shrugged. “I had the help of my friends,” she replied. “And a lot of planning.”

Some other time—some four months ago, maybe—this attention, the camera flashes, the swinging of open receivers, would have mortified her. But now it was merely a drag, and by the twentieth question she was twitching to escape.

“That is all!” she snapped at the next reporter. “Aren't you all engorged with information already? I'd like to talk to my friends!”

They continued to tail her, but in thinner groups. Ruthenia was almost glad for the bottleneck of the bridge to the flight deck, where no more than two could follow directly behind, and those two happened to be Anio and Cathia, squeezing themselves in behind her before the mayhem could follow.

“Oh, I am so relieved to see you,” Ruthenia gasped. “Those reporters just don’t know when enough’s enough.”

“If you scold them, some of the fresher ones do get frightened off,” Anio said.

Cathia giggled. “Oh, and if you speak too many expletives, they can't use the recordings.”

“Scoldings, expletives, noted.”

When Ruthenia finally escaped to the other end of the bridge, she stretched her arms with a deep breath to welcome the warm afternoon—but promptly froze when she noticed where Aligon had gone: he was conversing with his brother at the edge of the landing deck.

Cathia interrupted Ruthenia's staring with a nudge. "Doesn't His Ex-Highness look uncomfortable? The poor thing. Ruthenia, you must go rescue him."

Nodding quickly, she crept in their direction. Aligon was first to notice her approach; his face lit up with a smile as he turned. “Miss Cendina,” he declared, and only then did Aleigh turn as well. “Shall I leave you two to discuss your affairs in private?”

“Don't let me frighten you off, Your Majesty,” Ruthenia muttered.

“Oh, I have little else to do here. I only ask that you not implicate my little brother in yet another of your heinous plots,” answered the King with a trace of a smirk. A snap of his fingers brought his royal detail again. He turned to Aleigh. “I sincerely hope only pleasant interactions pave the way forward.”

With one last pointed smile at Ruthenia, the Arcane King glided away in a rustle of cloaks, his guards encircling him once more.

“That didn't sound especially pleasant to me,” she said.

With a sigh, Aleigh turned to the city beyond the platform. “Legally speaking, all is well—he offered to return my title. These past two days have changed everything. He needs my favour to keep his career afloat. And yours.”

She nodded slowly. “Well, will take him up on it?”

“I seem to recall someone saying that I spend all my time averting my eyes from my power. Well, I have come to see the usefulness of a voice of dissent in the council.”

She smiled. “Look at you, becoming such a rebel.”

“I learned from the best.”

“What will you do once you return to the palace?”

He closed his eyes. “I shall set myself to becoming a more assertive council member.”

“I meant this evening,” she chuckled. “But tell me more about your political plans, if they interest you more.”

He blinked. “Oh. Well…I'd like to write about today's events in my diary.”

“You have a diary? That's cute.”

He folded his arms. “What? That's a completely normal pastime.” She could almost swear he was blushing, but the golden light made it hard to tell.

She burst out laughing. “I don't have a diary.”

“But of course you don't.”

The next time their eyes met, Ruthenia felt an ache take hold of her, and he returned that look with some esoteric emotion she longed to decode. But all she came away with was a fever of longing that she then spent the next minute trying to quell.

“Are you well?” asked Aleigh then. “I can't blame you if you are tired after today's proceedings.”

She nodded. Visions and sensations of swirling ocean currents wrapped her, and she shivered. “I can't wait to get home.”

“Then let us go.”

Before she could say anything else, he walked away, as he always did. Too late she turned, watching him disappear around a corner. By now, the bustle had thinned to just the stragglers. Sighing, Ruthenia gazed out to watch a distant ferry pass between the towers of Helika City, wondering what she would fly on now that her umbrella was gone.

“What's he like?” She leapt at the sound of the voice from behind her. A startled glance over her shoulder revealed that the question’s asker was Iurita. She wore a blouse and skirt in muted hues, frilled but not ostentatiously so.

Ruthenia frowned. “Who, Aleigh?”

“I'm curious, you could say. We all know how he treats officials and acquaintances. But how does he treat someone he's partial to?”

“Me? I don't think he's ‘partial’ to me.”

At this, she laughed. “He gave his title up for you, no? I think you have him wrapped around your finger.”

“Well, he is, uh—very sweet, I guess,” Ruthenia stammered. “What are you doing talking to me, anyway? I thought you hated my guts.”

