“We’re different.” The sewing box snapped thoughtfully. “No one knows how much.”

  “Come on.” Evanne led them, clittering and clattering, stamping and clonking, a merry band in a world of depression, to the front of the tower. Giant doors were at the base. They were ajar, wide enough for all to enter, so they did. Evanne’s blood heat vision showed her the cool of centuries, but the warmth of rekindled life lay right below the floor. They were in a large room sporting many exits, with a single huge dais in the floor. It was underneath this the heat lay.

  So, she went right for it.

  Standing on the dais, animated luggage all about, she let her fingers slow, teasing the melody from joy to contentment. The mimics settled, still keeping time, still with her, but given respite from excited dancing for a moment. The crowd needs to breathe.

  The floor jolted, then rose. She’d more or less expected something like that, although down was more of where she thought they’d end up. No one put murder rooms in the top levels of their manse, so this made a pleasant change from the last weeks’ fare.

  The dais was a smooth ride. Even with an array of furniture, it didn’t seem to mind the weight. They went up, and farther still. There were illumination globes in the shaft, but not all worked, casting their elevation into staccato bursts of light and shadow. They slowed, then stopped just short of a platform leading to a door. The dais graunched, shuddered, and was still.

  Evanne sighed. It was too good to last. She eyed the platform above. “Anyone good for a boost?”

  An armoire sidled closer, opening its doors for her. Shelves within looked harmless enough. “Use my mouth.”

  Evanne paused, hand half-way toward a shelf. “Your what now?”

  “Should I have said a different word? I’m not used to words anymore.”

  “Just say ‘shelf’. You’ve got shelves here.” Evanne tapped one thoughtfully. “This is a mouth? What do you eat?”

  The sewing box nudged her ankle. “Often humans ask questions they don’t want to know the answer to.”

  Evanne blew a rust-lock strand from her eyes, then clambered on the … shelves. The mimic didn’t snap its doors shut, gobbling her up, which was a possibility she felt strongly implied. The other mimics watched with their not-eyes, attentive as she climbed. Waiting. Expecting. Yearning. They are so lost. She closed her eyes for a moment on the last shelf, hand atop the armoire. It wasn’t even dusty. “I’ll come back for you. I’ll come back for you all. I promise.”

  The sewing box hopped at the armoire’s base. “We will wait until the end of time for that day.”

  “Not that long. I think maybe five minutes.” She showed not-quite-shark-teeth. “Trust me.” With that, she reached up, hand on the platform, and hauled herself up.

  The room was enormous. Evanne felt it spanned the entire width of the tower. There were no columns supporting the roof. The ancients must have had wonderful carpenters to build such as this. Arrayed around the room were small desks, chairs still before them. Many chairs were occupied by the mouldering remains of people. The bodies had all but gone, skeletal bone and a little hair all that remained, but their clothes were still good as new.

  She saw the ghosts of Wolrif, Yvette, and Gallile standing by a metal pillar emerging from the floor. Time enough to deal with them later. Ghosts didn’t bother her.

  Evanne stood on a platform that would have connected with the dais if it made it a little higher. There were no guardrails, just a clean floor that ran out like a wide metal tongue to taste where the lozenge of dais would’ve waited. Above, a roof, and below, levels like this with similar ramps leading into other levels. What they held was a mystery for another time.

  The far wall was made of a bank of louvres. The slats were closed against rain that would never blow against them down here. She paced forward, guitar held in left hand, eyes trying to break secrets from the night. Her Vhemin eyes said there was no heat left here. All was dead. She made the louvres, and perspective shifted. These were no ordinary slats. Each panel was as wide as her body. The rains that beat against them must have been mighty indeed.

  Evanne reached out, touching the louvres. They were slick with condensation. She sniffed her wet fingers. Just water, nothing slimy or sinister, but you couldn’t fault a girl for checking after the horrors of the ‘healing’ pool at the temple. She turned away, then gave a small scream as the louvres CLANKED. She spun back. All about the wall the louvres trembled, strained, their ancient mechanisms struggling against rotted metal.

