The Recluse was a ship that House Rithmound had bought from Escovia, the World of Sacrifice. It gave Rosemary a hollow sense of nostalgia, for the entire ship was the carved-out shell of a massive arthropod, a pillbug of some sort, a dark, sunset blue creature who had been painstakingly vivisected clean of the non-important bits like the guts, heart, and all of the gooey pieces. The only thing really left of it was the exo-skeleton and the brain, in which a rod had been jammed in to control the Recluse's movements. The pillbug's top had been shaved flat as an open-air observation platform, upon which one could see the skies of the world the Recluse traveled through.

Her bottom, close to her engine, was covered in runes. Similar to the Dreamer's Lament, but the power source was a bit more... grisly.

She didn't want to think on that.

The Recluse's captain, a gnarled, scarred-over old ogre, considered her, Joseph, and Phineas for a few moments.

“Lushak,” their guide was saying, “Three for the skies. They're to be passengers, guests for the journey to Cuadron Bay.”

Lushak glared down at them. He was easily twice everyone's height, maybe three times in Phineas's case, and he was missing an eye, though he had forgone the eyepatch entirely to just show it all up there (which, gross.) He was wearing a captain's overcoat, a cutlass at his side, though it would easily be a two-hander in any of their hands.

“Hmm,” Lushak said, “Outlanders, all. Very well. They look like they've had their stones cast at 'em. Welcome aboard. I'll be taking your names.”

“I'm Rosemary, this is Joseph and Phineas,” Rosemary said.

Lushak gave a curt nod.

“Get aboard. Don't get in the way of my people. Come with me.”

It was scarcely five in the morning. The Inner Sun still hadn't begun its casting up yet, though the Recluse's crew were already hard at work getting the ship ready, loading cargo into the ship's top floors. Lushak brought them first onto the ship's observation deck, then down into the pillbug's depths. Walls of dark ebony wood had been erected within, mostly to cordon off parts of the ship into cargo holds, sleeping areas, the captain's quarters, and the like. He brought them to guest's quarters, a simple room with two beds inside.

“Only two,” he gruffed.

“That is alright,” Phineas rasped, “I sleep under my bed, anyways.”

Lushak fixed him with an odd look for a moment, processing this, then nodded.

“Right. No complaints then. We cast off in an hour.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Rosemary said, “Truly.”

Lushak let out a harumph, and returned back to work. The door had scarcely closed when he began bellowing out orders in his burned trumpet of a voice.

Joseph sat down on one of the beds. It was comfortable enough.

He was out like a lamp almost immediately. Rosemary couldn't blame him. He hadn't gotten any sleep at all last night, what with him waiting for Wakeling, his angry packing, their sudden negotiations with Lord Rithmound. She was feeling pretty tired, herself.

“I'm going to sleep, Phin,” she said, untying her cloak. She felt a momentary thrill as she felt cool air on her back, felt her scars suddenly whine, but she ignored it, “Are you?”

“I slept well enough last night,” the Deep One said, “I will keep watch.”

“Alright,” Rosemary said. She climbed into the other bed, holding her sceptre close to her. Her father would have sneered at her for that.

But then, he sneered at everything.

“'Night, Phin.”

“It is morning.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh! Good night to you as well, Rosemary.”

***

Their journey, then, began with sleep. The Recluse cast off right on schedule, almost to the minute. Captain Lushak gave one last look out at Scuttleway as the ship carried upwards into the sky. It traveled over mountains, across Landmasses, past the storming skies that were the result of the eln meias' wars, and planeshifted at a point in the sky just over the city of Amoideia.

Joseph was the only one who really noticed, waking up despite himself. He could feel the world between worlds suffuse over him as the Recluse shuddered in its journey. He could imagine those rainbow energies out there, past the dark hold and the macabre bug's shell. He remembered seeing the Dragon for the first time from what felt like a hundred years ago, on the lake, their gaze upon him as they awakened his soul.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the Dragon's three staring back at him.

DID YOU AWAKEN? they seemed to ask.

“I did,” Joseph whispered aloud. Rosemary was already asleep, holding her sceptre like a teddy bear. Phineas was under her bed, one of his magazines opened up, and he was lost in his own little world.

DID YOU FACE STAGNATION?

He wondered what that meant. He shook his head.

