“… And so, the strings section were aware of the key change, the brass, the woodwinds, and the percussion sections were all aware, just looking subtly looking for the signal from the conductor. But since this was like at the bottom of the third act, and the brainfog was really settling in, the harp soloist was in her own world, completely oblivious.”

Edward hadn’t picked up his by now pretty lukewarm cup of tea for a while, since he was excitedly using his arms for emphasis, animatedly gesturing the flow of a written note sheet of the piece he was referring to.

“So when the key change happened, she continued in the same key, at the first few bars completely unaware, but you could hear it almost immediately that she was off, and it even brought her back to the present.”

“Oh dear,” Adea said as she just finished a sip of her own tea, using one hand to hide her smile bashfully, “how did that go?”

“Well, thing is,” Edward continued with the same excited energy, “harp soloists need to be a combination of both incredibly lucky and skilful in order get into conservatories, because it’s such a niche soloist position for an orchestra. There is only one or two of them per a major orchestra, so those that do make it are usually the cream of the crop. And Siobhan is pretty out there in terms of skills, I’ve heard her recitals before. So, anyway, she recognised pretty quickly that she was off-key, though every one of us soloist majors in the audience are grasping the armrests of our chairs until our knuckles turn white at this point, just looking at the judges and the professors to get just a hint of what they’re thinking. We’re a band of sisters and brothers, we soloists, we want and spur each other to do well. That’s when Siobhan, crazy girl that she is, in pure adrenaline-induced panic, just starts a Fantasia on the leitmotif of the entire symphony, just on the harp. You could positively see the conductor wanting to turn around and go ‘what the fuck?’, but to their credit, they didn’t, and Siobhan just sort of took the show for about two minutes, just riffing along, before slowly settling down into the actual key and what she was supposed to be playing according to the note sheet all along.

Naturally, she thought she had proper naffed it, and she was crying for a solid fifteen minutes in the ready room following curtail fall, but one of the professors in the audience came in and told her to calm down. For reference, it’s not like I was stood outside the door and eavesdropping or anything, but he said he’d never seen such a creative solution to a misplay by a harpist ever, and that her Honours in Performative would stand. Siobhan later put out for a full round for the orchestra on the post-performance pub-crawl, she was that chuffed.”

Edward realised he had been laying out his story a bit too loudly compared to the usual low hum of the background chatter. The Saffron Countess was a ground floor café-bakery venue that specialised in the ancient tradition of afternoon tea, and the Auroran water-oak table between Edward and Adea was adorned with a tall silver serving tower that still held about a third of the sandwiches and cakes it had started out with. A silver bucket filled with ice held two bottles of lambrusco, of which there was only a tiny amount left in one of the bottles, the other having been opened by a helpful waiter, but as of yet untouched.

The Saffron Countess was located just on the outskirts of St. Barbara Park in upper Kent, very close to the east bank of the Goneril in Cordelia. It was a veritable skip away from the Lysander or the Oriel, but it still counted as part of the posh inner city, which really explained why Edward was slightly off-put by the amount of recognisable capital city personalities in the locale. He’d already recognised (without giving too much away, hopefully), Geoffrey Kendall, the son of the Duke and Duchess of Westshire, the future Lady Blackshore, Isidore or Isolde or something, and a famous webnet star called Riley Colquhoun just out on a regular Saturday for people of her ilk apparently, enjoying some afternoon tea in a nobility-proximate locale. Due to the availability of gossipy-nature news on the webnet, it was really easy to recognise even the prodigy of the nobility, and Edward had a nasty tendency to just scroll through pages and pages of hearsay sites and celebrity webpapers on his handcom when bored, just like so many other Auroran and Union youths. However, at the present, his eyes were always drawn back to the pair of icy blue ones across the table, and he was trying to avoid physically pinching himself as he constantly reminded himself that he was sharing a boozy afternoon tea with none other than Lady Sélincourt herself.

