She relaxes her face enough to speak. “This document confirms Glacia Aliyah Haverns has satisfied the preliminary requirements to obtain an Undil Station Pilot’s license, and is hereby authorized to pilot all Atmospheric-Class vehicles registered to the Undil Embassy.”

She rereads it, absolutely thrilled with herself. Then she detaches the ID, retrieves the original from her pocket, and compares them: specks of glitter sparkle on the silver station pilot’s license, whereas the Recruit ID is just plain white.

“Mine’s fancier than yours,” she gloats, sticking her tongue out.

“How should we celebrate?” I ask. “Dress up, go somewhere nice for dinner?”

Glacia springs to her feet. “I’ll wear my dress!” She skips back to the door and turns back before she leaves. “Look sharp, mister!”

We decide to eat at the restaurant we hugged in front of yesterday, almost as tribute to that spot of sidewalk. It’s called Cassandra’s Bench, and according to the brief history written on the back of the dinner menu, the restaurant is named after one of the parks in the Embassy’s northern sector.

Two carpeted stairwells curve up to a balcony that hangs over the lower dining area. Glacia and I sit along the gold and glass railing that lines the edge of the balcony and two marble pillars stand on either side of our table. Around us, pans sizzle, glasses clank, and silverware rattles. The Narvidian men at the next table over burst into hoarse laughter, and one even slaps his thick hand on the glossy wood. A waiter rushes by with a tray of bubbling drinks while a hostess seats three Undilaen Officials at a table behind another pillar.

Glacia orders a platter of blue-and-white shelled crustaceans. I get the lemon-baked poultry, with a plate of steamed vegetables. Hot, sweet juices gush onto my tongue, the spices of peppers. Beans, tomatoes, carrots, and corn—all grown on Artaans—sizzle in a bed of rice.

Glacia cracks a shell and scoops out the meat with her finger. She pops it in her mouth, chews, swallows, and then wipes her lips with a dark cloth, a cloth that—I assume—is made from Armici leaves. Even though it’s absorbent, there’s still the hint of a leathery texture. She pushes aside her hair, which flows down the soft silk of her blue dress and the crimson shawl draped over her shoulders. It’s the same outfit she wore at the opening banquet and dance. She looks so much better than me. All I’m wearing is a dark blue blazer and straight pants. Nothing impressive.

Glacia eats another crustacean, sucks the juice off her finger, and then looks up at me.

“We need a plan.”

I swallow a clump of vegetables and nod. “I was about to say that.”

“Got any ideas?”

“I met these people who lived in Ellaciss City. We could go there and see what it’s like.”