The Dragon rumbled a low growl, as low as the rumbling of continents. Their singular middle eye closed up, back into its scar-like slit.

Your power is your own, they seemed to say, Do with it as you will. Turn your back, if you must, on the coming days. Awash the self in dreamless sleep.

There was disappointment, there.

Well, add it to the pile.

And the Dragon, either in his head or somewhere out there, said nothing else. They disappeared from his mind, golden scales melding with the rainbow sea of Imagination.

“Say hi to the kid for me,” Joseph said, “If they hatched, I dunno.”

And the ship continued on.

It lurched into its new world, and everything was silent once more.

Joseph fell back to sleep.

He had no dreams.

***

It was well into the afternoon when they realized the three had gone.

Joseph, Wakeling had expected. Rosemary and Phineas, when they failed to make an appearance at breakfast, then lunch, were a different story.

There were a few mixed whispers among the guildhall. Somehow, even though their argument had been so late at night, rumors of the guildmaster and Joseph's confrontation had made the rounds through the guild. Wakeling could not help but notice the stares as she drifted down for lunch.

Of course, she usually had lunch in her office. But her talk with Becenti, one that had eaten up the entire morning, had set her on edge. Dark things had been done on Neos. Agrippa's eyes had slid over to consider them, she just knew it.

Joseph was right.

She shouldn't have sent Ichabod there. Not at all.

As she looked around the room, she had a distinct feeling that she had just signed her guild's death warrant.

She, nonetheless, floated over where her body would be sitting at a table. She ate her lunch quietly, sandwich floating in midair as she kept to herself.

But it wasn't long before she was disturbed. Before someone sat down.

It was Mallory and Broon. The Steamer sat down without a word across from Wakeling. The half-orc remained standing, feeling a tad awkward being so informal with the guildmaster.

“Hey, Wakeling,” Mallory said, “Have you seen Rosemary?”

“I haven't,” Wakeling said, “Not since... last night, I believe.”

“She never went to bed,” Mallory said, “At least, I don't think she did.”

“I see,” Wakeling said, “Perhaps you should look around the city. She probably got a bit too drunk, sleeping it off at the lighthouse.”

“Maybe,” Mallory said.

“Doesn't sound like her,” Broon said, “She only goes drinking when the rest of us do, and the only one who went to the Welt last night was me and Tek.”

“Look for her, then,” Wakeling snapped, “Don't disturb me with it. I've got a lot to think about right now.”

Mallory looked a bit taken aback by that. Broon, however, put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her to her feet. They walked off.

Internally, Wakeling winced. She wasn't in the mood for this. She shouldn't have come downstairs. Shouldn't have done anything at all except sulk in her office with a glass of wine.

She was a rotten guildmaster, and she knew it.

She floated up. Her eyes flashed, and she was gone from the dining hall.

***

Broon and Mallory didn't talk about Wakeling's sudden anger. They instead looked at one another as soon as they walked into the Great Hall.

“She won't be at the lighthouse,” Mallory said, “She only goes up there once a week or so.”

“She didn't go drinking, either,” Broon said, “I don't think she left the guildhall at all last night.”

“Let's ask Lazuli, maybe. Or Whiskey.”

“Whiskey,” Broon said, “I don't really relish talking to Lazuli. You know how he is.”

Mallory winced, but nodded.

“It's alright,” Broon said, “I'll talk to Whiskey. You look through her usual nooks and crannies, you know most of her hiding spots.”

“Not all of them,” Mallory said.

“But most of them,” Broon said, “If Rosemary wants to be found, she'll be found.”

***

Whiskey spent most of his time at the guild going up and down the stairs. He didn't do much else, unless called by Wakeling to be her personal carrier. Rumors abounded that he'd been around since before the guild, before Castle Belenus was planted, and had stood at Titania Amber's side in her endless searchings across the multiverse. There was little evidence of this – his silence was infamous – save for, on occasion, he would turn to look, at length, at the Glass Slipper, the great glass blade in the Great Hall. It had been Titania Amber's weapon. Her stalwart companion.

Much like the old marionette.

So the rumor went. Broon and Mallory found him when he was having one of those moments, near the top floors just before one veered into the hallways of the northern tower. He was simply looking over the railing. Apricot-hued sunlight poured down on the blade, which glistened and glowed in the midday glow. Despite the cloudy days of Autumn, the Glass Slipper always made the Great Hall feel like summer.