The memory that had just passed through his subconscious about leaving his homeworld and parents behind seemed so much like a past life compared to what he was experiencing in this exact moment. Who’d have thought a mere piano student from the outskirts of Persephone, the son of a teacher and a tourism agent, would be having afternoon tea in an upscale café three years later with the prodigy of prestigious aristocrats, who were Royal Navy celebrities to boot. Every time the thought crossed his mind, Edward felt slightly lightheaded, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the alcohol, and he had to suppress a grin by taking a sip from his teacup. He felt extremely underdressed for the occasion however, since most of the clientele wore early autumn suits or dresses, while he wore a white open-throat overshirt and a pair of khaki seashell trousers, and his favourite pair of mahogany low-heel flats.

“It must be hard though,” the young lady sat opposite said as she put her own teacup down and used the opportunity to grab another triangle of crust-less kimchi-tuna sandwich, “to know that all you soloists are directly in competition with each other? I mean, you say you’re supportive of one another, but you’re all literally your own worst enemy. Since you all compete for very limited spots in orchestras, and even with the amount of symphony orchestras around the Royal Union, you’re still kind of in rivalry with each other. Your piano mate you’ve talked so much about, oh terribly sorry, what’s his name again…?”

While using the opportunity to take a bite of her sandwich, Adea snapped her fingers in a desperate attempt to recollect the name, but Edward came to her rescue. She, unlike Edward, had known what sort of establishment the Saffron Countess was, and wore a grey sheath dress under a black over-the-shoulder cape inlaid with silver threads, and a pair of heeled black boots decorated with small golden flowers along the holes for the laces.

“Arvind, My Lady, and yeah, that’s not something we really want to think about. The life of a solo classical musician is one of extreme juxtaposition. We all want each other to succeed, but at the same time, we cannot afford to wish each other much success, because we could be hurting our own future livelihood.” Edward’s lopsided smile told Adea all about how he really felt about that; incredibly morally conflicted and frustrated at the nature of classical music.

“That sounds like such a cutthroat way of living life,” Adea said with an accompanying shake of her head. “I’m not sure I could be able to wrap my head around such a way of life.”

“If you’d indulge me, My Lady…” Edward started, but was cut off by an angry glare from Adea.

“I thought we’d been over this, Edward,” the young noblewoman said in a tone that usually didn’t broker any discussion, but kept low in order to respect the rest of the clientele of the café.

“Stop it with the ‘My Lady’-s, and the ‘My Ladyship’-s, I much prefer we retain a more colloquial tone when it’s just us.”

“You say that, My La… I mean Lady Adea, but I can’t help it.” Edward really needed another sip of tea… “I’m having trouble talking to you informally. It’s like I’m committing a really serious social faux pas, and my parents raised me to be better than that.” He took another nervous swig of tea, and helped himself to a mango-infused laddu to try to hide his rapidly reddening cheeks.

Adea had to hide her smile at that, taking the opportunity to take another sip of her own tea-cup. Edward exuded energy so very similar like to that of a nervous debutante, so extremely afraid of making any mistakes, seemingly unaware that the nobility were just regular humans just like him. He seemed to have this mental barrier up most of the time that separated himself, and by association most of humanity, from those who had randomly (and in some cases quite unfairly) been elevated to so-called nobility status.

“How have your exams been so far, then?” She tried moving the conversation into a more relatable direction. “Do you have any theoretical ones this penultimate semester, or is it all performatives?”

“Only had the one so far,” Edward after finishing his cup of tea and refilling it, buying him some precious seconds, “and that was in Intermediate Conducting Theory. It was a traditionally written one, as in, stuck in a crummy auditorium writing using old-fashioned pen and paper. I thought we as a society had come a bit further, but alas…”

Adea drew some of her red hair behind her left ear whilst still balancing her cup in a steady right grip, making sure that it rested pretty naturally.

“And how do you feel it went?” The question Adea posited was innocent enough, but there was a certain amount of… something Edward couldn’t quite place hiding underneath the question, but it was off-set by Adea’s calming smile.