“Oh! Yes. I actually came here to…apologise.”

“Oh—really?”

Iurita bowed her head. “I must admit, before this, I never did understand you. Your anger, your hatred for people who had never personally affronted you. But I cannot help but to understand, now, and for whatever it's worth, I truly regret the way I treated you.”

It was only then, gazing upon the haunted look in Iurita's eyes, that Ruthenia remembered. Her mother, Eina Astrapia, had been shot to death last night.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked, tears welling up in her eyes. “None of last night should have happened. Not in my name. I wish I could have done something—”

She fell silent when Iurita laid a hand on her shoulder. “None of it was your fault. Don't blame yourself. You were at death's door, too.” The girl’s smile was strained, her voice constricted. But she would shed no tears in front of Ruthenia. “Let us not be enemies any longer.”

“That sounds good to me.”

A shadow crossed them. Both turned.

“Oh, good afternoon…Your Highness? I'm not sure how to address you.”

“Good afternoon to you too,” said Aleigh. “And, my sincerest condolences.”

Iurita touched a hand to her heart. “I appreciate it.”

Benedice peered over his shoulder. Wind whirled across the platform, fluttering hair and feathers.

Iurita glanced between the two. “Oh, yes! I was just leaving.” She lowered her head in a bow. “I shall see the both of you in class. Have a good evening.”

They watched while their classmate drifted back into the crowd, her long silk gown fluttering behind her. Ruthenia sighed. “I don't think I have fully begun to grasp how much has changed in the past week.”

“We can worry about that as it comes,” said Aleigh. “For now…back to the Bollard District?”

“The ugliest house on Beacon Way, you can't miss it,” she replied.

---

Chapter 43: Titles, Glories and Other Inconsequential Things

 The sky gleamed like the back of a coin as they lifted into the air. They followed the winding bed of the River Colura, and at Ruthenia’s request, the flight sank low so they could listen to its burbling. She tilted over Benedice’s right flank to stare at her reflection.

“Don't go falling off,” warned Aleigh as Benedice’s hooves skimmed the water.

She swatted him away. “I didn't survive drowning and execution just to die here,” she exclaimed. In answer, he flicked the reins, and their flight ascended suddenly. Ruthenia yelled, snatching for his waist as her shout turned to laughter.

By the twentieth minute of their flight, the sky had washed orange around them. The warmth made her feel lazy, and she yawned, head falling against his back.

“You're almost home, Most Blessed Lady,” he said.

"Please, don't call me that." Ruthenia watched Helika's border segue into sinking grassland beneath them.

For many minutes, she listened to the beating of Benedice’s wings and the rustle of the wheat below. Then Beacon Way peeked over the horizon, the houses in an undulating necklace through the sky. Her home resolved into visibility beside Tanio's turbine-topped construction.

“The shed,” she said, leaning out to point, one arm still hooked around his waist. “That’s mine.”

“You live in there?” he replied. “It's smaller than my bedroom.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're the Arcane Prince.”

With a tug of the reins, Benedice lifted from the wheat in a billowing of wings and a rustle of stalks. He climbed through the sky in a dizzying lurch, and circled Tanio’s house once, before braking and landing on her patio in a clatter of hooves.

Ruthenia slid off the saddle and landed with a thump on her patio. Without the wind in her face, the heat crept back into her awareness. Then the sound of birds on the bubbling river rose into audibility, alongside the rustle of wheat, ready for harvest, and the creaking of Tanio's turbine overhead.

It was as if she had never left. The place looked and sounded as it always had.

Well, almost. She heard Aleigh leap off Benedice behind her, and turned to find him examining the tiny wooden shed. The Arcane Prince looked out of place beside the unevenly-sawed wood. She watched as he crossed the porch and lifted his gaze to regard the sunset spilling red and pink all over the sky, hair fluttering in the wind. Her mind drifted off into a haze of euphoria. No one should be allowed to be that beautiful.

“Ruthenia?” She hardly noticed him turning. “Perhaps you should turn in for the evening.”

“Y…yeah, maybe I should.” She rolled back on her heels. “Erm, why don’t you come inside? I’d like to show you my home, since you're here.”

His eyebrows rose, and he said, “Well, I haven't any plans this evening. I would love to see it.”

Heart leaping, Ruthenia threw her front door open and waved him inside.

