Nightingale hummed softly as she dried the last of the tea bowls, stacking them into their floating rack with a practiced flick of her wrist. The house's ambient enchantments responded to her mood—lighting warm and gold, a soft breeze carrying the scent of lemon-rose through the open window.
"That's the last of them," she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. She turned slightly to look toward Sebastian, who was lounging—barefoot and annoyed—in front of a hovering hologram display.
The screen glowed with iridescent text and sigil-signed maps. Dozens of realms were listed, each with different atmospheric conditions, political customs, and—most importantly—economic systems. He groaned and let his head thunk back against the headrest.
"Why don't any of these places run on the same damn currency?" he grumbled. "We filled out the forms—thrice—and half of them still want barter in ghost teeth or memory braids. I had to promise away three years of dreamtime just for a toll pass."
Nightingale stepped into the room, folding her arms—then paused. Her eyes flicked toward the hologram's map projection as it shimmered, resolving into a slow pan across one of the border-worlds. Her breath caught. The terrain was eerily familiar: sweeping sand glass fields, spiral-shaped lakes glowing with soft indigo light, and a triple-star system cresting in the background. One of her planets. Or close enough to pass for it.
"Remember," she said slowly, as if trying to stay grounded in the now, "not everyone finds value in black hole coins or Earth money. Some places still trade in concepts." Her voice had a ghost of reverence in it now—like she'd just seen the echo of a lullaby she hadn't remembered singing.
"Concepts, Gail," Sebastian snapped, flinging one hand toward the display. Just then, the screen dinged—another form had loaded in, red-lined and triple-flagged for re-verification. He slammed his palm on the table with a sharp thunk. "One guy offered us a contract based on shared embarrassment."
She raised an eyebrow and let out a soft laugh, the kind that made the air feel warmer. "That's just efficient. Imagine the interest rates. We're not paying fees—we're paying the deities' toll. Most of them are just glorified hall monitors with delusions of grandeur."
She tossed him a grin over her shoulder. "Be glad we're not dealing with the Greek-types, or the Norse ones. You remember what happened last time we crossed Hemeres? He thought pulling a prank on a funeral barge would be funny. Damn near got us disqualified from existence."
He rolled his eyes, then paused. "Wait… what's the conversion rate again for deep grief in the Hollow Zones?" He barely finished the sentence before Nightingale appeared beside him with a steaming mug and a sweet-lemon fizz shot. She plunked both down, then stuck a warm aromatherapeutic shoulder patch onto his lap like she was pressing a reset button. "Here," she said. "Calm your undead nerves."
As he reluctantly took a sip, she leaned over his shoulder and started scanning the paperwork herself, eyes narrowed. "They really made you refile Form 1124-B? This one's just a divine toll confirmation. Barely a tenth-tier grudge ledger."
She gave him a sideways look. "You've really got to stop using emotional payments. You'd save yourself a lot of agony if you just traded in rocks. Surprises people, but certain types of rocks are absolute gold in some economies—literally. Quartz memory stones? Soul-polished basalt? You'd be shocked what people'll give up for the right pebble with a backstory."
Sebastian groaned and tipped his head back. "Useful trivia, Gail," he said, dragging a hand down his face. "But that still doesn't answer my question about the grief-to-precog conversion rate in the Hollow Zones."
She leaned down and whispered it low into his ear, letting the syllables drip like secret candy. "About forty-five to one if it's recent and personal." Her voice had that husky, smug tone she used when she knew she was right—and knew he liked it. "You should've let me handle the documents. I'm fluent in five valuation systems and can curse out a tax demon in four dialects. Nerdy enough for you, darling?"
Sebastian started to speak, then caught the grin curling on Nightingale's lips. He turned slightly pink and shoved the hologram into her hands. "Damn it, woman. Stop talking dirty money to me."
She laughed—a full, delighted laugh—and slid into his chair like she owned it. With practiced ease, she took over. He muttered something about being seduced by a tax dialect and sipped his drink while she filled out the forms twice as fast.
"I still don't get how you picked up half those tongues," he grumbled, watching her fingers dance across the sigil fields. "I've been dead, revived, and flayed for memory, and I still can't conjugate Void Latin."
"Because my people are one of the many species in the Peachy Realms that pick up languages like it's nothing." She gave a half-shrug, like it was no big deal. "All we need to do is touch someone's hair—just right—and we'll pull the whole structure, tone, emotional grammar, and social subtext right out of them. It's not mind-reading. Just good technique, practiced hands, and a little soul resonance."
The kitchen lights flickered once in acknowledgment. The house knew the rules. Sebastian leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Nightingale's cheek.
"On Earth," he said with a half-smile, "we'd call that a silver tongue."
She rolled her eyes, but the pleased flush on her face gave her away—and she bumped him gently with her hip, pretending to refocus on the glowing scroll. "Flatter me again and I'll make you finish the rest of the paperwork in cursive Celestial."
He took a small step back and watched Nightingale with a private kind of awe. Everyone thought her gift was language—and they weren't wrong. But Sebastian knew the truth: her real gift was fashion. The woman could faceplant through a portal and still come out looking like a cosmic pin-up with ward-stitched heels. Words just happened to be the second magic she wielded like breath.
At least Sebastian could charm beasts of any kind. That was his gift—the kind of trait that made elder monsters purr and three-headed spirit wolves roll over for belly rubs. Every Sonster was born with something: sight, luck, voice, timing, even death-touch.
The Bureau didn't rate those gifts by rarity, though. Only by how well you used them—and whether the side effects were worth the hassle. Berserker gifts, for example, were technically impressive, but the inability to calm down afterward made them low rank in the long-term account books. A power that couldn't be managed was just a liability in fancy wrapping.
Mind control ones were another story. Those gifts would keep you on a leash, same as time travel. Even some of the system-bound ones came with built-in chains, for reasons no one fully trusted.
Though with all that rank and variation, it surprised him how no one really got treated differently. It wasn't like they never fought—Sonsters definitely had their clashes—but the shared grind made it easier to work together. Everyone had a burden. Everyone had paperwork.
Though tomorrow, they'd step into the world again—paperwork in hand, spells half-charged, and sleeves already rolled up for whatever mess the realms had brewing. One soul at a time, one form at a time, they'd keep stitching the universe back together. And if they were lucky—just a little lucky—one child would be closer to being more than a case number. Closer to being home.