Edward fumbled for a bit, (smiling, concluding that smiling was creepy, reverting to a neutral expression, before realising that Adea was endearment incarnate, and returned to smiling, all within the space of less than two seconds), before picking back up his cup of tea and sipped it politely.

“Considering the fact, Lady Adea, that I’ve never have had Basic Conducting Theory, I don’t put much stock in my chances of landing a B or an A. I don’t even know what end of the conductor’s baton you’re supposed to hold, and if given the opportunity to find out, I’ll probably poke someone’s eye out with the damn thing.”

Adea put her hand up to her mouth in order to muffle her uninvited chuckles, whilst Edward used the chance to grab the as to hitherto untouched bottle of lambrusco and poured for the both of them. Lord above, may this afternoon never end.

“Well, I can tell you,” Adea said after her giggles stifled, “I’ve had a much more rough time of it than you have had. November is the worst month of the academic year; I have it circled in angry red on my ‘com calendar.”

She sipped from her re-filled glass of sparkling wine, apparently paying no mind to Edward having topped her up again, her cheeks ever so slightly tinted pink.

“So far into the exam season, I’ve had a full-day on Comparative Politics, one regarding socio-linguistics of post-exodus English in regards to settled worlds, and I have one the day after tomorrow in Auroran Cultural Influents. I’ve also had a folder-exam that lasted an entire week on the Goldbrook Model and how it compares to the Westminster System, God that was a drudge of a thesis. I didn’t come close to imagine that the exam period would be this demanding for a mere political science student.”

“Calling yourself a ‘mere political science student’ is doing yourself more than a little bit of a disservice, Lady Adea,” Edward answered, before the tips of his ears started to heat up as they had a tendency to do when his synapses concluded he had put his foot in his mouth.

“I only mean to say,” he followed up quickly, tongue stumbling slightly over the words, “that you’re a pretty special case in terms of the rest of the students at QMMU, given your status, and those you know, and your family, and…”

Arriving at the conclusion that digging a further hole would be a waste of breath, he took a pretty large swig of wine instead.

Lady Adea Sophia Carlisle-St. Eiron produced a throaty giggle at that display of unadulterated awkwardness, Edward having gone absolutely off-colour in his bronzed cheeks, and his eyes had become desperate disks.

“Please, Edward, just relax,” she said in a low tone, trying to calm him down, “we’re just two friends out having some afternoon tea and snacks, two students discussing the three week hell that is exam season. No need to stand at attention, God knows I see way too much of that every day around my family and on official business, and I need it to dominate my free time as well.”

At the mention of the word friends, Edward felt a sharp, cold pain inside his chest.

Launching himself at an opportunity to divert to a new topic, Edward saw a chance at the mention of Adea’s family.

“Speaking of which My La-, I mean Adea, how is your lord father? Has he settled down nicely on HMSS Sluys yet?”

One of Adea’s red eyebrows hiked up in surprise at Edward naming the huge naval station in Amaranth orbit, to which he shrugged.

“I am more than a little bit interested in the military from a hobbyist historian’s perspective, and it pays to know at least something about the kingdom’s most prominent and celebrated institution.”

“Depends on who you ask, there are some in my circle of acquaintances who would vehemently disagree on the Royal Navy being the most ‘celebrated institution’ of the Auroran kingdom.”

Her tone had been lightly coloured by humour while point that out, but her timbre shifted afterwards.

“As to Papa, he’s still surly Lord Admiral Donegal put him in command of Mothb-, I mean Reserve Fleet. It’s not considered a very prestigious posting, despite the fact that Papa currently is in command of thirty-two capital ships, about forty cruisers, and the entire Royal Navy’s orbital assault fleet, but since apart from the latter, all the other are old-ass ships that are manned by half crews, their purpose is pretty much to be there only if some emergency happens. Like an accident involving a posted warship that cannot be immediately replaced from Home or any of the other fleets. Or something like a war, not that that is bloody likely. No, his e-letters are pretty surly, and he hates being stuck in orbit. He hasn’t had a full-time space command for a good many years now, courtesy of the former regime in charge of the Admiralty.”