The light of the sunset cast a golden streak across the dim floor. “Well, here we are,” she said, twirling with a wave at the room as they strolled in. She kicked tools and crumpled paper under her desk. “Sorry about the mess.”

He laughed. “It doesn't surprise me.”

Unexpectedly giddy with his laughter, Ruthenia strode to her workbench and pointed at it. “This is where I build and repair things,” she said. “People bring stuff in, and I beat it into shape, weld it, tighten screws, whatever it needs.” Then she pointed a thumb at the hammock behind her. “And that’s where I sleep.”

His eyes followed her gesture, and he frowned. “In that? How?”

“By not falling out,” she replied. At her desk, she patted the stack of papers atop it. “And here's where I do my homework. And where I fixed your mum's clock, by the way.”

“Ah, how lovely.”

Leaping to sit atop her trusty desk, Ruthenia took in the whole haphazard room, and the strange image of Aleigh inside it. The sunlight was orange as fire, warming the back of her head, falling in a streak that clove her shed in two. Somewhere far away, a bird was calling upon the marshland.

She leaned back on her palms, watching her shadow move on the facing shelves. Aleigh was by her workbench now, inspecting its array of tools. Motes of dust danced in the air like sparks. He lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“So, what do you think?” she murmured.

They gazed quietly at each other across the glowing room. Then a smile lit his face. “It's very cosy,” he said, as he wandered towards her, to join her in the glow of the sun. “And patently yours.”

Ruthenia snorted. “Because it's a mess?” She tried to ignore his unwavering gaze, but he was too close.

"It’s everything it has to be, nothing more and nothing less. Not like the palace at all.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing like the palace,” she laughed. “I hope it's not too lowly for your tastes.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “All it's missing are some bookshelves.”

“Bookshelves. You're so predictable.”

"I'm not a terribly surprising person, I'll admit," he said, laying a hand on her desk, two fingers overlapping hers. Her breath hitched as her skin lit up with sensation. Like a stoked furnace her heart roared hotter. “Thank you for the tour—I enjoyed it.”

“No trouble,” she breathed. Ihir help her, she wasn't sure how much longer she could hold out. “Thank you for the ride home.”

“Of course,” he answered softly. “Unfortunately, I must be headed home soon myself.”

Bravado blazed through her veins. “Aw, couldn’t you stay a little longer? We haven't seen each other in a week.”

“Five minutes more, perhaps?” he replied.

“Five minutes is perfect,” she whispered.

And then, the fuse on her self-control blew, and she snatched him by the shoulders and wrenched him towards herself, watching his eyes fly wide open.

Her lips met his in a full-mouthed kiss—or her best approximation of one. But the shock of the warmth of their mouths connecting short circuited her thoughts, threw her mind into a tailspin.

Even as she grew dizzy, she felt his fingers come to cup the back of her head, and he leaned into her invitation, returning the kiss with burning conviction. He bore against her, knee pressing into her shin—

Then the back of her head banged against her window, and with widening eyes she shoved him away by the shoulders, face and neck blazing. “Oh, damn it! Damn it!” she gasped, arms swinging wildly, knocking her pencils all over the desk.

Aleigh stumbled backward. “I’m sorry!” he gasped, covering his eyes with a hand, although that did nothing to hide his steadily darkening blush.

"No, don’t be!”

He shook his head. “I forgot myself, I'm sorry—”

“No, I—I started it? Come back!” She sat paralysed while he brisk-walked to the door, and she only barely found it in herself to leap off her desk and follow him. By then, he was already mounting Benedice in the reddening light.

“I must go,” he called down. “Good evening to you.” Seeming to sense his rider's anxiety, the equine galloped into the sky, white wings unfurling.

When Aleigh had vanished from view, Ruthenia buried her face in her hands and screamed. “Ihir, save me!”

---

The next time they met, Ruthenia realised with a sinking of her heart, it'd be in school.

Remembering the afternoon still sent chills through her. The memory seemed much too dreamlike, anyway, all full of strange light and unimportant details—so perhaps that’s all it had been. Yes, a dream, and she would soon forget it.

Ruthenia spent the remains of the Saturday in Tanio's living room, trying to reconcile herself with all these incongruities that were trying to pull her life apart. She was a holy figure now. Everything she did had to mean something. And all because she had stood up to the law.

Is this some sort of cosmic practical joke?

