Epilogue: Lyewkin

The twelve-inch brass muzzleloader was found in one hand of the deceased, as was announced by the garrison three days after a distraught ticketmaster witnessed the skirmish and bravely spoke out.

From there, the city coroners determined the rest. That an assembly, called forth to parley business, went horribly wrong—resulting in a feud between father and son, prompted by the gluttony of Djinn dust, and accelerated by wine.

Gossip began to spread of the Diamonds, tainting the name in high society. And ultimately, the theater was sold to a new buyer—its name altered to High City Theater—the cycle beginning again.

But the garrison made a mistake. They dug.

Finding that Stoney was the lord of dust peddling, and the city's most "respectable" bloodlines made for his closet snorters. Once word got out, the garrison backtracked, and no penalties were inflicted. But the seeds were sowed. It was only the beginning of what would undoubtedly come—disobedience from dwellers who no longer honored a city that proved itself slanted. A city that locked waifs into cages but refused to crack down on one or two rich sniffers.

I thought about Esselle everyday and wondered where she fled to. I did not envy her so much as I wanted to be with her. For my life in such time could be summed to feeding my mother nosh, bathing her, carrying kegs for Finn, and of course, inspiring some disobedience of my own.

My mother died two years later.

And I set sail for the city I'd yearned to visit all my life—Millad. Godwin remained by my side, as did a trunk that Finn aided in packing for us—three bottles of ale for the journey.

For months, I scoured Millad's myriad of avenues, ran through every acreage thrice over, experienced my first snowfall.

Godwin settled into the foreign land just as well—even found a new tavern to house his tippler activities, one that he claimed stocked the finest spirits in all of Millad and even finer company. So I joined him, finding that the locale was a bustling scene of jiggers, minstrels, ménages, and scoundrels—a healthy mix of every type, tucked into a place where they could revel together in patchwork ruffles and unfettered hairstyles.

This was what I had dreamt of—people of differing passions and trades that could revel in impartiality. No sneers, nor lines drawn between those who assumed themselves superior and those who were assumed inferior.

It was firelight, bagpipes, and boots that stomped over teak wood. It was Godwin leading me to a bar governed by a handful of women and men who shredded earthnuts, juiced berries, and shook canteens. Spirits—they mixed spirits. And parchment laid over parchment in stacks of pamphlets titled: COCKTAILS.

They may have been made up of pages and words that were foreign to me, but I recognized one of the names scribbled in sharp penmanship.

House Ablaze: A fiery mix of brandy and Houn peppers, topped with lime, and hatched for the gutsiest…

A gentleman asked for my order the moment I sighted the words, and I reached for the coin at my girdle, only to learn that my pouch of gold had vanished without trace.

But my favorite part of the story, is the part in which a bonnie lass of burgundy waves, caramel skin, and constellations of freckles appeared at my side—dressed in a blue-gray gown with gold brocade that caught the light—my pouch of coin in the palm of her hand, and her delicate fingers sifting through the shillings inside it.

When she looked up at me with doe eyes of dark sepia, she cooed, "I was thinking something fiery."

I had to catch my breath before putting forth, "So was I."

"What a coincidence…"

"You know what they say."

"What do they say?"

I smiled wide and for the first time in years—entirely, utterly, in every way, and without exception delightedly—said, "Great minds think alike."

THE END