I watch through frosted windowpanes as the alchemist rides into town.
His furs are damp with dew, his hands hidden but for his reddened fingers. He glances up at the orphanage, and the vision lashes my eyes like a pine branch.
A fat old man with dead eyes. A little black bottle
The knock comes late one sunny morning.
My legs tremble as I go to answer the door. Behind it is a stiff, black-coated constable. And behind him are three men with boxes and bags, ready to steal my treasures.
“Adélie Moreau?”
I twist my hands into my skirt, clear my throat, and nod.
Finlay’s alarm blared at eight a.m. ship’s time, waking him from another dream about Alaia. He opened his eyes to a room flooded with cold light. The stale, chilly air of the ship filled his lungs, and the distant engines whirred sharply.
For one moment, he still felt her arms around him.
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