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“Do you play?” Quincy jerked her eyes away from the instrument to find Lord Arch watching her, his mouth drawn in a very familiar straight line. “Only for myself, now that Ezekiel is dead,” she answered truthfully. “How delightful,” he said, smiling, his handsome face giving way to the refined wrinkles of his age. “Why don’t you play for yourself now, and I’ll just listen?”

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“The station was filling with more movement and noise and light, as the morning sun began to bounce and rattle off the brass and glass of the building. Quincy pushed through the crowd, her eyes towards the ground, her feet guiding her out of the station. She only lifted her head when she came out onto the sidewalk. And there, before her, a familiar figure was waiting, standing with a paper in one hand, watching the flow of traffic. He saw her and waved in silence, somehow knowing it wasn’t a morning for many words. “Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.”

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“Forgetting Arch, forgetting tailors and backstreets and cats, Quincy lost herself in the magnificent architecture built to house even more magnificent machines. The train Quincy loved: its perfection of movement and speed and sound; its possibility and potential; its ability to efficiently transport the masses. It was here that Quincy always found the gears of her own mind worked loose, set back in place.”

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“Quincy didn’t look away from Arch’s face, and she felt something burn in her chest, the same overwhelmingly fierce pride she had felt when looking at a perfectly inked Q sheet or an expansion report that exceeded even her high expectations. “You will never lose your passion for truth,” Quincy promised. Arch held his breath a moment, his eyes searching hers. “You say that so confidently.” “You shake with it, Arch,” Quincy said, lifting a shoulder. “I suppose it’s one of your greater virtues.”

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“Quincy ducked through a small alleyway between buildings and worked her confident way through the backstreets. The route was abundantly full of refuse bins, forgotten crates, and various laundry, hanging from back windows. Several cats, the local monarchy that Qunicy had long been acquainted with, were granting them passage while sitting atop the maze of half-broken fences. Quincy saluted a black female—the reigning queen—and passed through a slender passage between two buildings, leading them out onto Fair Street and its adjoining park in a manner of minutes.”

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“If I owned a volume, I would beg you to print ten thousand copies on your presses and distribute them in the streets of every city in Europe.” “You’d have to show me a way to make a profit from it first,” Quincy responded evenly. “Arch tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, returning to his book as he answered, “I would build an argument so enticing and passionate you couldn’t deny me.”

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“After some time, Fisher said, “Per aspera ad astra.” Quincy turned towards him. “What’s that?” “Latin. It means to the stars through difficulties.” By natural extension of the conversation, she looked up, viewing the faint points of light fighting down through a soft haze. “Does anyone make it, Fisher? To the stars?” “I believe we have, Quince. We’ve seen the worst but known the best.”

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“Arch leaned back into his chair, but he was entertaining a smile. “There are few things more tedious than a friend who will not graciously receive.” Quincy could have explained that nine years of poverty might have something to do with it, but instead she just replied, “You must find me maddening, then.” Arch’s mouth twitched. “You, ma chérie, are something else entirely.”

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