"You've got to be kidding me!" Wren said, staring in disbelief at the slip of paper with their next assignment. She and Godfrey were standing outside the Dirty Countess as the pit crew prepared it for departure.

"What?" asked Godfrey.

"This is our next assignment. Listen." She flicked a finger hard against the paper and read aloud: "Liberate the painting entitled Party at High Tea from the Legacy Gallery in Capstone City. It features several aristocrats, including a spinner on the far right side." She waved the note in the air. "Can you believe this?!"

"Unfortunately, yes, I can," he snapped, fixing her with a pointed look. "You talked back to the Reverend Mother!"

She scoffed. "What, and that means we have to fly all the way across Meraki to steal some old painting? This is a personal attack! She can't even sell a stolen piece of art like this. We're just adding to her stupid collection." She seethed, balling up the note in her fist. "This is what I get for asking a few innocent questions..."

"You did a little more than that."

She scowled at him. "Yes, yes, the Reverend Mother can do no wrong."

"I didn't say that!"

She crossed her arms over her chest. Godfrey was infuriating sometimes. "Sticking up for her again, I'm shocked..."

Godfrey threw up his hands in frustration. "I don't agree with it, either! But you know her. This is what she does. Would you blame a pigeon for taking a crap on you? No! Would you blame someone who wanders around under a wire full of them? I dunno, probably!"

She blinked, taken aback. "Wow. A pigeon taking a crap?"

"It was the first thing that came to mind."

She gave a slow, approving nod. "If that was the first thing that you thought of when we were talking about the Reverend Mother, I'll take it."

The corners of his lips twitched.

Abigail slid out from under the ship, a smudge of grease on her cheek. "What's this about crapping pigeons?"

"Nothing," Wren said. "Everything looking good under there?"

"Yeah, they did a decent job." She sat up, narrowing her eyes at the greaser with the clipboard. "Not great, but decent." She noticed the slip of creamy paper crumpled in Wren's hand. "Do we have our next assignment already? What is it?"

"The extra rich part of Capstone City," Wren said with a waggle of her eyebrows, trying to make the mission sound better than it was.

Capstone City itself was a beautiful, lush place that hugged the Western coast of Meraki. It was renowned for its first-class wineries, which meant that the crew and their ship would stick out like a sore, impoverished thumb.

Abigail's shoulders slumped. "Really? I thought we'd get something easier after Ice Gate."

Godfrey jutted his thumb out at Wren. "You can thank this one for that. She got on the Reverend Mother's bad side."

Abigail cocked her head. "Does the Reverend Mother have a good side?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Wren laughed. "The kid knows what's up!" She reached down to ruffle Abigail's purple curls, but Abigail swatted her away.

"I'm not a kid!"

"You'll always be the kid to me, kid."

"You're all children," Titus said, appearing from out of nowhere. "Talk to me when you've been around for a couple of hundred years."

"We'll be lucky to last another month with assignments like these," Wren muttered.

#

An hour later, the Dirty Countess was high in the air, coasting over Meraki. Even if they pushed maximum speed, it would take them three full days to reach Capstone City.

Wren, however, was in no rush. She eased off the gas and the Dirty Countess slowed to a leisurely crawl. Propping her feet up on the helm, she leaned back. "Ah, break time."

"Third one in ten minutes," Titus observed dryly. "I'm sensing a pattern."

He and Godfrey were poring over a map on the table behind her.

"You sure are! Ice Gate was our biggest job yet, and we got less than a day's rest. I think a brief reprieve is well-deserved."

"The faster we get to Capstone City, the sooner we get a break," Godfrey said.

"Wrong!" she announced. "The faster we get to Capstone City, the sooner we get another risky assignment. And that," she continued, "is why we're stopping in Carnivale."

"Carnivale!" Godfrey baulked, bolting upright and nearly hitting his head on the light fixture. "Absolutely not!"

Titus looked amused. "Ah, to be young and in love."