“Ho, Whiskey,” Broon said.

The puppet's head let out a click as he turned to consider them.

“Got a sec?”

The puppet nodded. Each of his movements was accompanied by a ratcheting sound. He clicked his head in a tilt as he waited for their question.

“Rosemary,” Mallory said, “Did you see her at all last night?”

The puppet nodded. He brought a finger up, and pointed. Mallory walked over and looked over his shoulder to see what he was showing them.

It pointed a few floors down, on the other side of the Great Hall. To Joseph and Phineas's room.

“Ah, shit,” Mallory said, “Broon, I think we've got a problem.”

***

They first knocked on Joseph and Phineas's door.

Then, looking at one another awkwardly, Broon tried the door. It was unlocked, and he turned the handle. The door whined open to show their room, which was relatively sparse, all things considered. Phineas kept most of his junk under the bed with him, and Joseph kept his section prim and bare, putting all of his clothes into the closet, his books stacked up at the desk. Metahuman histories, Broon presumed, though at the top of the pile was a book titled 'I Survived: A Story of Being Stranded in the Multiverse.'

Made sense.

They looked around for a few moments, before Mallory noted something.

“Hey,” she said, “There's a paper airplane at the window.”

Broon looked over. Sure enough, there was a paper airplane. The creased-up construct was just outside, powered by Phineas's magic, though it had obviously never considered that a glass pane would get in its way. It went forward, pressed its tip against the window's surface, then drifted back, like a poor man's battering ram.

The half-orc opened the door open, easing the paper airplane into his hand. He unfolded it, reading it for a few moments, his brow furrowing. He gave it to Mallory.

“Shit,” she said, “We really have a problem.”

***

“'To Whom It May Concern,'” Wakeling read, “Yes, that's Phineas, alright, 'To Whom It May Concern: I, myself, Joseph, and Rosemary, and myself, have left the guildhall for the time being. Joseph is angry and has decided to go to Melmaen, and Rosemary thought it prudent to accompany him so he does not perish on the way. We are waiting at the Bronze-Hued Keep as I write this, waiting for an airship to leave. It is cold outside. They gave us coffee. That was kind of them. Please do not worry about us. We are fine. Everything is fine.'”

She let out a deep, exhausted sigh, the kind that only comes from the deepest pits of the soul.

“Joseph, I expected,” Wakeling said.

“That bad of an argument?” Broon asked.

He saw her wince, and wondered if he had said the wrong thing.

“I'm pushing him away,” she whispered, “I'm... I should apologize, I think, before he gets hurt.”

She looked up at Broon and Mallory.

“Alright,” she said, “They went to House Rithmound. That's... hmm, not good, considering the job's we went on for Sunala.”

“Ma'am,” Broon said, “Maybe it's best if we let them go.”

The guildmaster's eyes slid over to Broon. Considered him. Waited for him to continue.

“Look,” he said, picking his words carefully, “Joseph's new to the multiverse, but he can take his licks if he needs to. Rosemary and Phineas are self-sufficient. They can look after him as they get to Melmaen. Maybe whatever Joseph's looking for is there. Maybe he gets home.”

“...No, Broon,” Wakeling said, “I can't have that at the moment.”

“What?” Mallory said, “Can't have Joe going home?”

“Not like that,” Wakeling said, “But where he's going, it's...”

She looked away, debating if she should say anything or not.

“Wakeling,” Mallory said, “What's at Melmaen?”

“The... Museum of Unnatural History,” Wakeling said, “That's where he's going.”

“Alright, what's the big deal?” Broon said, “It's just a museum.”

“He must not get there,” Wakeling said.

Broon and Mallory looked at one another.

“I need you to go get him,” Wakeling said, “Retrieve him, by any means necessary.”

“...Alright,” Broon said, “I'll start getting ready.”

“Take Ezel, too,” Wakeling said, “Get them back, Broon. That's an order.”

***

Mallory turned to Broon as soon as they left the office. The half-orc was grimacing, and his hand was clenching and unclenching.

“Why Ezel?” she asked.

“Because,” Broon said, “Wakeling wants it to be a three-for-three.”

“For what?”

