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the horizon.
    Beautiful. So beautiful. A view like this made the anxiety of Vorana worthwhile. The words of her father came to mind and how he regarded the airship flights he’d taken as a young soldier, back in the first war: When up on high and looking down, I was reminded of how small I am in the scheme of the world. No more than a speck in God’s eye, but what a brilliant speck I shall be!
    Father had always been something of a poet, reading old tomes of verses by the light of an oil lamp. Mother would shake her head with a slight roll of her eyes as Father muttered poems to himself, but she didn’t mind, not really.
    â€œHere, let’s read this one,” said the mother in the chair. The child fussed, and Octavia cringed. Crying children made her think of dying children. “It’s the tale of the missing princess. Oh, this was one of Mummy’s favorites, too. ‘King Kethan ruled Caskentia and everyone was happy. They had meat for supper every day. But over the mountains, there were bad men. Terrible men. They did not like King Kethan. They sneaked over the mountains and to Mercia. They crept into the palace. The princess was sleeping in her bed.’ Look, isn’t she pretty?”
    Mrs. Stout laid a hand on Octavia’s forearm. “Come, come. The other side will show more of a view inland.” The song of her body remained stable, but a sheen of sweat glistened across her skin. Odd, considering the chill air, but she is at the time of life when such sweats occur.
    As they walked across the promenade, the mother’s story continued: “ ‘The princess screamed! She did not want to go with the bad men. Her guards arrived. The bad men used the princess as a shield, and oh, she is shot! Her blood stains the floor and cries for justice, for her countrymen to avenge her! The bad men carry her away . . . ’ ”
    â€œI haven’t heard that tale since I was a girl,” Octavia said.
    Miss Percival didn’t keep storybooks around unless they involved herb lore or something of educational use. Besides, the girls were all intimately aware of the reasons for Caskentia’s wars with the Waste. They all knew of the princess who had been kidnapped in their grandparents’ time, and whose loss began the cycle of conflict. One that became worse that next year when Wasters sent infernal magi into Mercia and left half the city in cinders.
    â€œIt’s a story that plays wells to patriotic sentiments,” said Mrs. Stout with a dainty sniff.
    The neutrality of the answer surprised Octavia. Does she actually sympathize with the Waste? Or did her husband? Mrs. Stout had taken care to not mention his employment or home. Actually, she hadn’t said outright that he was dead.
    The more she spoke to Mrs. Stout, the more curious she became.
    Three men and a woman chatted along the windows on the dining room side of the airship. The men wore badges on their heart pockets and sleeves, designating them as members of some academic league. They looked strangely young to Octavia, though she had to be only five or so years older. The war. It aged me, aged all of us. Judging by their high giggles and staggered movements, they were well into the drink before they had even boarded. The woman was draped on a man’s arm, glittery baubles dangling low from neck to hip and accentuating a waistless dress.
    The little steward approached Octavia with a bow. “Ladies, may I get you something to drink? A tonic, perhaps? Aerated water? Royal-Tea?”
    The very mention of the tea drink soured her taste buds. “An aerated water, thank you,” said Octavia.
    â€œI’ll do without right now, thank you kindly,” said Mrs. Stout.
    He bowed again. “If you change your mind, I’ll be serving here until supper time. You can also ring me from your room. I’m called Little Daveo.” He hurried away, his short legs agile as he dodged tables and