He was referring, of course, to the fact that Scarlett was in Carnivale.

"Well, it has been an entire month," Wren reasoned.

"We're on a schedule here, people," Godfrey protested, but Wren could tell his heart wasn't in it. He wanted her to insist so that he could look the Mothers in their cold black eyes and insist he put up a fight.

"You love your schedule, Frey, but think of Teddy and Abigail. They've never been to Carnivale before—they should see it. It's a critical part of their education."

"It's decided," Titus said. "To Carnivale! I'll mind the ship. Say hello to the red-headed vixen for me."

"Will do!" Wren smiled and reached for the helm to set a new course.

#

Late that evening, the Dirty Countess landed on the outskirts of Carnivale.

The sun was setting, but the city was only just waking up, becoming louder, brighter, and more carefree with every passing minute. It was the city that never slept. Even now, Wren could hear boisterous music and pearls of laughter echoing from the city's core.

Her very favourite thing about Carnivale—besides the fact that Scarlett was there—was the complete and utter absence of the Paragon.

There were no sleek ships or soldiers here: those indulging in Carnivale's many offerings valued their privacy, and the Paragon usually turned a blind eye to the goings on. After all, high-ranking delegates, well-monied individuals, and military officials were some of the city's most frequent guests.

"Come on, you gorgeous lot!" Wren called. "The Ruby Terrace is just ahead!" She wore her best outfit: a handsome tuxedo with a plunging neckline.

She led the crew down the main promenade—the tackily named Paradise Avenue.

Abigail tugged uncomfortably on her silk dress. "My first time in Carnivale and I look like a cake topper..."

"You look marvellous," Teddy reassured her. His suit was too small for his still-growing limbs, but he didn't seem to mind. "I mean, you look great in your overalls, too. But don't you like wearing something without grease stains or patches or tears?"

Abigail frowned.

"Err, look over there!" he said quickly. "Fireworks!"

The thrum of activity carried the Dirty Countess crew through Carnivale's streets. All around them, partygoers were dressed to the nines. Revelers on balconies called to those on the streets below. Food vendors and street entertainers competed to catch people's attention. Carnivale's pleasures were plenty—it offered every delight to visitors.

Teddy drooled as he sniffed the air, heavy with tantalizing scents. "Let's get a treacle tart!" he suggested, moving towards an exquisite display of perfectly crafted pastries.

"Yeah, let's!" Abigail said, clapping in agreement, and together they rushed over to the stand to make a purchase.

Wren sidled up to Godfrey, who chewed his lip nervously. No doubt he was worrying about the Mothers and what they would say about a pit stop in Carnivale.

"Nice suit," she said.

"Thanks," he replied absent-mindedly.

"Is that a new cummerbund?"

He glanced at her sideways. "No..."

"You know, I always wondered why they called it a cummerbund when it's really just a sash. Why not just call it a sash and keep it simple?"

Godfrey nodded. "Another term does complicate things."

"Nice sash, then."

"You're strange."

"Oh Frey, you flatterer!" Wren made a show of fanning herself.

He rolled his eyes and started towards Teddy and Abigail. "I'm getting a tart."

"How can you say such a thing?" Wren exclaimed, clutching her chest. "Things were going so well between us!"

A treacle tart, a saffron cobbler, and a bag of roasted chestnuts later, the crew finally arrived at a colossal hall. Red lights danced on the high exterior walls, and an ornate sign in curly lettering read "The Ruby Terrace."

"So this is it," said Teddy, his voice trembling with excitement.

"It's huge!" Abigail said. "The walls must be forty feet high!"

Even Godfrey looked impressed. "You'd never guess it was just a nightclub."

"Do you think they're compensating for something?" Wren joked.

Teddy blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Ignore her," Godfrey said, and led the way inside.

The hall's interior was a maelstrom of opulence. The floor was bursting with people dressed in flashy ensembles: Wren saw long velvet capes, frilly cuffs, massive satin bows...it was a feast for the eyes. She suddenly felt terribly underdressed.