That evening, Tanio introduced her to the tower of signed letters that had formed on his coffee table. A good majority were overwhelmingly pacifist, even adulatory. A number were job offers, reinstatements of membership, and well-veiled pleas for partnership. Majority of them were from people whom they’d never met.

One particularly important-looking letter among them bore the Sign of the Swan in many places—in the seal, the watermark, the letterhead, and stamped beneath two very pretty signatures. It was the formal apologies of the royal families, printed on the sort of paper that she imagined was reserved for diplomatic letters.

A sigh left her. She wielded so much power that she didn't understand, like an invisible sword she swung wherever she turned. She only hoped she wouldn't accidentally thrust it straight into someone's gut.

---

First New Holy Law in Three Centuries Delivered by Now-Acquitted Convict!

Archbishop Wins Case Against Kings, Rebel and Recently-Imprisoned Team Absolved Under New Decree from Ihir

Arcane Prince Reinstated Following Acquittal of Ex-Criminal Friend
Turmoil in the Flightless City! Rebel Groups Have Rejected Offer to Parley with New Town Law Enforcement

It was amid such a dizzying cascade of front-page headlines that Ruthenia returned to her first post-Lilin day of school. It felt like her first day all over again, as she clung for her dear life to the sides of Tanio's surfboard, ricocheting between queasiness and nerves. She slid off at the arch, and offered him a groggy thank-you.

“Hope you enjoy your tea,” he said meanwhile. “I packed something special.”

She nodded, forcing herself not to picture its contents. “Is it weird that I'm nervous?” she murmured.

“You'll be grand today,” he answered with a smile, reaching down to pat her shoulder. “Can't be as bad as breaking house arrest and flying out to obstruct the navy, eh?”

She sighed, straightening her back. “Yeah, you're right.” Then, bracing herself, she descended the stairs to the hallway.

When she stepped through the door of 2-I, there was a clamour—classmates she'd never talked to declaring they had missed her, Orrem and Iurita eagerly welcoming her back, Calan and Alacero dumping her missed homework on her desk, and one Arcane Prince who buried his face resolutely in a book until classes began.

Although none of the teachers addressed her any differently, they let her be when she fell asleep at the desk. At tea break, she thought of joining Aleigh as before, but a lump formed in her throat, and she decided against it. Instead, at her desk, she unwrapped Tanio's new offering: a beef patty and cheese sandwich that somehow decidedly agreed with her tongue.

At the chime of the five-thirty bell, Ruthenia packed her bag and sighed in the golden light. The exhaustion still hung on her bones, but she willed herself to stand.

Just like four months ago, she waited at the classroom door, arms folded, until the Arcane Prince passed, books stacked in his arms. Just like four months ago, she lifted her arm to bar his exit.

He cast a glance about and sighed. “What is it, Ruthenia?”

She folded her arms. “What else? You kind of left me hanging yesterday.”

“Ah.” He pursed his lips. “Could we...discuss it some other time? I don't think I've had enough to think.”

Ruthenia could not fathom what there was to think about. But the pleading in his voice made her heart ache, so she sighed and nodded frustratedly. “Fair enough. But can I join you for tea tomorrow?”

“By all means.”

And of course, though they would resume their teatime rendezvous like nothing had happened in the past week, they would not speak of the events of that evening for two weeks. 

---

Chapter 44: An Open Cage

One thing was for sure: the world never stood still. The invisible wall that had once divided the classroom into left and right was falling apart, faster than a coastline during a goddess' rampage.

These days, strangers smiled at Ruthenia in the hallways, and didn't turn up their noses when she looked their ways. No one cared that she dressed like a worker, or cursed like a criminal.

And Iurita never spoke to her with less than complete respect. And Hollia was full of wistful sighs, and lingered with Orrem at the classroom door with increasing frequency. And Ruthenia had swapped seats with Calan so that he and Alacero could hold hands under the desk when no one else could see.

But more than all else, Ruthenia felt her own change, like an ache in her bones—the weariness and weight to everything she did, the exhaustion that kept her head down and her voice low. She wasn’t sure if she liked it. But she supposed there wasn’t any choosing.

---

"Ruth, may I have a minute?"

As Ruthenia was about to find out, Hollia Canavere had had a huge party in the works since her return to Astra.

Now, in the minutes before the first lesson of the day, her friend pressed the invitation eagerly unto her—and appeared from the hugeness of her eyes unwilling to leave without a definitive "yes."