  The louvre before her groaned like a wight as it eased up and away, showing what Evanne now knew to be the top deck of a flying fortress. Lights, long dead, struggled into luminance along its length. By the Three, but it was massive. It stretched before her larger than Imshir was end-to-end. The ugly underside of another ship lay against it, crushed into the deck. Evanne could imagine where she’d fallen out, to land here, and discover a place buried beneath a lake. Above, water trickled from where the vessels had speared into the lakebed. They stoppered this cavern, two hulls making a cork.

  To think this ship held levels below, each as large. And this was Tarragon’s home. The fairy came from a palace emperors could only dream of. “She must think me a sad and lonely rube,” Evanne whispered. “She must bite her lip at my quaint ways. She must think I am simple.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Hitch said.

  Evanne screamed—again!—and whirled to the spectre. “Hitch!”

  “I think you’re simple.” The ghost glimmered blue, his not hands tucked into his pants, looking not at all worse for wear for having been gone all this time. “Tarragon’s smitten by you, although I certainly don’t know why.”

  Evanne rushed toward him, wanting to hug him, to hold him close, but she faltered, then stopped. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Don’t get soppy on me.” Hitch strode to the opened louvres, blue luminance emanating from him. “Quite something, isn’t it?” He gusted a ghosty sigh. “I’ve lost so much, and more goes with each moment. But I remember this, now. I remember when it flew. And I remember when that,” he stabbed a not-finger at the underside of the place Evanne had fallen from, “crashed into it. Wasn’t a great day. They came from above, you see. Flew that smaller craft so high, where the air was thin, barely a whisper, cold as the night beyond the sky. Dropped, and struck a wonder of the Three asunder.”

  Evanne joined him. “It doesn’t make sense. This ship is huge, Hitch! It’s bigger than any city I’ve seen. You could fit Imshir inside it and have room for Ravenswall.”

  “And that’s just the top deck,” he agreed. “Fairies don’t do things by halves. They are the Builders of our dreams.”

  “Where have you been, ghostie?”

  “I was slapped silly by the Feybrind witch. She’s found sorcerous devices. A collar that lets her speak. A real invisibility cloak. And something to turn aside the workings of magic, I expect. Which is where I went.” He turned not-eyes down, then back to her. “There’s good news, though. By my reckoning, she thinks she’s in the fairy citadel. She doesn’t realise she’s in a battleship made by the other side.”

  “But she’ll want Tarragon to fix it,” Evanne said. “And Tarragon can’t.”

  “Because she failed her exams, sure. But⁠—”

  “No, Hitch. Because it’s not made by fairies.” Evanne paced. “This ship is made by fairies. That one is different. A language she doesn’t speak. A book written in a foreign tongue. A⁠—”

  “I get you,” he said. “So what?”

  Evanne imagined the kind of monster that would work against her own kind, to seize relics of the past, to overthrow thrones, kingdoms, and the Tresward, such as they were. “So, I think she’s in real trouble. We need to… I dunno.”

  “What would be great is if we could get this citadel flying again.”

  “That’s it!”

  “I was joking.” He gave her a hard stare. “Really. It was a joke!”

  “Still a good idea.” Evanne thought hard, then looked to the other ghosts, still standing by the pillar in the floor. “What are they doing here?”

  “You’re the ghost whisperer.” Hitch stalked around the three other ghosts who watched him, saying nothing. They never did. “Odd they’re rooted right there.”

  “I think I can make them tell us.” Evanne hefted her guitar and touched the strings. The instrument dropped soft notes on the floor, hesitant, perhaps even resistant. “I think I can make them show us. I did it with you, back when I died. And I did it a little with lost Gabriel in the ancient temple.”

  Hitch gave her a sideways glance. “You’re going to woo them with the power of song?”

  Evanne’s chin jutted of its own accord. “You know, you’re right. You should talk to them, ghost to ghost. See what they know.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “No, really. Try it! Your lack of ability is surely better than my very real power to see the dead and learn the manner of their passing.” She waited him out, using the Trick of time.