Servers wove through the crowd, balancing heavy trays of champagne. A bar lined the entire far wall, the shelves of bottles reaching three stories high. Arched doorways with thick red curtains led away from the main hall, inviting guests to indulge in more private activities.

Flexing her fingers, Wren lifted a fizzing flute from a passing server's tray. She managed a single sip before Godfrey tore it away.

"You're underage!" he snapped.

"It's going to be hard to find Scarlett," Teddy said, looking around at the crowd.

"Nah! We'll find her, no problem," Wren said.

"Okay, listen up, people!" Godfrey began, clapping his hands like they were students on an academy trip. "It's easy to get lost in a place like this, so we need to stay together. Be on guard for pickpockets and accept nothing from anyone—"

"Great, yes. All excellent points, Frey," Wren interrupted. "All right, everyone! We'll meet back at the ship at dawn. Have fun—you deserve it! Even you, sourpuss."

She bopped Godfrey lightly on the nose. He sputtered, swatting at her, but she only snatched back her drink from his hand and disappeared into the crowd.

#

Wren searched the main hall for Scarlett but had no luck.

She chose one of the curtains leading to a secluded area, and swept it open to reveal a magnificent stone staircase leading downwards. The floor below pulsed with purple light. Wren sniffed the air—she could smell sweet smoke, the latest elixir of choice. She started down the stairs, her hand on the ornate banister, and headed towards the soft hum of conversation and music. She loved exploring new places, and was sure that come morning, she'd have some fantastic stories to share with the crew.

A couple was making their way up the stairs to Wren's left: a striking young woman with black curls hooked arm-in-arm with a well-dressed gentleman. He was prattling on about something, but the woman seemed more interested in Wren, who smiled and winked at her as they passed. The woman giggled, her cheeks red. Her gentleman friend abruptly stopped chattering and scowled at Wren, tugging his date closer.

At the bottom of the staircase, Wren let out a soft whistle.

The space was easily twice as big as the hall upstairs. It seemed to expand as far as her eye could see, rows of dark columns and vaulted ceilings disappearing into the distance. It reminded Wren of a hall of trick mirrors.

A server whisked by, carrying a massive bowl that glowed green from within. From somewhere to her right, she could hear the low strums of a dulcimer accompanied by a singer's sleepy song. As she got closer, a red spotlight spilled onto the ground, illuminating a lithe dancer who moved seductively to the music.

The space wasn't loud, meant for drinking too much and dancing the night away...this was a place meant for indulgence and pleasure.

The air was hazy, making Wren's eyes water. She rubbed them with the back of her hand to try to clear them. There were private bars and booths, elaborate smoking towers, people sprawled on lush sofas, and—was that a crown civet sitting on that woman's lap? The lean, amber-furred creature licked a paw and groomed itself.

Wren was so entranced by the surrounding scenes that she bumped into someone. There was a splash as they slopped some of their drink on the floor. "Hey! Watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," she said quickly, and hurried away.

Focus. You only have one night here. Don't waste it gawking. Find Scarlett already!

She moved into the dark hall, doing her best to ignore all further distractions—until she finally spotted the flaming red curls.

Scarlett was a doll-faced beauty, and she moved with confidence and grace. She was only seventeen but was already an expert in gathering information, dealing in gossip and rumours as naturally as a croupier dealt in debt, or a merchant in wares. Strangers felt compelled to tell her their life stories, to trust her with their secrets. Scarlett had an uncanny ability to fit in just about anywhere.

Wren was forever miffed that Scarlett had chosen her—her, of all people—as her girlfriend. The only downside was that Scarlett's unique skill set made her invaluable to the Mothers, and the Reverend Mother was constantly assigning her to new, increasingly remote locations.

