Night had settled like a velvet cloak. We had all retired for the evening. I sat by the window, gazing at the faint light of distant stars. The room was dark now that Halle had extinguished the gas lamps, darkness draping itself over familiar shapes, comforting in its stillness. The faint scent of warm wood lingered, mingling with the subtle perfume of blankets folded with care, and for a moment the world felt suspended—outside events held at bay, measured only by the quiet rhythm of the room and my own slow breaths.
"Here's your milk. I warmed it for you," she said softly, the door clicking closed behind her.
I cast her a faintly displeased look. "I asked for a cocktail, not this."
She approached without a word, setting the tray beside me, then lowered her hands to rub my head slowly, deliberately. Each touch was careful, measured, and I felt the tension in my shoulders unravel fraction by fraction.
"What do you think we could have done differently?" I murmured, almost to myself.
"The important thing is that we tried," she replied, taking my hand and guiding me toward the bed.
"Perhaps the airships are aid, not the horror we fear," she added, handing me the cup.
"Perhaps it is," I said, taking a sip. The winter air whispered against the windowpane—cold, yet serene. My fingers warmed around the ceramic cup, grounding me in the present, away from distant provinces, unspoken fears, and the weight of decisions I could not yet undo. "Do you think that's why the city felt so on edge?"
She took the empty cup from my hands. "Perhaps. All we can do is wait and see what tomorrow brings."
I let my gaze drift back to the glass, tracing the muted reflection of the moon in the windowpane. Each fragment of light seemed fragile, as though the world itself balanced on threads too thin to see. My thoughts wandered to Heiwa, curled among her own doubts somewhere on the ship, to Victoria, distant yet always near in some unspoken way. I imagined the city below, streets emptying, windows darkening, people pressing against the cold with care and vigilance.
My eyes, dilated in the dim light, turned to her. "You do intend to go yourself tomorrow? I made the arrangements."
I said no more, letting my head rest on her lap, my hands finding her warmth. The motion was small, intimate—a declaration of trust more than need.
"Perhaps we could hire sellswords for assistance?" I ventured.
She set the tray down, noting my reluctance to let the thought drop. "We could, but first we must understand what is happening. That will guide any further action." She sighed—a quiet sound drifting through the room like smoke. It carried with it patience, the sort that both comforts and cautions.
"How are Heiwa and Victoria?" I asked after a long silence, the night holding us in its soft confinement.
"They're all right. I believe they will find their own way," she said.
I nestled further beneath the blankets, sighing. "I would have still preferred the liquor to milk, but… this will do," I added with a faint laugh.
"Is that so?" she murmured, her voice a soft echo in the shadowed room.
I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the small creaks of the window's frame as it shifted gently with the night winds. The hush was nearly complete—broken only by the occasional whisper of air through a vent, the distant murmur of waves against the hull, and the soft sigh of blankets settling around me. My thoughts circled, untamed: letters left unsent, provinces burning, friends and family unknown in their safety. And yet, here, in this room, with warmth pressed against me, it felt as though the world could wait just a little longer.
Outside, the moon hid behind a veil of clouds, as though displeased with winter's cold. And yet, in hiding, it lent the night its own character—a quiet, watchful companion to our thoughts.
I let my fingers drift across her sleeve, a silent gesture of gratitude, a recognition of the vigilance and care that had kept us moving. Perhaps tomorrow would demand courage again, perhaps the city would tremble beneath news of the airship, perhaps choices would be required that none of us could see clearly yet.
But for now, in the soft cocoon of blankets and half-light, I allowed myself to believe in small mercies: a sip of warm milk, the brush of a hand against my hair, the shared understanding that even in a world poised on the brink, moments of calm could still be claimed, if only for a night.
And so I lay there, eyes tracing shadows along the wall, heart slowed by quiet confidence, ready to meet the dawn and whatever it would bring.