Good Wednesday.
Early in the morning, we interrogate Jasper Rook. It doesn't take long. He breaks and talks like he's been waiting for it.
Members of the Gilded Ledger Order have been stealing IAMs from ships meant for the military. They reroute them. Sell them to university professors. Quiet transactions. Paper trails clean enough to pass audits.
After that, Gary hands me a note and tells me to report back to Veyr.
I leave the Hearthlight building in the Western Outskirt and get myself a carriage.
"North," I tell the jarvy.
The carriage rolls north, then turns east at the first major cross section. It keeps going, cutting through the Northern Outskirt.
The sea air fades. Salt gives way to smoke. Industrial smog thickens the air. Buildings turn darker, stained with soot, packed tighter together.
The carriage slows.
Stops.
I step out in front of the Hearthlight building of the Northern Outskirt and walk inside.
The lobby is crowded. People line up, desperate for help. Clerks move between desks, counting phens, answering questions, keeping order.
The first thing I notice—
Margaret isn't here. No one leans forward when I pass. No quick wave. No voice calling my name.
She's usually the loudest. The most eager. The first to greet anyone who walks in.
I head for the back corridor. The elevator carries me up to the highest floor.
Straight ahead. Another corridor.
At the end—
The clocktower office.
The Ordermaster's room.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Veyr calls.
I step inside and approach his desk.
"Your hair looks like it needs some plans."
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" I say as I pull out the note Gary gave me and place it on the desk.
Veyr reaches for the note. "That joke didn't land, did it?"
The silence stretches while he reads. Paper rustles. Nothing else.
A beat.
He sets the note back on the desk and turns to me.
"Gilded Ledger probably knows we're the ones who attacked them yesterday," I say.
"Stay away from the Western Outskirt for a while," he replies. "Lay low. I'll come up with something."
"Understood. Is that all?"
"No. That's not all."
Veyr looks at me.
Doesn't blink.
His shoulders square. His back straightens against the chair. The casual slack leaves his face, pulled tight like a door being shut.
The room feels smaller.
"What did you tell Margaret?" he asks.
"I—" I take a breath. "I told her to clean every toilet in this building with her tongue."
His face hardens.
"Do you realize how nasty that is?" he snaps.
"Sorry."
"That nullie ruined my toilet."
"Nullie?"
"These pathetic beings who know nothing about alchemy," he says. "Like lessies—people who are less than us. At least nullies can still produce fuel and materials."
I breathe in. Slow. Then out.
"Why are nullies less than us?"
A chuckle slips out of him.
"You're funny, Len." He leans back. "They don't understand how the world works. And they die fast. Fifty years, maybe less. Old age takes them before they know anything."
He laughs.
I swallow. Then force a laugh with him.
The sound bounces around the room. Hollow but loud.
He stops.
So do I.
"Where's Margaret now?" I ask.
Veyr's eyes narrow.
He lifts one finger.
Slowly.
Points it at me.
Then—
"Bang."
My heart slams hard against my ribs. Breath breaks loose, sharp and uneven. Sweat beads along my temples.
That gesture is enough.
He doesn't need to say anything else.
I leave his room in silence after he tells me I need rest.
The elevator carries me down. Sweat runs off my skin and drips onto the floor of the shaft.
When I reach the first floor, I approach the first clerk I see.
"Do you know where Margaret is?"
"There's no Margaret in Tauran," she says in a flat tone.
I move to another clerk and ask the same question.
"There's no Margaret in Tauran," she says. Same flat tone.
I ask another.
And another.
All of them give the same answer. The same voice. The same blank look.
My heart stutters. It hurts—but the pain isn't physical. It's something else within me.
I leave the Hearthlight building and head straight for the hotel. I pass through the vaporgates, leaving the smog behind.
As I enter the lobby, Mynar is already there, talking with a few guests.
He glances at me.
"Monsieur Len—" He stops. "Are you okay?"
I don't answer. I avoid his gaze.
I head straight for the elevator. Up to my floor. To my room.
It's empty. Ashlynn isn't here, but the floral scent of soap still lingers.
I strip and go straight to the bath. I sit in the tub and fill it with water. Today, I use Ashlynn's soap. Her familiar scent clings to my skin.
My heart slows. My breathing steadies.
I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
Time passes.
I wake to the sound of the door opening.
I jolt up and grab a towel, tying it around my waist.
When I step out of the bathroom, amber eyes meet mine.
Ashlynn.
I move without thinking and pull her into a tight hug. Her bag slips from her shoulder and hits the floor.
"Len?" Her voice wavers, surprised, caught off guard.
"I'm sorry."
She freezes for half a second, then hugs me back. Her small hands tap my back, slow and gentle.
"It's okay," she says. Her voice is calm and soft.
"I'm sorry," I say again. Smaller.
She pulls back when I do. Then she takes my hand and leads me to the bed.
We lie down together, facing each other, close enough to feel each other breathe.
I shift closer and press my face against her chest. Her breathing is slow and even, rising and falling under my cheek. The familiar floral soap clings to her skin—warm, clean, real. My hands bunch the fabric of her dress, damp with tears, and the heat of her body bleeds into mine.
My shoulders start to shake. I can't stop them.
"Forgive me," I whisper, the words breaking as they leave my mouth.
She strokes my hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, steadying me. The warmth of her body seeps into mine, slow and insistent, like a tether holding me from falling apart.
"Forgive me," I say again, quieter, the words sinking into the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
Her hands press gently into my back, guiding, supporting, steady. "It's okay," she murmurs, voice calm and honeyed, carrying patience I feel in every touch.
Ashlynn already knows. If the Order ever decides she is a nuisance… I can't let that happen.
I shake my head, unable to speak. My tears press against her skin, and the world shrinks to nothing but her heartbeat, her warmth, the scent of her soap, and the wetness of my own grief.
"Ash… don't leave me."
"I won't," she says, kissing the top of my head, and I cling tighter.
"Are you busy tomorrow night?"
"No."
"Wanna go on a date?"
"I would love to." My voice is small, but a little steadier.
"Just the two of us then?"
"Yes. Just the two of us."
She chuckles softly. I feel it vibrate through her chest, and I let out a weak laugh of my own, pressing my face into her a little deeper.
A moment passes—not heavy. Just warm.
"Len… do you love me?"
"I do."