  “Was I being a dick?”

  “A little.”

  Hitch slumped. “I forget so much. Sometimes I forget who my friends are. It’s a problem I’ve always had.” He brightened. “Do you need me along for this one?”

  “I don’t think I need to fight anyone.” She glanced at her guitar, remembering the power he gave her those times they’d shared the strings. But also that he was her friend, her oldest one, and worked with her, without asking for aught. “But… sure. If you want. I could use the company.”

  He eased across the distance between them, slipping through her skin and into her flesh. There was less of him this time, but she didn’t want to think about that. The strings beneath her fingers felt tighter, readier. The guitar still wasn’t sure, but she was. She needed to know.

  In the garden of memories, we stroll,

  Where love and laughter filled our soul.

  Though time has passed, and tears may flow,

  Your spirit lives on, our hearts aglow.

  With each thought of you, a smile we find,

  A cherished presence in our hearts, entwined.

  Though you're gone, your light still gleams,

  In the tapestry of our dreams.

  //ATTEND.// Her throat felt raw, but she didn’t need to say much. //SHOW ME.//

  Wolrif stood on the docks, eyes out to the lake. It was a still day, the lake a mirror of the sky. He felt the emptiness of his coin purse, the yearning in his heart, and how grateful he was to Gallile. The old woman was by his side, leaning on her crook, eyes to the lake, or something beyond. Her voice wasn’t as frail as she looked. “There is treasure beyond measure beneath the waves. My family has kept the secret safe, but now it’s time to pass it on. To give it to someone worthy.”

  “What of your own family?”

  Gallile snorted. “My daughter has naught but cotton between her ears. She tells me she needs no husband. I tell you there is time aplenty to be alone when your husband’s dead and buried.”

  Wolrif chewed that over for a time. He’d not met Gallile’s daughter but didn’t need to. His eyes were on sweet Yvette, who could sing songs pure enough to break the heart. Like him, poor. Like him, didn’t mind it. But he wanted a better life for her, and Gallile’s treasure was the way. “As you say. So, I take ship to where the water’s deepest, take a diving bell down, and unlock the door?” He tried to hide his doubt. “Seems odd no one else has found this treasure.”

  “I was a younger woman when I swam there last. I was alone, as I always was. Secrets can only be kept by one person, child. And I give the keeping of this one to you as I step off.” She shrugged, old shoulders bony under her shawl. “Remember the device I need. The rest is yours.”

  “Aye, I remember. A bar of gold, thick and long as my forearm.”

  “The very same. There are jewels of diamond and other golden trinkets, but this one is mine. I made a promise.” Her eyes searched his. “My dead husband wanted me to pass it down his line. I have little time for them, but we must keep our word.”

  Wolrif thought of the promises he and Yvette shared, and felt the smile break out on his face despite himself. “Aye. Wish me luck.”

  “Luck,” she called to his back.

  The lake remained calm, even, and pure. He took his small skiff out to the deepest part of it, where the water was dark and cold. The diving bell was workmanlike, solid, used by the longshoremen to repair the hulls of their boats. None had taken one this deep.

  None except Gallile.

  He shucked his leathers, favouring cotton and wool instead. It would surely be cold in the chamber below. An oiled, well-wrapped bundle held such as he’d need: oil, a lantern, striking stones, and a small knife. He stepped into the lake, sinking within the diving bell, light receding.

  “Three’s Mercy,” Hitch breathed. “He came in the same way you did.”

  “Hush,” Evanne whispered back. “Do you think he was after the same golden rod we found above?”

  “I think he found the rod,” Hitch said. “I don’t think he could get back out.”

  Evanne shivered. The bottom of the lake was so very cold.

  Gallile made her measured way through the village. Her air-headed daughter was yearning after a boy, which was well enough and by time due, but she’d been tight-lipped on her suitor. No doubt a vagrant, but it wouldn’t matter once Gallile had the golden rod. The rod would control power beyond memory. She just needed to pass it to the Feybrind Wild Sur, the one who could hear nothing but saw all, and he would secure her place in his new kingdom.