“A shame he can’t command from the surface,” Edward commented, trying his best to provide at least some positivity, “Persephone is perhaps the most beautiful city in the kingdom, Lord Sélincourt should lobby the Admiralty to create a ground-based command headquarters there. I mean, they have Admiralty Palace on New Malta and Navy House on Valerian, and those planets aren’t even in the Kingdom, so why not one on the Second Planet?”

She smiled at that.

“First, I think you should be glad there aren’t evidently any Angevins around, I think they’d take deep offence to Amaranth being called the ‘Second Planet’ ahead of Angevin…”

“But it’s true, Amaranth was the second world settled…”

“And second, if you think Persephone is most beautiful in the Kingdom, you must come with me to Exeter someday. New Devon isn’t the Pherousa Atolls, and Exeter isn’t the ‘New Venice’, but many call it the ‘New Brügge’, which isn’t a bad shout, plus it’s a lot smaller and quainter that Persephone.”

Edward had been about to protest what his sensibilities translated as slights towards his homeworld’s honour, but the words died instantly before he could utter them at the mention of an invitation to New Devon and Exeter. Edward knew that the Sélincourt estates were close by, Sandy had told him as much, and it also happened he had checked the National Registry of the Aristocracy for Adea and her family. More than a few times actually, though he hadn’t admitted that to anyone. Am I awake, is this a dream? Or am I really misunderstanding what she meant? She did say we were just two friends earlier…

He suddenly realised the background noise of the Saffron Countess had changed. Since the moment they had stepped into the café, guided to a window table overlooking St. Barbara Park by their waiter, the tone of conversation had been a low and polite hum which occasionally had been interrupted by polite laughter, or pretty subdued exclamations of surprise. But now the voices of the patrons around Adea and Edward were speaking rapidly, and with growing volume. He looked around and saw many had their ‘coms out. Since any handcom that wasn’t a cheap knockoff came with for-your-eyes-only screens that looked transparent but weren’t, it was impossible for him to make out what they were looking at, but he realised that something was off; the nobility and their social coattails did not normally act like this in public under any circumstances.

“What’s going on?” Adea had picked up on the strange atmosphere around her, and was looking around. She rose suddenly and walked briskly over to a table closer to the café’s entrance where a young man dressed in a cream linen suit and what appeared to be his mother, dressed in a burgundy ulsterette dress, sat and stared at their ‘coms, occasionally sharing worried glances. A few of the waiters and waitresses were glued to their own ‘coms as well, and a few held their hands up to their mouth in what Edward could only interpret as shock. Unsure what to do, he followed Adea over to the seated pair.

“Excuse me, Lady Palecliff, Lord Anthony,” Adea said politely as she came up to them, and the Palecliff son jumped up out of his chair and bowed politely, but Adea could tell something was off.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” she continued politely as Edward caught up to her and performed a slightly unsure bow of his own to the seated lady, “but could you please tell us what is going on? Everyone seems so upset all of a sudden, has something happened?”

“Oh my dear,” Lady Palecliff said in a strangely scared tone of voice that set off multiple alarm bells in the back of both Adea's and Edward's minds, although Edward had never met the woman before, “I pray for your lord father and lady mother.”

Ice replaced blood in Adea’s veins and she tensed up.

“What do you mean, Milady?” Edward asked as he saw Adea freeze up.

“You better see for yourself,” Lord Anthony said, and unlocked the screen of his handcom and turned it towards the pair. It showed the front page of the Cordelia Sentinel, one of the largest and most reputable of the Auroran webpapers. The headline read: “Royal Navy destroyer attacked in interstellar space near Lorelei on Nov 4, five servicemen and –women killed.”

There was a subline underneath: “Both Houses of Parliament have called emergency sessions, Royal Navy ordered to maximum readiness by Admiralty.”