Here in Carnivale, the pleasure-centre of Meraki, Scarlett collected useful tidbits of information that the Mothers could leverage: which high-ranking delegates had mistresses, whether a certain Paragon official had a soft spot for drink, if there was a supply shortage coming down the line, that sort of thing.

Wren made her way over to where Scarlett was working: a boutique smoke bar. Patrons in rich fabrics lolled about on chaises, expressions of pleasant stupor on their faces. Scarlett's outfit was like all the other barmaids: short, tight, and leaving very little to the imagination.

Wren didn't like it one bit.

She watched from a distance as Scarlett approached a group and carefully set down a tray of drinks. "Here you are," she said, distributing them. "Two flaming morlocks and three pints of ale."

"Thanks, darlin'," one of them said with a grin. He was missing one of his front teeth.

"Ugh," Wren breathed. But she relaxed, knowing Scarlett would use her sharp tongue to snap some sense into him—

"No problem, honey," Scarlett said with a wink. She sashayed away from the table, moving her hips alluringly.

Wren was so shocked that she had to snap her mouth shut. That wasn't the Scarlett she'd known for eight years!

She followed Scarlett back to the bar and perched on a stool. When Scarlett turned around, she would see Wren looking confident, indifferent, collected in her most elegant outfit—

"We don't serve children."

Oh, crickets. Another barmaid had spotted her first. She stared accusingly at Wren, hand on her hip.

"Heh," Wren chuckled. "I get that all the time...I'm nineteen."

The barmaid looked unconvinced. "You sure about that?"

"Yes, thank you." Just leave me alone and go back to your business, you old busybody—

"Listen, you better get out of here before—"

Scarlett appeared at the barmaid's shoulder. "Wren! What are you doing here?"

"Scarlett! Hi!"

"You know this kid?" the other barmaid asked.

Kid. Wren suddenly understood Abigail's distaste for the nickname.

"Yeah, this is Wren," Scarlett said. "My friend."

Ouch.

Wren forced a smile at the cranky barmaid. "Hi."

The barmaid shrugged. "My mistake."

"No problem," Scarlett said, and the barmaid went back to her work.

"Lovely colleague you have there," Wren sniffed.

"Oh, she's not so bad once you get to know her. But never mind that, it's great to see you!" She reached out and squeezed Wren's hand. Wren's heart still fluttered at Scarlett's touch. "I thought you were in Ice Gate on a mission?"

"We were. Wrapped it up."

"It went well?"

Wren made a noncommittal sound. "More or less."

Scarlett's laugh was like a tray of glasses clinking together, and it lifted Wren's spirits. Maybe she was reading into Scarlett introducing her as just a friend.

"How's everything here?" Wren asked. "Are you getting good intel?"

Scarlett shot her a warning look and answered louder than she needed to. "Yeah, I'm learning a ton. Always something new with working a bar..."

Wren mouthed 'sorry', then leaned in. Scarlett's perfume smelled like fresh lavender. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

Wren leaned forward over the bar for a kiss, but Scarlett took a step back. "Not here," she said in a hoarse whisper. "Customers need to think they have a chance with me."

Wren gave an awkward laugh, trying to push down the unpleasant feeling growing in her gut. She'd spent most of the months thinking about her reunion with Scarlett—but so far, it wasn't living up to her expectations.

"Okaaaay..." she tried. "What about later? What time do you finish?"

"I don't know. Maybe six o'clock?"

Wren brightened. "Excellent! It's seven now. Let's go."

"I meant six o'clock in the morning."

Wren's eyebrows shot up.

Scarlett started cleaning a glass. She always did something with her hands when she was uncomfortable. "Don't give me that look."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm a barmaid, and this is Carnivale!"

Wren fought the urge to bite back at that. "Take the night off," she insisted. "Tell them you feel sick or something."

"Florence will see right through that. She literally just spoke to you."

"I haven't seen you in months. I came all this way and you can't take a single night off?"

