Anika finished knotting the linen around Pavel's forearm, her fingers steady against his skin. The brass casing of the mythical city caught the late gaslight from the corridor, its hollow towers waiting for teeth and spindles. Misha, however, cleared his throat, breaking the sudden solemnity. “Truth is all well and good, Pavel, but you’ll be no good to anyone if you bleed out. And Anika, you look like you’ve been wrestling with a kraken. We need a proper break. And more importantly,” he announced, clapping his hands together with a surprising boom, “we need sustenance. A meal.” Pavel frowned, glancing at his bandaged arm. “Misha, we have much to discuss, much to plan. The—the urgency of this situation demands focus.” “Precisely,” Misha countered, already moving towards a discreet door at the back of the ground floor. “And a starving, stressed mind is as useless as a cog stripped bare. Besides, I found the kitchen. It’s… rustic. Which means no servants, no distractions. Just us. We’ll make something simple. Broth. Bread. Something that doesn’t require a master artisan’s touch.” He paused, looking back at Anika. “Unless you happen to be a culinary genius, Anika?” Anika managed a small, tired smile. “My genius, Misha, extends only to brass and light. Cooking is… a mystery.” “Perfect!” Misha declared. “Then we’re all equally incompetent. A level playing field.” He gestured for them to follow, his usual boisterous energy a stark contrast to the grim tension that had pervaded the workshop moments before. The kitchen was indeed rustic: a small, cramped space tucked away behind a storeroom, equipped with a heavy iron stove, a battered wooden table, and a few mismatched pots and pans. It was clearly rarely used, a utilitarian afterthought in a building dedicated to artifice. “Right,” Misha said, rolling up his sleeves. “What do we have? Flour, some root vegetables, a suspicious-looking piece of cured meat… We’ll make a stew. Or something approximating a stew.” Pavel, looking entirely out of place with his elegant coat smudged with grease and flour, hovered awkwardly. He tried to help, but his attempts to chop vegetables with a dull knife were clumsy, nearly resulting in severed digits. Anika, despite her initial protests of ineptitude, found a rhythm in peeling potatoes, her movements precise and efficient, much like her work with delicate gears. Misha, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of well-intentioned chaos. He managed to ignite the stove with a flourish, only to then nearly extinguish it by dropping an entire sack of flour onto the flames, sending a white cloud billowing through the small room. Pavel coughed, waving a hand, his usually impeccable hair dusted with white. “Misha, for the love of the automatons, be careful!” Pavel exclaimed, his voice laced with exasperated amusement. It was the first time Anika had heard genuine levity from him, and it was disarmingly pleasant. Anika herself couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that felt alien and wonderful after months of stifled silence. Her hair, too, was now powdered white, and a streak of flour adorned her cheek. Misha, thoroughly enjoying himself, decided the stew needed “more body” and attempted to knead dough for bread, resulting in a sticky, unmanageable mess that adhered stubbornly to his hands and the table. Pavel, seeing Anika’s laughter, found himself smiling properly for the first time in what felt like years. He reached out a hand, intending to brush the flour from her cheek, but his gaze caught hers. The air in the tiny kitchen smelled of toasted leeks and dry grain. He leaned closer, catching the scent of lye soap on her apron, his knuckles hovering near her ear before dropping back to the counter edge. “A-ha!” Misha’s booming voice, completely oblivious, shattered the moment like a dropped crystal. “I have it! This, my friends, will be a bread worthy of the Solstice!” He triumphantly held up a lump of dough that resembled a small, misshapen boulder, entirely ignoring the intense, almost-kiss he had just interrupted. Pavel pulled back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, quickly masked by a return to his usual composure, though a faint blush touched his cheekbones. Anika, flustered, turned back to the pot, stirring the thickening stew with unnecessary vigor. Dinner, a strangely delicious but undeniably lumpy stew with an accompanying dense, slightly burnt loaf, was eaten in a mood of shared, exhausted camaraderie. The laughter had broken something, a wall of formality and resentment, leaving behind a fragile but real sense of alliance. As they were clearing up, a sharp, insistent rapping echoed from the main workshop entrance. Misha exchanged a glance with Pavel, his mirth fading. “Who could that be at this hour?” Pavel sighed, running a hand through his still-flour-dusted hair. “Only one person would be so… demanding.” He straightened his coat, a familiar tension returning to his shoulders. “Stay here, Anika. Misha, come with me.” Anika, however, felt an inexplicable pull. She followed them discreetly, pausing just inside the main entryway of the workshop, obscured by a towering automaton of a celestial navigator. From her vantage point, she saw Pavel open the heavy oak doors to reveal a visitor wrapped in an emerald travelling cloak: Natalya Rostova, daughter of the district guild warden, her lace bonnet askew. “Pavel! What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice brittle. “The guild masters received word! The partnership contract... you would not dare!” Her gaze swept past Pavel, landing on Anika where she stood partially hidden. Her chin lifted in cold assessment. “Ah, the little pauper. I should have known.” Pavel stepped forward, his voice flat and deliberate. “Natalya. This is not the time, nor the place. And I assure you, it is not a matter for street discourse.” “Not the time? Not the place?” Natalya gave a sharp, dry laugh. “You think you can void an alliance like a broken gear? My father holds seats on the Solstice council, Pavel. We can bar your workshop from every exhibition hall in Veridia!” “Mistress Rostova,” Misha interjected, stepping between them with a steadying palm raised, “Pavel has honored every commission on his ledger. If a trade contract ends, it ends upon fair terms.” Pavel raised a hand, silencing Misha. He looked at Natalya without blinking. “Our arrangement is concluded, Natalya. Effective immediately. There is nothing more to discuss. Your father's guild fees will be reimbursed by week's end. I will bear the penalty fee. But I will not be swayed.” He turned his shoulder slightly, keeping Anika shielded behind the heavy bronze ribs of the astrolabe. “My work lies on another course.” Natalya stared at him, her rigid posture cracking. She noticed the stained linen binding around his sleeve. “You... you’re injured! Did this vagrant bring cutpurses to your doorstep?” She drew a sharp breath. “My mother warned me of Katerina’s schemings, but I never gave credit to her rumors!” Pavel’s stance stiffened, his fingers curling against the brass door latch. “What rumors, Natalya?” Seeing his hesitation, Natalya curled her lips in bitter satisfaction. “Oh, she keeps her accounts tidy, your mother. Pretending to guard our families' standing, while pulling strings behind the salon curtains! I overheard her speaking into the parlor speaking-tube weeks ago. Whispering about how you were chasing old ghosts, and how ‘the girl in the Mirela Sanatorium was safely tucked away’ and wouldn't trouble anyone again once Koslova took the blame for the ruined showcase!” Natalya pointed a gloved finger past him at Anika. “She told my aunt it was for your protection. To keep you pliable!” Pavel and Anika stood rigid under the gas lamps, the words settling between them like cold lead: the girl in the Mirela Sanatorium.

Comic Relief and a Secret Alliance