“Edward,” Adea said shakily after a few moments, and he swallowed hard, “take me home please.”

Claude O’Shaughnessy looked up just at the right time as Robert’s troop returned to Oosterend Barracks a few kilometres outside of New Toronto, having just slid out from underneath the tracks of the lifted main battle tank he was servicing. Robert de Loladze struck a very fine figure as he came riding in through the barracks gates on top of a bay wearing a scarlet caparison to save the poor horse from being too drenched by the downpour. Robert wore the scarlet parade tunic and white trousers of the officers of Queen Amelia’s Own Guard-Chevaliers, with a silver cuirass engraved with the crest of the De Roze-Tournai branch of the royal family covering his chest, along with a white leather band that held his long sabre sheath. His tall silvered crested helmet (a chevalier style crested helmet, unlike the more common cuirassier or dragoon style ones) had the same engraved crest, and a long white mane. Over his shoulder he also wore a black ulsterette cape, which was dripping wet. Behind him rode the rest of his thirty-odd troop, dressed in the sky blue parade tunics and white trousers of the enlisted Chevalier-Guards, the rest of their uniform similar, but less engraved and silvered, their helmet manes black. All had their bared sabres resting on their shoulders in parade order, but they were exhausted from carrying out parade drill exercises for hours, and the laboured breath of their bays misted in the cold autumn air.

They all cut an extreme contrast to Claude and his fellow troop leader, Vincent Minkjan, dressed as they were in green-grey overalls that were flecked with large grease stains and completely soaked through, their once white neckties were horribly stained and off-coloured. Their berets would have been as well, had they not been safely tucked into their breast pockets. They looked at each other and put their arms on their hips as the mounted troop rode past. Robert halted his horse in front of them and gave them a slightly mocking salute by bringing his sword’s guard in front of his face before slashing down and to the right.

“I bid you good afternoon, sirs,” he said in his extremely annoying high society Westernessan accent, which was bordering on a parody of what Westernessan aristocracy actually sounded like.

“I trust you’ve have a fine time looking out for your metal steeds today?”

He turned his head slightly over his shoulder to address his troop.

“We’re done for now, boys and girls. Go lead the horses back to the stables, then return the ceremonial equipment to the quartermaster before you head to the showers. I want all uniforms cleaned and ready for inspection by tomorrow at roll call.”

He was answered by a muted chorus of confirmation as the riders fell out of formation and started to head to the horse stables of the large barracks complex.

“Not everyone can be out gallivanting on horseback,” Vincent replied in a sour tone, “someone has to do some actual soldiering and look after the weapon systems that our regiment will actually use if there’s a conflict.”

“Oh don’t start, Vinnie,” Robert said as he sheathed his sword, removed his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his slightly longer than regulations allowed dirty blonde hair, “someone has to form part of the honour guard for His Majesty’s birthday come spring. And these new troopers have for the most part never seen a real horse before, and it falls to me to train them.”

“You could at least join us from time to time to keep up maintenance on your Destrier,” Claude said as he started to gather the various spanners and tools that lay scattered about and put them back in his toolbox, “the tanks won’t maintain themselves you know. And it sets a good example to the ranks if their officers are willing to dirty themselves and do the same thankless tasks they’re doing.”

Robert’s nostrils flared momentarily at the suggestion.

“I don’t know about you, Claude, but I commissioned into the Guard-Chevaliers to be a cavalryman, not a glorified mechanic. Besides, most of my troop have some sort of mechanical experience, if only from training.”

“You mean you got your father to commission you into the Guard-Chevaliers,” Vincent said as he used a small controller pad to order the anti-gravity drones that held the eighty tonne Destrier VII main battle tank suspended in the air to gently lower it back down. Claude crouched to see that the tank came down to the ground properly and gently, and as the tracks clattered metallically to rest, he gave the grey hull of the tank his crew had christened Lady Godiva an affectionate smack.

Robert sighed and climbed down from his horse, and stroked her muzzle gently.