  She gave a companionable nod to the blacksmith. His apprentice would do well for her Yvette, but the girl was an imbecile and couldn’t see it. No matter. When Gallile had the golden rod, Yvette’s needs and wants would be pliable. The Feybrind said the rod could Command all people. Even a wayward child who knew no better. Wolrif was smitten with some doxy, but that didn’t matter. He would bring his own undoing back to shore.

  Gallile imagined her village paired out just so. The baker’s maid with the scullion. The blacksmith himself with the tanner’s daughter. Those farmer twins from the next vale brought here to help with some of the heavier work. Ever on toward progress, unity, and health for all.

  She’d spent a lot of her life wondering what it would be like if people weren’t so unpredictable in their wants. They had no sense of what was good for them.

  Perhaps when the stray Wolrif came back with largesse, he could be a fitting match for Yvette? The boy was motivated, and whatever trollop he had his sights on would be easy to sideline with the golden rod. If he survived, of course, because Wild Sur said the rod was cursed. Any who touched it would die, but that was okay for Gallile. She had little time left anyway.

  Yvette wondered where her crone of a mother was, but not with wholehearted anger. Sure, the woman was losing her wits and managed to be overly meddlesome, but Wolrif said they were leaving tonight. He’d been tight-lipped about a job but said it would give them travelling money and more, and what with such as she’d saved in the small lockbox beneath the floor of her room, they’d be onto better things.

  She’d secreted a small travel bag within her mattress, because she had no intent of letting mother Gallile know she was off. Sometimes it was better her mother found things out after the fact than lived experience, because her mother’s lived experience would involve a lot of wailing, unfair guilt distribution, and ultimatums.

  The front door slid open, and in entered the coldness of the wind and her mother’s stare. “Ah. You’re still here, of course.” The barb was related to the fetch-and-carry chores she’d left for Yvette. As if they had need of further horseshoes from the blacksmith’s boy. And he was always dirty and followed Yvette too closely with his eyes.

  “Yes, mother.” Yvette matched coldness with mockery. “I wasn’t sure if I should fetch you in your dotage. You’re like as not to get lost between the bakery and tavern.”

  “Mind your tongue.”

  “You mind yours.” Yvette stared her down. “Not that it matters.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Yvette considered the path beneath her feet. Shaky ground, but fun to stamp on. Perhaps a little wailing would do well for the morning. “It means I won’t be your problem. I plan to leave for the city.”

  Gallile scoffed. Yvette had grudging admiration for the sound; few people could pull it off with such casual aplomb. “You’ve no means or travelling company.”

  “I’ve both.” Yvette was taller than her wizened mother and used it to look down her nose at the wicked witch. “This eve I will be gone.”

  “This eve you’ll be thanking me for the future I’ve made for you.”

  Yvette scowled. “You can make the gown but it doesn’t mean it’ll fit.”

  Gallile had a smug, knowing smile. “It will fit. When Wolrif returns, I’ll⁠—”

  “Wolrif? What know you of Wolrif?”

  Gallile stopped just on her warm-up to a good tirade. “What?”

  “You can’t know of Wolrif.” Yvette spun, clutching her hem, then turned back. “My Wolrif? About so high,” her hand stabbed out, “dark of hair, with a chiseled chin and a sparkle in his eye?”

  “I didn’t notice his chin.” Gallile floundered. “No matter. He dives for us.”

  “Dives? Like, in the lake?” Yvette felt a chill, because all knew the lake could take a man’s life.

  “If you’re worried about superstitious nonsense, I’ve taken care of it.”

  Gallile was entirely too confident for Yvette’s manner. “Mother, what have you done?”

  “Looked after you, like I always have. Now come.”

  But Yvette wouldn’t come. She sped past her mother, skirts hitched, and was on the wind. Running to the lake, for a boat, for anything. Because Wolrif would be swallowed by the lake, and she’d never see him again.