Taven Moore's Blog, page 5

Finish the Story: The Desert

Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

The desert is an unforgiving place. This one is called Death Valley for a reason. Every living thing there has to fight for survival. And we would have to fight, too, or else …

Say Hello to Moose

I realized that I posted over on Facebook about my new kittencat, but never actually posted here!

I know, I am just as aghast as you.

That’s my Moosey.

After Tiny’s stress-based health scare (he stopped eating, which is pretty alarming if you know how food-obsessed he is) I realized that he was lonely.

Like … waiting for me asleep against the front door when I got home from work lonely.

So I set out to find him a companion quickfast. I didn’t want to wait for another Siberian even though my allergies would have preferred it … I wanted to get him a friend in weeks, not months.

So I looked around and found Angel’s Wish, a cat rescue organization in the area with a LOT of cats. Once my application was approved, my mom came down and we evaluated dozens of felines.

My vet recommended a kitten to make the transition easier, so I tried to only look at fluffbeans under 2 years old.

Tiny is NOT a small cat, and I remember his playstyle being more of a full-body suplex, pounce/tackle/bunnykick sort of thing … so most of the really tiny kittens were also rejected.

I needed someone who was big enough to handle Tiny and calm enough to transition nicely into the house. Also, my apartment only allows 2 cats, so I couldn’t take any bonded pairs.

This still left me with dozens of options. There was a gorgeous (bonded) seal-point siamese. There was a timid silver-black girl who is going to be flipping GORGEOUS when she grows up and her medium-haired coat leaves her with black mittens and a snowy body. There was a too-pushy calico. Two orange tabbies who were adopted before I could look at them. One orange tabby that I specifically asked to see but whose foster parent didn’t bring him in that day.

Nobody felt “right”.

Just as we turned to leave, another foster arrived with a whole passel of kittencats, and there he was. Twice as big as the other litter he was housed with, but the same age. Cool as a cucumber with the silliest gray “hat” I’ve ever seen and big brown eyes.

His foster mom wanted to keep him (and I still send her emails with updates). He was the last surviving barn kitten — they think a raccoon got not only his siblings but also his mother.

He was born in May, which makes him the biggest dingdang kitten I have ever seen. He came with the name Moose and there wasn’t a chance in the world that I was going to change it.

He transitioned into the house in less than 24 hours, despite Tiny hissing and growling at the start. 1 day, you guys. That’s so short that it surpasses “unbelievable” and saunters right into “magical” territory.

He is still incredibly calm. And incredibly huge.

He snuggles under the blanket with me. He goads Tiny into play. He amuses HIMSELF with toys for hours.

He’s still a little hand shy, but getting used to being petted. His ears and toe beans are multicolored.

He’s perfect.

NaNoWriMo – Modified

I … am attempting a thing.

NaNoWriMo

As many of you may know, November is known as National Novel Writing Month, a self-inflicted game whose only real rule seems to be reaching a wordcount of 50,000 before December.

The benefits of this exercise are well documented — it forces you to set aside your internal editor and aspirations of Perfection in the interests of just getting the bloody words out already. It also fosters a feeling of community as the lonely art of writing becomes an activity discussed and celebrated in group format.

The downsides area also publicly lamented — quantity over quality rarely yields publishable results and the grueling pace it demands doesn’t forgive even single-day failures or missteps. Miss a day and you’ve got a LOT of work to do in order to catch back up … and that work happens to fall on a dreaded Family Holiday Month.

My Sordid NaNoWriMo History

I have “won” NaNoWriMo twice.

Neither time yielded a marketable story. Neither time yielded a revisable story. In truth, neither time yielded a story I ever wanted to see ever again, may it burn in hell for a billion years.

Ahem.

That being said, I don’t regret either of them, and some of the lessons I learned on those frantic months are ones I could probably do with a refresher for.

I did get a coupon that allowed me to purchase Scrivener for a drastically reduced price, which is still my all-time favorite software (the mac version. The Windows version is gaaaarbage).

I also got a lifetime pass to the Complain About NaNoWriMo club, which is nothing to sneeze at. *wink*

Lessons

My Primary Goal:

Build a Habit of Making Time For Writing

Additional Reminders I Need:

Stop Waiting For Perfect
Stop Making Excuses About Not Having Time
Remember What the Flow of Writing Feels Like
Any Draft (Even an Admittedly Terrible One) is Better Than Nothing
Push Through the Saggy Middle Doldrums

“Lessons” I can Live Without:

Not Writing A Lot Every Day is Doom
Meet This Goal Or Fail
Florid Writing Is Better Than Clean, Concise Writing
Any Plot Point Will Do As Long As You Don’t Stop
Don’t Stop Dear God Don’t Stop Ever

This Year

I’m not doing NaNoWriMo this year.