But Broon didn't answer her. He started going down the stairs, going two steps at a time. He was down the hall, taking a few lefts, for his room. Mallory followed him.

“Broon?” she asked.

He opened up the door, revealing his quarters, a bed with a poster of some Orcish baseball player on Damiseri, signed and autographed. Kilnriv, Broon's sword, was sitting on the bed, pieces of his armor scattered across the room. He started to pick them up, and pull them on.

“...Broon?” Mallory said.

“Go get Ezel,” the half-orc said, “Let her know that it was an order.”

“An... order?”

“The last time that Wakeling gave me an order to retrieve another guildmember, it was Tycho. Do you remember him?

Tycho. A lizardfolk. With the fetishes on his snake-like neck. One hand replaced by a wooden prosthetic.

“I do.”

“Had to pick him up after he stole one of Urash's experiments,” Broon said, “He wanted to bring it to his home plane, start a technological revolution there. Something that the High Federation would have glassed Londoa for. Broon sent me and Tiger after him. We brought him back. With force.”

Mallory's blood became like ice.

“You mean...”

“That's right,” Broon said, “We're to get Rosemary, Joseph, and Phineas, even if we bring them back kicking and screaming.”

***

“Joseph,” the principal said, “Do you know why we're in this room today?”

He was ten. In the principal's office. The principal was an older, wiry man, with wiry gray hair and wire-like fingers that he clasped together as he peered down to look at Joseph. Joseph's father sat in the other chair, stiff as a board, looking directly at the principal. He was in a three-piece suit, the same one he always wore to work. Or when they went out on a trip. Or any time, really. He always wore a suit. He had recently sheared off the whispery, silver aftershave that he had worn as long as Joseph could remember. That had happened after a visit to his doctor.

Joseph was looking away, staring at the wall. He was ignoring them, they knew.

“Joseph,” his father said, “Answer him.”

“Uhm,” Joseph said, “I don't know.”

“I think you do, Joseph,” the principal said, “You've been caught fighting again.”

“Fighting?”

His father's voice was barbed. Incredulous. It made Joseph's heart leap to his throat. There was a pitch to his anger, he knew. A sudden high whine that escaped, disbelieving, at the end of each of his sentences. The old man's head had snapped to leer down at him.

“Joseph, look at me.”

Joseph looked up.

“Have you been fighting?”

“No,” Joseph lied.

His father turned to the principal.

“Has he?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Zheng,” the principal said, and Joseph realized he was holding a stack of papers in hand, his records, “Joseph was caught fighting one of his schoolmates again, an older boy a grade above him.”

Mr. Zheng seemed at a loss for words. He looked at Joseph again.

“Why?”

“Was a jerk,” Joseph said, “Kept calling me names.”

His father’s nostrils flared.

“Joseph,” he said, “I am very disappointed in you.”

There was an exhausted, hollow nature to his voice. As though he had rehearsed saying that in the mirror, over and over.

He had said it to Joseph before. Some days, it felt like that was all he said.

“Mr. Zheng,” the principal interrupted, “This is not the first time the school's talked about Joseph to you before. Remember your conversation a month ago with his Math teacher, Mrs. Hembrandt? She said that Joseph was constantly disruptive. That his grades are among the lowest in his class.”

“He didn't tell me this,” father said.

“You've seen his report cards, haven't you?” the principal asked, “I've spoken to his other teachers. Joseph is failing most of his classes this year.”

The principal leaned in.

“Is his... home life, alright?”

“His home life is fine,” his father said, a touch insulted, “My son just needs to learn to apply himself. We've talked to him about it before.”

The principal nodded, though he didn't seem to believe Mr. Zheng.

“Bullying here at Katherine Elementary is not tolerated, Mr. Zheng,” the principal said, “Joseph's facing suspension. We wanted to bring you in here to let you know why.”

“Joseph, go outside,” his father said.

“I think it might be best if Joseph remains here,” the principal said.

“My son is my ward,” his father said, “I'm responsible for him, and he doesn't need to hear this. Joseph, wait outside.”

The principal opened his mouth to say something, then sighed. Nodded.

“Alright, son,” he said, “You can go.”

***

He was to be suspended for one week. Down from two, after his father had negotiated with the school. The two of them left Katherine Elementary's front office in silence, Joseph trying to keep pace with his father's long strides as they went out into the parking lot and to the car.