Ruthenia wasn't all that reluctant to go either, considering the party sounded suspiciously like it was being thrown in celebration of her.

What was there to celebrate? After all the fire she'd started, she was finally feeling her burns. She had never wanted to become a part of their deceits and images, until it was too late to turn back. I sealed that by throwing myself between them and Lilin.

Oh, Ihir, will you tell me what to do?

Blinking her daze away, she looked up for an answer—and saw only dear Hollia and her pleading grey eyes. Perhaps this was Ihir's answer.

"Of course," she said with a smile. "I couldn't say no."

---

That evening, she found a messenger note from Reida about a funeral tomorrow evening. Reading it made her stomach clench. Saying goodbye was something she had never found easy, but here and now she was having to learn how, so quickly. How to unwrap the baggage and discard it. She spent the rest of the day exchanging words with Reida.

It’s Hyder you should speak to.

On the evening of the nineteenth of October, as planned, the friends gathered in the pink light at the end of their alley, their home, with flowers and flower chains. It had been a week, but Tante and Gordo had not reappeared, and it was difficult to imagine any other fate had befallen them.

This was not an Ihirin funeral. There was no smoke. The final rite was the laying of fresh flowers on the fence, which joined the withered old ones up there, and there was much talking and laughter. They talked, even with tears in their eyes, about the good, and the good only.

While Ruthenia had never liked Tante in his life, she knew he was part of the reason she was still alive, and that, too, she spoke up about. Small things that meant everything now. They found their belongings—an old gun, a book Gordo had been trying to read, a pack of cigarettes—and wrapped them in paper, to be given to the people they knew, for what use was burning them like the Ihirin did? Only the wealthy burned what the dead used to own. Only they saw meaning in empty poetry.

Ruthenia stayed until midnight was almost upon them. Reida had already gone home, Den accompanying her to her door, and without them Hyder sat all alone in his corner of the alley staring at the narrow rectangle of sky three stories above.

Instead of going home, she sat with him, saying nothing. She caught him closing his eyes with his face raised to the stars, whispering words as if in prayer.

“I thought you didn’t like Ihir,” she murmured when he finally turned to her.

“Well, not until He saved your life, I didn’t,” Hyder answered simply, and they exchanged a quiet glance, all the things they’d shared and never shared passing between them through their gazes.

---

Hollia's party sailed along upon that Saturday, after another week of paperwork, machine building and interview appointments, and news stories and speculation the whole country over.

As they landed at the aviary door, Tanio muttered, “We need to sort you a new flight mount. What do you reckon you'd like to fly?”

She shrugged. “Not a surfboard, that's for sure.”

“How about a bigger, better umbrella?”

“You know, I could be convinced.”

Ruthenia was cleaned up tonight, wearing a white and dark-brown coat-dress with buttons all the way down the front. On her neck hung the golden pendant that the prison had returned to her last week. Even from here, they could tell the cottage was bursting with guests; three concurrent conversations were audible from the doorstep. But outside the walls, there was not a sound besides the rustle of the grey field.

The edge of the enclosure peeked from over the rooftop, silhouetted in the purpling sky. No birds hung from the netting by their claws today. No chattering of sparrows. No shrieks or caws.

Ruthenia frowned. It was too quiet for the aviary that she knew. When Hollia had said she was no longer a birdkeeper, did she mean...

Right then, the door squeaked open and they both straightened. The birdkeeper emerged in a whirl of deep green silk. "I am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "Welcome, Ruthenia! And good evening, Mister Calied! I hope you did not wait long!”

“Miss Canavere,” Tanio replied. “I hope you have an excellent evening.”

“Why, the pleasure is mine!” She whirled to face Ruthenia. “Please, come inside, everyone’s been waiting for you!”

“Oh, is she here?” From behind the door frame peeked the grinning face of Orrem, who rested his chin on Hollia's shoulder and waved. “Great to see you, Ruthenia!” His eyes lifted to her guardian. “Oh, and you must be Mister Calied. Well met.”

“Ah! It's you,” Tanio piped up. “Anchor racer of the New Town team? Fancy seeing you here!” Meanwhile Ruthenia raised an eyebrow at her best friend, whose eyes dipped with an abashed smile.

While the other three became embroiled into a lively conversation, Ruthenia slipped past Hollia and ventured into the living room. It had once again been transformed, the couches moved to the side and chairs lined up at the walls, the dining table heavy with empty glasses and a massive glass jug of what must have been cordial. Dodging along the edge of the room, she plucked a fresh glass from the table and leaned closer to the jug to sniff it, before a voice over her shoulder said, “It's homemade apple juice.”

