“We have initial treaties in place, Your Honor,” Steris added. “Favorable to us for trade. That should give the hawks pause, and could buy us time to smooth things over.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Aradel said. “It’s going to be a tough metal for the Senate to swallow though, Ladrian. Not the airship itself, but the fact that I’m—apparently—just going to let it fly off.” He hesitated. “I haven’t told them what you said about the other item.”

“Bands of Mourning?” Wax said.

Aradel nodded, too politic to say what Wax was certain he was thinking. What have you gone and done to me this time, Ladrian?

“MeLaan?” Wax asked. “Would you mind taking over here?”

“Sure,” she said, striding toward them. She wore an outfit borrowed from the Southlanders, a man’s breeches and boots that went up to midcalf. She rested an arm on the governor’s shoulder.

“Holy One,” Aradel said, his voice strained but reverent. He eyed Wax. “You realize precisely how unfair it is to deal with you, when you can fall back on heavenly messengers to talk you out of trouble?”

“That’s nothing,” Wax said, guiding Steris toward the steps down. “Ask me sometime about the conversation I had with God the last time I died.”

“That was vicious,” Steris said as they reached the steps.

“Nonsense,” Wax said. “He’s a politician now. He needs practice being thrown off balance in conversations. Helps him prepare for debates and such.”

She eyed him.

“I’ll be better,” he promised, holding the door open for her. Marasi moved to join them, but Wayne caught her by the arm and shook his head.

“Better?” Steris asked from the stairwell. “So this means no more complaining about parties.”

“Of course I’ll gripe,” Wax said, following her into the stairwell, leaving the others behind. “It’s a defining character feature. But I’ll try and confine the worst of it to you and Wayne.”

“And I,” Steris said, “shall promise to be properly amazed by your exploits saving everyone from everything.” She smiled at him. “And to always carry a few vials of metal with me, just in case. By the way, where are we going?”

He grinned, guiding her down to the top floor of the skyscraper, a regal penthouse that—currently—was unoccupied, the tenants having moved to Elmsdel for an extended holiday. Seated in a chair in the hall outside the apartment proper was a tired-looking man in the garb of a Survivorist priest, his formal mistcloak—really more of a shawl—worn over robes adorned with stitching up the sleeves representing scars.

Steris looked to Wax, curious.

“I was wondering, Steris,” Wax said, “if you’d be willing to be my bride.”

“I’ve already agreed—”

“Yes, but last time I asked with an expectation of a contract,” Wax said. “It was the lord of a house asking a woman of means for a union. Well, that request stands, and thank you. But I’m asking again. It’s important to me.

“Will you be my bride? I want to be married to you. Right now, before the Survivor and that priest. Not because words on a paper say we have to, but because we want to.” He took her by the hand, and spoke more softly. “I’m painfully tired of being alone, Steris. It’s time I admitted that. And you… well, you’re incredible. You truly are.”