His father dug into him as soon as they had closed the doors.

“Fighting?!” his father roared, “Fighting! Wait until your mother hears about this. Shameful.”

He turned the car on.

“Joseph, what were you thinking?” he said.

“It was Cameron,” Joseph said, “He was making fun of my lunch again. He's always making fun of it, or how I look, or-”

“I don't care, Joseph,” his father said, “I don't care if he was making fun of your lunch, or your hair, or your clothes. You do not start fights. Do you understand?”

Joseph grit his teeth. He saw red for a moment, though that subsided.

“Joseph?”

“Yes, sir.”

His father glanced over at him for a moment. By now they were on the main street. A couple lefts, and a right, and they would be home.

“What is this really about, Joseph?” his father said, “Your mother and I, we've built a fine life for you. You come in each day with a homemade lunch in your bag. You go to a high end school so you can get the best education in the city. Yet all you do is bicker at everyone. You should be lucky, you know. Not everyone has a life like ours, not everyone...”

Joseph ignored his father. It was the usual spiel. He could almost count the beats of each and every one of his sentences. Each stab, each barb, each disappointment. Joseph went on auto-pilot. He nodded when his father asked him a question, said “Yes, sir” at the right moments. As had been drilled into him. As was his role as the dutiful son.

Inwards, Joseph took the anger of the day, and set it down. Pushed it into his belly. Let it sit there.

As he always did.

…

…

It was the first time his father had spoken to him, truly spoken to him, in a week.

***

He awoke with a headache. The ship lumbered beneath him as his eyes opened, blurry and hot. He wiped at them with a sleeve for a moment, grimacing as he pulled himself up. Parts of his body were aching. He had not slept well.

He glanced over to the other bed. Rosemary wasn't there. Neither was Phineas, as he glanced down to see if the Deep One was underneath. But no, Phineas was elsewhere on the ship.

The hours before he had gone to sleep were a blur of anger and adrenaline. One of them was still there. But Joseph was tired, now, and he felt like a dull knife's edge as he dragged himself to his feet, and went outside.

A couple of crewmembers passed him by in the hall as he went down, searching for air. It was stuffy and uncomfortable belowdecks, and the windows that were here were few, small, and slit-like. He could barely make out the outside world as he strained to look. They were on another plane, the sky a pale, ugly yellow, the world below naught but a sea of sickly clouds. His stomach twisted at the looks of it.

But nonetheless, he made his way around the ship, trying to find a ladder or staircase up to the top deck of the Recluse.

He ran into Rosemary as he looked around. She, at least, seemed awake enough as she waved him over.

“Morning, Joe,” she said.

“Hey,” Joseph said.

“Sleep well?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

She pulled at her cloak, wrapping and scrunching in her fingers.

“Where the hell are we?” Joseph asked.

“Agro-Kandano,” Rosemary said, “It's just a flyover plane, for us. People live on floating islands here. There's no ground.”

“Neat,” Joseph forced out, “I need air.”

“Oh, um, follow me, then,” Rosemary said. She took his hand and pulled him, guiding him down the halls of the Recluse until they got to a staircase, going up a few floors until she pushed open the trapdoor that led to the surface.

He poked his head out, and nearly gagged. The air smelled like rotten eggs. Crewmembers had wrapped bandanas around their faces to keep the scent out, even Captain Lugash, who was looking out over the cloud sea.

“Better wear this,” Rosemary said, and she handed Joseph a cloth.

“Thanks,” he said, and as he started to wrap it 'round he asked, “You're not coming up?”

“Naw,” she said, “I'm exploring the ship a bit, getting a feel for the nooks and crannies. You never know.”

“Hm,” Joseph said, nodding, “Alright, then.”

“See you at dinner!” she popped back down below decks.

“Right,” Joseph said, “Wait, what time is it?”

But she was already gone. Back down into the rotten depths, leaving Joseph with the rotten air.

Great.

He pulled himself up onto the top level, walking forward. The entirety of the Recluse shuddered and skittered beneath him, and the ground felt... off, to some extent. He looked around at a few crewmembers as they ran about on top. It was then that Joseph noted that none of them seemed to be doing anything save for moving from one end of the ship to the other. Four in total.

All of them armed.