Scarlett gave the glass one last furious swipe and slammed it onto the bar top. "It's not like you gave me any notice, Wren. You can't just expect me to drop everything for you. I have responsibilities here..."

"Yeah, like serving drinks to creepy old men. 'No problem, honey,'" she said, throwing Scarlett's words back at her.

She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth, but her pride didn't allow her to take them back. "This is Wren, my friend," was running laps in her head.

Scarlett stared at Wren in disbelief, like she couldn't decide how to respond. Finally, she said, "You should go enjoy Carnivale. I'll try to come see you at my break. It'll be around two o'clock."

And there was the final kick to the teeth. I'll try to come see you.

Wren swallowed the giant lump in her throat.

She pushed herself off the stool. Her voice was tight. "Don't bother. I promised Godfrey we'd be gone in the morning."

"Wren, stop! Don't just leave—"

Shoulders hunched, Wren turned and walked away. Scarlett didn't rush after her.

#

Back in the main hall, Wren passed Teddy on the dance floor. He was doing a choreographed number with a group of other enthusiastic partygoers, shaking his hips with a big smile.

She caught sight of Abigail's purple curls at a poker table with a group of posh gentlemen, cards in hand. No doubt they thought she was an easy mark...their mistake.

Godfrey was sitting at the bar, an overly decorative cocktail in hand. A short, balding man nursed a rum striker beside him.

"And then," Godfrey continued with a laugh of disbelief. "She says, 'You could get a girlfriend easy, Godfrey.' So I say, 'No, Wren, I can't, not when I'm competing with you. You could throw a dog a bone every once in a while.' All the books say you need a wingman, but she refuses!"

Wren plunked herself down on a barstool beside him, dejected. "Hey." She didn't have the energy to argue with him about what she'd overheard.

Godfrey looked her up and down. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she said stiffly.

"Maybe," the balding man interjected, "you have a hard time with women because women don't like being items on a bucket list. Maybe you're too focused on the chase. Women can sense things like that, you know."

Godfrey scowled.

"You're not bad looking," the man continued. "But then you open your mouth and spew all that crap."

Godfrey returned to his drink. "Well, nobody asked you."

The man shrugged and returned to his rum.

Wren stared at the glass in Godfrey's hand. "So, you can have a drink, but I can't? How is that fair?"

"Someone told me even sour pusses should have fun tonight," he shot back. "Let me guess—Scarlett doesn't have time now. She'll see you later."

Wren grunted in response. "She introduced me as her 'friend.' Her friend! Not her girlfriend." She waved a limp hand in the air. "Barkeep! A glass of your cheapest whisky!"

"She's on the job!" Godfrey hissed. "Of course she's going to call you her friend."

"Ooh, drama," purred an unfamiliar voice. "Sounds like you're talking about an old flame."

They both looked over to see a pretty young woman.

Godfrey stood up a little straighter, puffing out his chest. "Yup...a troublesome old flame who keeps this one on her toes." He jabbed a finger at Wren, who nodded miserably.

"We've all been there," the woman commiserated. She took a sip of her drink: a colourless liquid with a sprig of rosemary.

"Yes, we have." Wren sighed.

"Not all of us," Godfrey added, but they didn't appear to hear him.

"My guy became a soldier with the Paragon," the woman said. "Got the full brainwashing."

"Ugh," Wren put on a face, "my sympathies."

"Thanks. It was a shame...we'd known each other since we were kids. Always thought we'd end up together, but I guess not. I'm Ember, by the way." She stuck her hand out.

"Wren." They shook.

"And I'm Godfrey!" Godfrey said quickly, a little too eager.

"Good to meet you both. Anyway, my ex is totally different now," Ember continued. "Unrecognizable. But whenever he's in town, do I go back to him? Yes."

"You can't help it!" Wren exclaimed. The bartender set a glass of murky brown liquid in front of her, and she held it up. "To shitty love!"

"To shitty love!" Ember repeated.

"To shitty love," the balding man on Godfrey's other side rumbled.