“I’ll get on it tomorrow,” he said in a much more natural Westernessan accent, indicating that he was done messing around, “Sergeant Waters’ informed me that Thunderlily is having some teething problems with the new integrated multi-aiming system, something about it not meshing correctly with the automated targeter. I’m not the best with software, so I was wondering if one of you could take a look at it, if you have the time? I’d really love to have it fixed before the joint exercise with the Garde du Corps next week.”

Claude walked over with a smile and put his hand on Robert’s shoulder.

“Sure, I can take a look at it after lunch tomorrow if you want. I only have consultant duty after lunch, so I can easily squeeze in time to look at Thunderlily.”

The other officer smiled in appreciation, before his smile instantly disappeared and he smacked Claude’s hand away. He scrunched his neck around (not easy while wearing a high, stiff parade uniform collar and a steel cuirass) and groaned loudly at the huge black imprint of Claude’s hand on his scarlet tunic shoulder.

“You rat bastard,” he shouted, “do you know how hard it is to get track grease out of dyed wool? I’m charging you for my cleaning bill!”

Vincent and Claude were almost doubled over in laughter at this point, Claude smacking his knee in mirth. They were drying away tears and Robert was trying to wipe the mark off using his black cape, when they noticed many of the other guardsmen on different sort of duty starting to speak loudly in excitement, many of them jogging towards the main barracks hall. NCO’s and officers were trying to be heard over the animated chatter as more and more cavalrymen, not only from the Guard-Chevaliers but also their sister regiment, the Horse Guards which they shared barracks with, started to exit storage facilities, garages, sentry posts, mess halls, and converge on the main building. Many of Robert’s troop, still dressed in parade gear, were running as well, their armour and swords clinking loudly. The three junior officers looked at each other in confusion and started to walk in that direction as well, Robert leading his horse along, the poor animal getting riled up by all the human excitement.

A trooper wearing the tartan-banded visored cap of the Horse Guards ran past, and Vincent held out a hand to stop her. She looked angry at being stopped by a fellow private at first, because she didn’t immediately recognise the ranks on the dirty overalls, but once she saw Robert’s red tunic she came to attention.

“Sirs, terribly sorry, Private Whittaker-Eighteen expresses her apologies in not identifying the sirs.”

“It’s fine, private,” Claude said and pointed at the main barracks hall, the entrance of which was now positively thronging with troops, “but can you tell us what’s going on? What’s all this hubbub, has the Cordelia Royals traded away Eric Rawadi or something?”

He now saw that the private’s eyes were wide open, and her saluting hand trembled slightly.

“It’s the Greens, sirs,” she answered in a rapid surge of words, “they’ve whacked a Navy ship out south-west. The news are saying we lost a lot of people, and that Parliament is convening, and the King is going to speak tonight, and…”

The private didn’t manage to finish her frantic explanation before the officer started to walk bristly towards the throng of troopers, shouting “watch your backs”, to make the enlisted make a hole. Unsure of what to do, nineteen year-old Eileen Whittaker blinked for a few moments before following in the wake of the trio.

The sudden outburst of giggles made a few of the monorail car’s passengers turn around, and in that most noble of North-Western European traditions that had survived centuries and hundreds of light-years, looked sternly at the girls that had produced the sounds, but said nothing. Alexandra "Sandy" Barham noticed, and looked abashed at a nearby elderly couple, and bowed her head slightly, but she had to stifle a fit of laughter. Narissara Roxburgh and Wilhelmina Lohengrin took the hint as well, and lowered their voices slightly, sipping from their kenofoam cups of agave-mitchi.

“You can’t be serious,” Sandy said, now in a more hushed tone as she leaned in towards the much taller Narissara, “she did not say that?” Narissara nodded energetically.

“She did, she fucking did, she went up to Isolde and demanded she stay away from Horace. You should have seen her fucking face, poor Isolde was so confused, and I can’t tell if it was because of the setting, right there in the admittance hall, or if it was because she’s spoken to Horace Sciacca, like, eight times this past year.”