“We expecting trouble?” Joseph asked.

Captain Lugash turned around.

“Ah. The metahuman.”

“So you know who I am,” Joseph said.

“I know what you are,” the ogre said, “But not who. I care little to do so.”

“Feeling's mutual,” Joseph said, “I'm asking again: we expecting trouble?”

The Captain nodded.

“Raiders. Pirates. The like,” he growled, “Agro-Kandano is a well-used thoroughfare for interplanar travel. The locals sometimes like to get their slice. Normally we pay the proper tariffs, but sometimes...”

He glanced down.

“We pay the nation, but not its people. And sometimes the people get desperate. Not my business, anyhow. I'm just here to get the cargo out safely.”

He glared back at Joseph.

“The cargo, metahuman. You want to get to where you need to go safe, you'd better carry your weight.”

Again. Again, he was to be a weapon.

At least he was going where he needed to.

“Trust me, guy,” Joseph growled, “You don't need to tell me twice. Just point me at what you want, and I'll fry it for you. Leave me alone until then.”

Lushak just gave a curt nod. Then he turned back around to watch the skies. Joseph considered flipping him off, then thought better of it.

Instead, he went to the railing, and looked out over the edge, watching for danger.

***

Rosemary did not like the Recluse. It was a giant bug, which was nostalgic to her. She was comfortable with it, as there were many giant arthropods back home that she had grown up beside. But the Recluse was different. It was... sadder, in a way.

The first thing she realized, as she looked down, was that the ship was still alive.

Even after being hollowed out of its internal organs, its brain was still intact. Still pulsing, the pillbug still moving about. The ship's pilot had shown her this, and the way he spoke was almost prideful, which disgusted her. She ignored him as she continued going down.

She wanted to see the power source for herself. She had heard of ships from Escovia. They were all the rage nowadays, being used by the merchant houses of a hundred planes due to being relatively low-tech in the Federation's eyes. The Feds only cared about machinery. They didn't care for – or, perhaps, did not understand – magical progress. The power of Escovian vessels all came from sacrifice, from the forced burden of the living. The runes were powered by blood.

She snuck down to the belly of the beast. The pit of the Recluse. She found the door to the engine room easily enough, creaking it open a bit and taking a peek inside.

Unlike most engine rooms, this one was small, a hollow, circular carving out roughly the size of a bedroom. The center of the room was dominated by a cauldon, a vat, with pipes running along its base that sank into the floor, connecting to the runes that lined the Recluse's stomach outside.

Shelves were carved into the walls. Upon which were jars of...

Rosemary's blood ran cold. She suppressed a gasp, and felt sick.

Faeries. Dozens upon dozens of faeries.

As she watched, she saw the ship's Engine Mage pluck a jar from the shelf, and shake it to discombobulate the faerie inside. He unstoppered the jar, pouring the contents into his hand. The faerie looked around, dazed, in his palm. She was small, with white hair and flower petal wings.

“For my ancestors, for ours,” the Engine Mage prayed, “Through the soul, power, through power, the soul.”

He squeezed, crushed the faerie between two hands as though she were nothing but a common flower. Her liquid remains poured into the cauldron.

The ship shuddered, and continued its flight.

Pale, Rosemary turned away. Closed the door. Her heart was hammering.

“...Hello?” a voice rasped beside her.

She jumped, eyes wide.

But it was only Phineas.

“Oh, hey Phin,” she said.

“Greetings, Rosemary,” he said. He tilted his head, “Is... everything alright?”

“Everything's fine,” Rosemary lied, “Trust me, Phin. I'm alright.”

Phineas nodded. Good ol' Phineas, as socially aware as a doorknob.

“I was just studying the magic of the ship,” the Deep One said, “Did you know they sacrifice faeries here?”

Damn Phineas, as socially aware as a doorknob.

“Neat, Phin,” Rosemary said.

“They use faeries, did you know?” Phineas said, “Magically potent, the fae are.”

“I'm aware, Phin,” Rosemary said, “Go away.”

“I was going to talk to the Engine Mage, actually,” Phineas said, “So no, I will not 'go away.'”

“Alright, then,” Rosemary said, “See you.”

“Goodbye.”

She stomped away, turning back. She saw Phineas open the door and let out a shy “Hello.”

The door closed behind him.