"What about new love?" Godfrey whispered.

Wren and Ember clinked glasses and downed their drinks in one.

When Wren exhaled, a hint of smoke came from her nostrils. She sucked her teeth. "Oof! That's enough to peel your wig right off."

Ember wrinkled her nose. "That stuff is like old oil. Here, let me..." She got the bartender's attention. "Two more morlocks, please! On me."

"Seriously?" Godfrey cried.

"Oh, sorry. Make that three!"

"Wren Cutforth!" came a shrill voice from behind them. Scarlett stormed up to the bar, cheeks flushed with anger. "What, exactly, is your problem?"

"Well, look who it is! My friend." Wren said, narrowing her eyes. Maybe she would've tried to make reparations if she hadn't already downed the bad whisky.

"Excuse me?" Scarlett's expression went from angry to downright dangerous.

"Is this her?" Ember whispered. Godfrey nodded silently.

"No warning! No notice at all!" Scarlett went on. "You just show up here, expect me to drop everything, and then storm off. I am so sick and tired of your melodrama!"

Wren leapt off the barstool. "My melodramatics?! I haven't seen you in months and you can't even give me a peck on the cheek!"

"I would have if you hadn't shown up at my workplace—if you'd chosen somewhere more appropriate!"

"'Appropriate'? Obviously, I should've consulted Miss Slatherby's Etiquette for Young Women, but it's busy holding up my bed!"

"Ladies, ladies!" Godfrey stepped between them, holding up his hands.

Wren and Scarlett both fixed him with fiery gazes. Over Godfrey's shoulder, the balding man at the bar gave a heavy sigh.

He gulped, looking around at the angry faces. "I, er—my mistake." He took a step back.

Scarlett shot Wren a red-hot look. "I have responsibilities here. I can't just drop everything on a whim."

"Well, sorry I didn't send a week's notice." She glanced down at Scarlett's outfit. "Maybe then I could've brought an extra handkerchief—it would give you more coverage than whatever this is!"

Scarlett seethed. "This is the standard uniform for barmaids. And you liked it well enough the last time I saw you!"

"That's because I thought you were kidding about wearing it!"

"If you aren't the most insufferable, sanctimonious, maddening—"

But Wren wasn't paying attention anymore. She was looking over Scarlett's shoulder at a dark shape, hovering in mid-air. It shimmered, undulating slightly in a far corner of the room.

It wasn't.

It couldn't be.

Was it a shade?

"—foul-mouthed sorry excuse for a girlfriend!" Scarlett finished, red in the face.

Wren tried to find her words. "A sh-shhhh—"

"Wow," Scarlett scoffed. "And now you're trying to shush me. You've found a new low, Wren, I really mean it."

"I know we're Team Wren," Ember whispered to Godfrey. "But this Scarlett is making some good points."

Wren raised a shaky hand and pointed. "No, l-l-look! It's a sh-shade!"

Alarm bells were going off in her head. Get out! Get out now! They hollered at her, but her feet felt locked on the ground.

"What?" Confused, Scarlett whirled around. She looked at where Wren was pointing. The others followed her gaze.

Godfrey sneered. "Impossible. It can't be a shade, not here."

"Yeah..." Scarlett agreed, although she sounded uncertain. "It must be a trick of the light..." She stared intently at the corner.

Wren's eyes were locked onto the shape in the corner. "I am telling you..." she whispered. "That is definitely a—"

"Shade!" someone screamed.

There was a moment of confused chatter, then another scream pierced the room. And another.

"Get out of the way, I'll take care of this!" a man shouted, blundering his way through the crowd. He pulled a pistol from the holster at his hip and fired at the shade—the bullet went straight through it and buried itself in the wall beyond.

The shade emerged from the dark corner, moving into the light.

Wren's eyes went wide.

"Oh my heavens," Godfrey breathed behind her. "It's a shade."

And then everything turned to chaos.