Landing in another realm is never dignified.
We slammed onto a tilted marble platform three thousand feet in the air.
"Don't. Look. Down," I told myself, gripping a balustrade carved from solid diamond.
"Oh relax," Puck said, shaking himself. "This is the Floating Spires of Vogue. Clouds smell like lavender. Birds sing in auto-tune."
I looked.
My stomach attempted to file a missing persons report.
Needle-thin towers pierced the clouds, connected by bridges of solid light. Islands drifted lazily through the sky. People glided past on silk wings or rode iridescent rays like it was perfectly normal.
"SUBJECT: ARTHUR VANE," purred a voice behind me. "STATUS: Dreadfully underdressed."
I turned.
She stood on the bridge like the universe had designed her personally—stained-glass wings, armor that doubled as couture, a rapier of solid starlight aimed directly at my throat.
"I am Lady Valerius," she said. "High Marshal of the Spires, Protector of the Aesthetic, and currently your primary cause of death."
Her gaze dropped to my cardigan.
"…Why do you smell like a library and a ham sandwich?"
"It's a long story," I said carefully. "The sandwich is a deleted scene."
"He's the Anchor," Puck added helpfully. "Ninth Shard. Curator incoming. Very large mop."
Valerius stiffened.
"The Curator? During Gala season?" She sighed. "Unacceptable."
Her eyes flicked back to me, sharp and assessing.
"If you are the savior of reality," she said, "we are doomed. You're wearing beige."
"It's comfortable."
"It's a crime."
She snapped her fingers. The bridge began moving.
"If you're staying," Valerius continued, "you're getting a makeover. If reality ends, it will not end ugly."
As we moved, I caught her watching me—not my clothes, not the glow under my skin.
Me.
Something unreadable passed through her eyes.
The sky darkened.
Not black.
Blank.
"They're here," she said quietly.
The Janitors descended.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, Lady Valerius smiled like someone about to enjoy herself.