She glanced back. “Oh, hey, Iurita,” she called. “Hollia sure pulled all the stops for this party.”

Picking up the scoop, Iurita coolly filled Ruthenia's glass. “What can I say? Her best friend came back from the dead,” she replied, lifting her glass. “Anyone in her position would be ecstatic. And I am, too. Cheers to you.”

“And to you,” she answered, their glasses clinking together.

Ruthenia wandered through the crowd, sipping on her drink. She quickly began to surmise that almost every member of 2-I was in attendance, and a couple of guests whom she didn't know besides—like Caela's partner, who sat enjoying a cake with her. In the couch, Dariano was entertaining her two seatmates with a trick involving vanishing utensils, both audience members taking turns to challenge the illusion, though they paused to wave and shout as she passed. She passed Perrio and Vesta, chattering about the painting of Hollia’s great-grandmother over the mantelpiece.

As she strolled past the corner lamp, she was intercepted yet again with a shout, then found herself being engulfed in a hug from behind. “Ruth, there you went! Thank you so much for coming.” Hollia, let go, spinning her around by the shoulders. “How are you liking the party so far?”

“I'm enjoying the apple juice,” she replied, glancing at her half-drained glass. “Do you have a schedule for the evening?”

Beaming, she shook her head. “No, all free and easy.”

“No toasts? No speeches?”

“No speeches. I know you don't like that sort of attention.”

“You know me too well,” she said with a smirk. Then her face sobered again. “What happened to the aviary? I mean, if it's not too much to talk about right now.”

Hollia kept her smile on, but her eyes darted to the nearest window with a barely masked sorrow. “Lightning hit one of the weight-bearing poles. It tore the netting wide open when it fell.” She did not continue that reply, and that told Ruthenia everything.

“Uh, anyway,” she scrambled for a new topic, “about Orrem…is he still ‘considering?’”

At this, her friend laughed tipsily. “I don't think so.”

Ruthenia grinned back. “Aw, look, I told you he'd come around.”

“Enough about me,” Hollia giggled. “I'm glad you could make it—” A roar of laughter crowded out the rest of Hollia's sentence.

Ruthenia leaned closer. “What was that?”

Hollia cupped a hand around the side of her mouth. “This was for you! I think everyone's thrilled you're alright! Everyone I asked agreed to come.”

Water splashed onto the floor as another laugh surged across the room. Hollia shook her head, and they both stepped to the side, to appraise the party in all its light and life. “It's as good an excuse as any to throw a party,” Ruthenia murmured, warmth rising through chest. “Seriously, it means so much that you did this. Did you really invite everyone in class?”

“Almost. Lora and Telis still won't talk to me.” Her shoulders sank. “But that's alright. Seventeen guests is plenty already. I—” Then, perking up, she cast a glance about. “Wait a minute, he was here earlier. Where'd he go?”

“Who? Oh.” Ruthenia's eyes followed her friend's, and indeed, there was one person conspicuously missing. “So…if, hypothetically, you were stressed out by the chaos of the party and wanted time alone, where in the house would you go?”

“Probably through the kitchen and out the back door,” Hollia said thoughtlessly, then gasped when Ruthenia immediately broke away. “Oh, wait! If you do find His Highness, could you convince him to come back? And tell him I'm sorry if this is too much.”

“I'll do my best,” she laughed. Then she followed the directions, through the kitchen and out the door into the evening.

As she stepped out into the darkness, the humid cool descended upon her skin. Her eyes lifted above her, and she saw exactly what Hollia had described. The wires that had previously netted the sky had sunk aside, a gaping mouth in which all the unguarded stars shone.

Ruthenia stared up into the void for a while, before turning right and trudging down the garden path, following that great tear in the net. The silenced seemed to grow vaster as the party’s bustle sank away, replaced by the lonely crunch of her shoes on grass. Not a bird answered as she strode by sweeps of vines; none flitted as she passed beneath the great curled tree, whose first new branches were just learning of the world beyond the cage. But traces remained: scratches on the wood, old dishes where they had bathed, feathers trapped in the cables.

Everything here, she saw for a blinding second, had been suppressed by the great cage. Everything had shrunk to match its confines.