Of course it was purely academic for him. Phineas worked with sacrificial magics all the time. His sort of spellcasting was probably darker still. She had seen that tome of his. The ink was blood, the pages flesh. If he thought of the mortal aspect of his work, he did not seem to show it.

Then, Phineas was not mortal.

Rosemary considered that for a few moments, before turning around, and heading away. Back upstairs. To the very top deck of the Recluse, as far away from its hellish stomach as she could get.

***

Rosemary came up to the top, her eyes empty. She looked pale. Joseph raised an eyebrow as she walked over to him.

“Sure you don't want a mask, or something?” he asked.

“Don't care about the smell,” she said.

“It looks like you do,” Joseph said, “Everything alright?”

“'M fine, Joe,” Rosemary said, and she leaned over the railing beside him. The two watched the clouds roil beneath them. She had seen something down there, Joseph knew. But she wasn't keen on saying anything.

So he let her be.

An eternity passed before she spoke up again.

“Joseph, what's your family like?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, you want to get back to them so badly, right?” she said, “So, what're they like?”

“Oh, well,” Joseph sighed, “There's my dad. He's a surgeon. There's my mom, she's... Well, I don't know what exactly she does. She's always out of the house, though. Got two brothers, and a sister.”

“You're the youngest?” Rosemary asked.

“Yeah,” Joseph replied.

“That makes two of us,” Rosemary looked over to him, “What's your oldest brother do?”

“He's an engineer,” Joseph said, “I don't see him much, he was fifteen when I was born.”

“And your other brother?”

“He's a surgeon, too,” Joseph said, “Lives down in LA, has his own practice. Kind of a big deal, there.”

“And your sister?”

“She's married, lives out in North Carolina – you know what that is, right?”

“No,” Rosemary said, “I don't.”

“It's on the other side of the country,” Joseph said, “Imagine... If you moved from Scuttleway all the way out to, I dunno, Beritale Landmass.”

Rosemary nodded at that.

“So, far away then.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said, “We didn't really talk much. It was mostly me and...”

He went quiet.

“Yeah, mostly me, actually,” he said, “My parents were always working. My other siblings, they were already moved out by the time I was in school.”

“Oh,” Rosemary said, “So, you don't know them that well.”

“Guess not,” Joseph said.

She nodded at that, and he had the strange feeling that he'd let her down somehow. That made him angry.

“Hey,” he said, “They're my family, get it? I'm supposed to go back to them. Family first, and all that.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Rosemary said, “My father said that all the time.”

“What about you?” Joseph asked.

“I didn't know my mother,” Rosemary said, “I had... my father.”

There was a strain to her voice.

“I have my aunt. I have two older sisters. I had an older brother, but... he passed away.”

“I'm sorry,” Joseph said, his indignation fading somewhat.

“I am, too,” Rosemary said, “Things were... easier, when he was alive. My father got a lot worse when Vervain died.”

Joseph nodded at that. The look on Rosemary's face was distant and sad.

“Joseph,” she said, “It sounds like... is it alright if I say something?”

“Sure,” Joseph said.

“You weren't... you aren't... you aren't the only one who had a bad family.”

“Bad?” Joseph said, and he felt the defensive anger come back out of him.

“I had hoped that the guild could've been something for you, you know?” Rosemary said, “That we could... I don't know. I just don't know.”

She sighed.

“I guess I was wro-”

She stopped speaking, her eyes catching something in the clouds.

Joseph turned to look down, too, circuiting his soul. The eagle's head overtook his own, and he looked below. His sharpened vision saw...

There.

Fins. Rising, just barely, out of the clouds.

A rider emerged from the sea of yellow-white, wearing little save for armor on their shins and arms, a helmet on their head with a long, black feather that streamed in the wind, taken from some godbird or other. A spear was in one hand, a buckler in the other.

“Hey, Captain!” Joseph yelled, “We got company!”

Captain Lugash looked over at Joseph, followed his gaze to the sea. Let out a snarl.

“Alright, lads!” he roared, “Couple of trailers! Take them out!”

There was movement on the deck, as sailors pulled weapons free, notched arrows into crossbows. There was movement on the sea, as more fins pushed out of the cloud layer. For one brief, tense moment, there was silence. The world itself seemed to slow.

Then all at once the cloud sea was alive with violence.