“What did Bernadetta do next?” Wilhelmina demanded from the seat to Narissara’s left. They were all sitting in a monorail car flying along about a hundred metres over the Goneril River, going up into the Quayside, following a spirited shopping raid in the Sanderson mall. The weather was pleasantly sunny on that particular Saturday, the 12th of November. The trio had been slaving away with exams all week prior, and they were rewarding themselves with a proper girl’s outing. They all had several paper bags of merchandise already, and were enjoying some mitchi they'd bought from an authorised drone vendor.

“I mean,” Narissara continued after another sip from her drink through a straw, “Bernadetta is part of Lord Horace’s close circle of friends, and by the Gods is it obvious she has the biggest crush on him, so I can understand that she was afraid that Isolde Stanhope was putting her flirt on. Problem is, and I say this as someone who loves her dearly, but Isolde is the fucking dumbest bitch ever when it comes to flirting. She could be undressing in front of a bloke and still think it was the most natural thing in the world, and think nothing of it.”

That sparked another burst of giggles, and the other passengers in the white-and-black monorail glared again. There weren’t that many, which was slightly surprising considering the fact that it was just after lunch time on a Saturday. The laughter drew the attention of a pair of constables from the Royal Cordelia Police, and once they saw the cups in the girls’ hands, they started to move towards them, but stopped when they saw the large green sticker of approved vendors that denoted that the drink was alcohol free. The two constables, dressed in their trademark navy and white, with their accompanying small monitoring drones that hovered around at shoulder height, turned away and started to walk into the next car.

“Oh my god,” Wilhelmina continued once she had nodded her apologies to the other passengers again, “Bernadetta really need to get out there more, but poor Isolde, what a dunce.”

“It’s for the better though,” Sandy said, “her parents are conservative in the relationship sense. I don’t think they’d like it very much if Isolde was fooling around a lot. Not that I think that the Marchioness of Blackshore is like ‘no ding-ding before you get a ring-ring’, but I think she’d want her little airhead to at least have a stable relationship before she allows her to go all the way.”

“But with Horace though?” Narissara complained, “I mean, yes he’s good-looking, and he’s funny, but he’s also perfectly aware of that himself. He’s the type of lad you like to have around for a few hours before you grow tired of him.”

“Speaking from experience, Roxburgh?” Wilhelmina teased, but Narissara did not rise to the bait.

“I’m more partial to his brother, I love my men a bit more wild.”

“You also seem to like commoners passing well,” Sandy fished with a nasty smile on her face, “I seem to remember you falling pretty hard for Edward Heatherland in your drunken state at the Pale Peacock. I don’t think the Earl and Countess of New Lucknow would appreciate their daughter hooking up with a mere classical music student.”

Narissara’s cheeks turned red, which was uncharacteristic for the usually unabashed girl.

“A mere slip of the mind, and I blame the alcohol. Lady Adea is a very generous host after all, and I was brought up to not say no when someone offers to pay for your tab.”

Wilhelmina said something to tease more reactions out of Narissara, but Sandy was distracted by her handcom bleating its call tune. She fished it out from her strapped-on-belt handbag and keyed it to life. She’d just missed the call, but eyes went wide when she saw her father had called her not once, not twice, but seven times in the past three minutes. Quickly she turned away from her friends and hit the respond button.

“Hello, Daddy, what’s goin-”

“Darling, come home, right now. Doesn’t matter where you are, order a skycar and get home immediately.”

Sandy, thoroughly confused, was about to say something when Wilhelmina and Narissara both shouted out in surprise and Sandy looked up. One of the vidscreens on the car’s walls showed a news stream, a drone camera zooming in on the unmistakable hull of a Royal Navy warship, where a maw of twisted metal and wiring like an ugly unhealed scar adorned its flank. The feed underneath showed text which made Sandy’s face go pale.

“I’m on my way home now, Daddy.”