She soon found the end of the gash in the net—a place where the pillar had snapped and ripped from the wires. Arcing from the fracture into the sky, a spangling of stars rose.

A wooden swing hung by the wreckage, and upon it sat a figure in white.

“Is that who I think it is?” she called. Her made their head turn. She raced through the grass, and watched as the apparition resolved into a person.

“Good evening, Ruthenia,” answered Aleigh as she arrived. In the glow of the living room window, she saw that he wore a swan's colours: a white tailcoat and a black shirt, his hair tied in a golden ribbon.

Whether or not he was evoking the appearance of Ihir's icon on purpose, she found herself drawing the connection. But having met both their patron deity and the Arcane Prince, she could say the latter was far more beautiful.

She dropped into the seat beside him. “Catching some fresh air?” she asked.

He tilted his head boredly to a side. “You could say so.”

“I think Hollia feels bad that the party scared you away.”

He frowned. “Ah…I shall apologise when I return.”

Ruthenia dug the heel of her boot into the grass and kicked the swing backward. “You should come back inside with me. You’re dressed so nicely today. It’d be a waste if no one saw you.”

The swing creaked gently, carrying them both. “I could say the same, your outfit is breathtaking.”

An inevitable flush lit her face. “Hey, I wasn't ready for that!”

“After all this time, you still can't take a compliment,” he sighed. “Well, it isn't just your dress that is beautiful, but the rest of you, too.”

Her face might as well have turned to cinders in that instant. Her true folly was in getting tangled up with the Literature teacher's pet student. He had a thousand more lines like that, for all she knew.

Heedless, Aleigh glanced up at the glowing house, and at the strains of chatter drifting over, and said, “I'm sorry. The number of people in that room was getting just a little too much.”

She sighed. “I thought as much. Can't complain about some quiet, though.”

Just outside the fence, the cicadas were chirping to celebrate the arrival of summer on the plains. She tipped her head backwards so she saw nothing but the night sky beyond the swing, sparklier than the palace ballroom. Tiny clouds swirled into knots in the black above them, blotting out the points of light.

As they basked in that expectant silence, Ruthenia toyed with the idea of asking him every question she had. About his silence. About the afternoon in her shed. About whether it mattered that she was the lowliest sort of commoner there was—born in a lab and raised on the street. But each placid creak of the swing scattered whatever willpower she mustered.

Aleigh lifted his head. “Two weeks ago, you mentioned wanting to talk.”

Ruthenia blew out a breath. Well, that worked too. “I have just one question. Why?”

“Why?”

She folded her arms. “Why did you run away from my shed that evening? And then avoid talking about it for two weeks?”

Aleigh was quiet for what felt like a minute.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I was confused,” he said. “I've always known you to be a straightforward person who speaks her mind, and you never said anything that made me think you felt strongly about me. So when you kissed me, I thought I must have done something to coerce it.”

Looping over the scene again from this new vantage, Ruthenia heaved a sigh. “Yeah…pushing you away probably didn't help,” she murmured. “But you didn't force me to do anything. It was completely by my own choice.”

“Then I apologise for jumping to that conclusion. I've tied my mind into knots wondering how you feel about me.”

She shook her head. “I couldn't even admit to myself how I felt. Because I was a coward.” Her heart pounded so hard that her head was spinning, but she willed herself onward. “You were so kind to me. And I started daydreaming about being a part of your future. But I felt like I wasn't allowed to. Because you are…I mean, what are you not? You're literally royalty! And I'm a criminal.” She chuckled. “So I could only hope for the most modest version of that future—us two, twenty years from now, meeting sometimes. Maybe sharing a meal. If that was as close as we could ever be, then I would have been happy—”

“Ruthenia…” She went still at the anguish in that sigh of her name. “Clearly, I haven't been explicit enough, if you think those things would stop me. But if you wanted it, I would gladly fall from the heights just to be at your side. I would renounce my title again if I had to. Really, I thought I was the one who wasn't enough for you. Because you are a force of nature, and you make me feel like a worshipper gazing at a deity.”

She let out a wobbling laugh, toes curling. “Did you have that line prepared?”

“No?”

She covered her face with her palm. “You really do read too many romance novels.”

Now, he was the one who laughed nervously. “I can be less saccharine, too,” he replied, hunching his shoulders. With every word, his gaze sank farther away. “I have written a dozen love letters that I never worked up the courage to send you. I have simply—never been this violently in love before. And I do dream of it too—having you in my future. Braving storms together. Maybe…holding your hand?”

