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Octavia clenched and unclenched her fists. I have the tree leaves, but . . . I can’t. I can’t. I can’t heal everyone willy-­nilly. Lady, please let this person deserve this fate.
    In her apron pocket, she kept four leaves from the tree that had grown from her own blood. A fifth leaf had already been used to return Alonzo from death. According to legend, all aspects of the Lady’s Tree were endowed with incredible healing powers: the leaves, to bring back the recently dead; the bark, as a healing balm; the seeds, to resurrect the “fully” deceased.
    Alonzo still advanced with care to check on the man. “Indeed,” he said. “He lived long enough to make a proper landing, and only that.”
    He unstrapped the pilot and dragged him from the seat. The man wore a full brown leather suit, Caskentian standard for pilots. Octavia looked away and mouthed a prayer.
    A few minutes later, Alonzo spoke again. “I found his papers. He is indeed a border monitor, though he is far beyond the normal route for his patrol. This bodes ill.”
    Everything about this journey bodes ill. She blinked up at the bleary sky. Clouds had plagued them in recent days. Winter’s full brunt loomed far too close for comfort.
    Something glinted up on high.
    â€œAlonzo!” She yelled to be heard over the propeller. “This isn’t the only buzzer!”
    â€œGrab my bag!”
    She rushed to his saddlebag. A few motions and she had his hefty pack unbuckled. She could hear the new buzzer over the sound of the landed craft.
    â€œOctavia!” Alonzo’s voice was sharp. “Hurry!”
    She released both reins and dashed for the buzzer. It was a one-­seater. Alonzo had wedged himself as far forward as possible into the cockpit, hunched over the small dashboard. She tossed him his bag, and then, hiking up her skirts, she climbed in behind him.
    Thank the Lady my medician uniform utilizes trousers, not just bloomers.
    Even so, it was an intimate fit. She drew the restraining strap across her chest. Her satchel bulged over the lip of the cockpit, her attached parasol jutting out at an awkward angle. Alonzo shoved his bag back to her and she somehow managed to wedge it beneath her right leg. Her knees hitched up near Alonzo’s shoulder blades. She frowned. The seat felt warm. Blood. Of course. It was quiet now, cooled and apart from its body.
    Alonzo’s body shifted as he worked the controls. She squeaked as the buzzer bounced in place.
    â€œNever flown these newer models,” he yelled.
    â€œThat’s hardly a comfort. Do you have a restraining strap?”
    â€œNo.”
    Being packed as tight as sardines should keep him secure enough. It had better.
    â€œOh Lady,” she muttered as the craft lurched upward. Her stomach threatened to rise higher than the rest of her body. Vibrations shivered through her, making her teeth chatter, the motions far more immediate and violent than the engine of any train or airship. She couldn’t help but clench Alonzo with both knees as they rose to treetop level and higher.
    The green, gray, and white horizon tipped drunkenly. Alonzo had donned the dead pilot’s hat and goggles. His hair and the helmet’s leather straps whipped her in the face, so she leaned close enough to rest a cheek on his back, which also cut out some of the biting wind. She was no nesh to complain of the chill—­the army encampment at the northern pass had many a soldier freeze to death on duty overnight—­but sweet Lady, it was cold.
    The buzzer leveled out and turned. The dome of the sky reminded her of the swirls in a polished stone. She had a glimpse of the black dot of the other buzzer and then they angled south. She only knew this because of the massive ravine. It was just as well they had a buzzer, as there was still no bridge in sight. She glanced down, awed at the ravine’s depth.
    We’re out of Caskentia. Under