I stepped out of the bath as morning laid its gold across the tiles, soft and deceitful. Light like that makes you believe in ordinary days. I dressed and walked the long corridor to the dining room, footsteps swallowed by a house too large for two heartbeats. Still, I preferred excess space to cramped compromise. Emptiness, at least, does not lie.
"Thank you for the meal," I said, buttering my bread as Elise took her seat with the calm precision of someone who trusted neither markets nor men.
"Library and then the market?" she asked, coffee hovering at her lips.
"That is the plan." I unfolded the newspaper like a priest opening scripture.
"I would advise against it," she said lightly, carving into her ham. "But you've already decided."
"If I can secure the aether, we can recover our losses."
She smiled without agreement. Some smiles are palimpsests—agreement scraped away, caution written over it.
I opened the paper.
THE TWIN HILL GAZETTE MUNICIPAL ART INSTALLATION COMPLETED IN SLUM DISTRICT — STONE GARDEN PROVINCE
Excerpt: The Stone Garden City Council has officially unveiled three new statues...
Police Statement: Authorities confirm a gas leak caused temporary hallucinations...
Local Weather: An eclipse was reported last night. Astronomers classify it as a rare cosmic event. Citizens are advised to remain calm.
I paused.
An eclipse.
The word felt misplaced, like a line inserted after the manuscript had already dried.
"Was there any eclipse yesterday?" I asked, not looking up.
Elise stirred sugar into her tea. "None that I saw. The sky was clear. You were the one staring at it."
Clear. No shadow. No red bite taken from the sun.
Strange.
I turned the page.
THE METALLURGICAL GAZETTE
Vol. XLIV — Tuesday, 14th March "Industry, Integrity, and Increment"
Aetherum (Ae) Market Summary
The Deep Strata Crisis: The "Labour Disruption" at the Black Mouse Mine enters its third week. Reports of Aether Hydroxide (AeOH) seepage in Shaft 4 have rendered the primary Grade A vein inaccessible. Consequently, the Crown has invoked the Strategic Reserve Act, freezing all private sales of Crown Reserve (99%+) to non-military shipyards.
I read it aloud.
"That means you settled for the next best thing," Elise said, rearranging her tomatoes as though market fluctuations obeyed symmetry.
"Ae-L No. 2 — £8.10s to £9.05s. Up fifteen shillings," I calculated.
"For a shaft that collapsed the same week they discovered it." She didn't look impressed. "Convenient."
Convenient indeed. A vein appears in wartime. A collapse erases it after. Supply tightens. Reserves freeze. History edits itself and calls it necessity.
Why fight a losing battle? I wondered. But then—why accept the version handed to you?
"That's that. We should hurry to the dockyard," I said. "They may still have aethrum."
We, I almost said. But need is rarely plural.
The town was alive in that theatrical way cities manage—commerce buzzing, laughter rising, smoke climbing skyward like ambition. Months ago I would not have walked these streets openly. Months ago I had been a footnote.
Now I was a margin someone else might erase.
We entered the familiar shop near the airship dock.
"Good morning, Mr Yúzé," I greeted.
"Morning, Lord Albrecht. Miss Elise." His eyes remained on the paper. "A gallon of artherium is now ¥88.04."
He said it like a confession.
"You still have stock from your previous batch," I said.
He studied me—measuring risk against profit, loyalty against liquidity—then glanced at Elise.
"That I do."
A year's wages for a full-time shop assistant, he calculated.
He vanished into the back.
Transactions are quiet wars. No blood, only signatures.
When we stepped outside, purchase secured, the sun dimmed.
A shadow rolled across the dockyard like ink spilled across parchment. Conversations faltered. Workers looked up.
An airship descended—sleek, overbuilt, expensive in the way only empires can afford. Its hull shimmered with sigils that caught the light and returned it altered.
"That is a costly indulgence," I murmured.
"There's your eclipse," Elise murmured. "Do you intend to call on them?"
"No." I adjusted my gloves. "Gossip will carry the truth faster than we can."
Or whatever version of it survives.
We walked toward the market instead.
"What do you plan to make?" she asked, falling into step.
"Something worthy of auction," I said. "Something that remembers."
"That was enough to buy fifteen to eighteen koku of rice," she added.
I did not respond.
The mine collapses. The eclipse appears in print but not in sky. Gas leaks explain myth. Reserves freeze under acts written decades ago.
The world is layered—event scraped by explanation, explanation overwritten by decree.
A cover-up, dressed as procedure.
And somewhere beneath the newest ink, the older truth waits, stubborn as mineral in stone.
Elise stopped to haggle over fish with theatrical ferocity. I stood aside, watching the crowd, noticing subtle shifts—the unfamiliar uniforms near the square, the statue banners fluttering though no wind stirred them.
Why fight a losing battle?
Because sometimes the page fights back.
"Spices," Elise called, victorious and carrying her spoils. "And vegetables."
I followed.
The morning light remained bright.
But I did not trust it anymore.