To call it an arrow through the heart did not quite capture the sweetness of the ache, the way she wished to be pierced by it again and again. Her body burned. She, too, had never wanted anything this much.

“Let's not just dream of it, then?” she ventured. And her breath caught as he reeled her in by the shoulders, finding her mouth with his.

This time, Ruthenia did not abandon the conquest halfway. She kissed him angrily, making up for the times she’d convinced herself that no good would come from this. Their fingers tangled, then their bodies, and the world swung around them. Suddenly she was pinning him against the arm of the swing, all fire and nothing else, still shackled in lip-lock.

When she eventually dragged herself away, like a bird leaving the thrall of gravity, he was smiling up at her, quite unbecomingly for someone of his station. And she obliged to answer him, descending with a second kiss, which he returned with more eagerness than she'd ever thought him capable of.

As she hung over him with their faces an inch apart, she felt his finger trace her neck, looping under the string that hung from it. From inside her collar he lifted the eagle pendant, and his surprise made another wave of longing roll through her, so she sank and kissed him again.

Eventually, she rose up on her arms, head as hot as a lit lamp. The swing beneath them creaked back and forth, as they crawled back upright.

They sat for a minute in buzzing silence, until Ruthenia turned and reached out to straighten Aleigh’s jacket, while he redid his hair.

“How would your family feel about this?” She inched over and curled up against him, head against his shoulder.

“I hardly care. But my mother loves you. And my brother seems to want your endorsement, so…I'm sure it would agree with them too, if…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes darted to a side. The next words came timidly. “Would you be my partner?”

She gripped his hand. It was all she could do not to fall off the swing. “If it means more kisses like that.”

“I would be delighted to kiss you as often as you liked.”

“How about now?” she asked. And he did as instructed, with less vigour and more care, cupping his hands around her face.

When Aleigh drew away, they returned to their cuddle, fingers woven together. Ruthenia stared absently at Hollia’s back door. She closed her eyes, letting the sway of the swing lull her.

*

They were interrupted by a cry from among the leaves of the bowing tree.

Ruthenia cast a glance at Aleigh, then in the direction of the noise, extracting herself from his arms. “You heard that, right?” she said.

“A bird?” he replied, lifting his gaze as well.

Rising from the seat, they began to cross the garden, hand in hand. They passed through grass and vines, under the broken branches, till eventually they reached the shortest one. Another rumbling call came from behind the leaves.

Ruthenia lifted a curtain of leaves to reveal a small nest of twigs, upon which sat a dove, staring at the newcomers with unblinking eyes.

“Hello there,” she whispered. “What’s the matter?” It did not answer, but continued to breathe softly, blinking its eyes. A squab poked its head from under its wings, inspecting the strangers.

While they studied the creatures, there was a creak of a door behind them, and the rustle of footsteps across the garden.

“You heard him too?” came a whispering voice. Both turned, to discover Hollia approaching, eyes bright with fear. She paused as her eyes darted to their linked hands. “Oh! Am I interrupting?”

“No!” Ruthenia exclaimed. “We were checking on the bird.”

They moved apart to let Hollia pass, and she glided forward to peer at the nest. “Every now and then, he sings for his mate,” said Hollia as she approached the nest. “But she’s gone. She was on the tree out there—” she pointed at the silhouette down the road— “when the lightning hit. He will have to raise their children alone.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ruthenia.

“There’s only the four of them, now, and chances are, there will not be any left in ten years’ time.”

“That won’t happen—”

“It will.” A pang tore at Ruthenia’s heart, for she had never heard Hollia's voice sound so defeated before. “But that’s how it is with life—isn’t it? Death and extinction. I have no power to prevent that. We never did.”

Ruthenia wanted to understand, but she knew she did not. She did not understand compassion like Hollia’s, and did not understand being tethered to a place, a genealogy, in this way. Now that those things had vanished, where had she to go?

Swallowing, Ruthenia laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “They’re alive right now,” she said. Hollia nodded. “And so are the rest of the birds, for today. And I think that's a wonderful thing in itself. They wouldn't be alive right now, if not for you. And sure, some will die. But others won’t, and they’ll have offspring of their own. I’m sure of it. And they’ll be making their nests in the next town. In the forest, where they once did. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Despite the sorrow in her eyes, Hollia smiled waveringly. “I think it could be.”

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