At least, not according to the rules. (breakin’ the lawr, breakin’ the lawr)

I want to build the writing habit, and I want to do it in a way that encourages me to continue without using the Sharp, Pointy Stick of Failure to “motivate” me.

New Goal

So instead of the almighty Word Count as my goal, I am instead going to set myself a Number Of Days goal.

How many days? In a utopia, I’d write every day. While we don’t (yet) live in a distopia … we are still miles away from ideal. (Which is not to disparage the advice to write every day. It’s got its place and purpose, but it is not my goal for this challenge).

So instead, I am going to focus on what I know I want to get out of this, which is a habit.

So! I’m going to steadily increase my involvement, with an eye toward reasonable goals … even considering Teslacon at the beginning of the month, Thanksgiving at the rear, and an absurd number of social events in the middle.

Calendar Time!

November has days on five separate weeks, with the first and final weeks having fewer days.

The first week of November, my goal is to write 2 times.
The second and third week of November, my goal is to write 3 times.
The fourth week of November, my goal is to write 4 times.
The fifth week of November, my goal is to write 3 times.

If I miss a day, I can make it up in a following week.

My Monthly goal is 12 writing sessions.

What Does It Mean to “Write”?

I have to be specific, because Procrastinating-Against-Writing Me is really good at finding loopholes. Just as my super-clean house every time I try to work on a plot wrinkle.

Rules, rules, rules:

Writing must be on Creative Works. It can be a short story or a novel-length work or anything in between, but it cannot be emails or blog posts.
Writing must be at least 45 minutes in length. I have a sand timer to assist me in this endeavor.For those who do not follow the Writing Excuses podcast, the sand timer was a tool they recommended because it runs out of time SILENTLY, so if you’re in the middle of a good flow, you often just keep going without realizing your self-imposed time has run out.
Writing CAN include minor research.But if details can be bracketed out with [[Find out How Vodka Is Distilled And Add Details Here]] they should be.
Writing CAN include “Crap, How Do I Fix This Plot Point” type planning…. but not for two sessions in a row. If I am more than one-session worth of stuck, I need to skip over it, work around it, or phone a friend to help me iron it out before the next session.
Writing does not include Editing for the purposes of this NaNoWriMo challenge.

So Stick That In Your Pipe and Smoke It, November

I’m hoping that by openly blogging about this, it’s more likely to stick. “Secret” goals are a lot easier to shrug off when things are a lot less shiny around week two and three of a new habit.

I think I’m finally ready to stop dipping my toe into the wading pool of flash fiction twiddles (though I do hope some of you have been enjoying those) and get back into a more serious mindset.

If anyone wants to join me in any sort of November Writing Festivities, I’d love to hear what you’re doing and have a buddy (or three) who are also rising up to meet goals that have been consistently pushed aside.

Finish the Story: Guarding the Door

Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

We took turns guarding the door, neither of us sleeping very much. Ricky looked nervous, and suddenly I felt bad about getting him involved. I shouldn’t have …

HelloFresh Update – Box 1

Boxy BoxBox

This was my free box — thanks to a friend with a handy coupon.

The box itself was HEAVY and bigger than expected. When I opened it up, I saw that the cardboard was lined with something akin to silver bubble wrap.

Recipe cards and three brown paper bags were on top. Each bag was labeled with the meal it contained.

Below that I found the meat sandwiched neatly between two frozen “pillows”.

(Note: I gave my mom the box, lining, and frozen pillows when she was here this weekend. The pillows remained frozen overnight. Super cool.)

Recipe 1: Crispy Breaded Tilapia

I chose this recipe because cooking fish is still daunting to me, and I’ve not got much experience breading and frying things.

The sides were roasted asparagus and ciabatta toasts (with butter and chives).

I saved one of the two ciabatta rolls they sent me because I (correctly) assumed mom would want to make a sandwich with the other. I will say that I was surprised at how lovely the fresh chives were on a toasted ciabatta. I honestly thought it would have needed garlic or something.

The asparagus was good, but disappointingly slim. I ate ALL of it as part of my first meal and ended up pairing my leftover fish with some veggie bites I had in the freezer.

The fish itself was really good. A co-worker told me that if I would have let the breaded-but-uncooked fish sit for at least 5 minutes, the breading would have stuck to the final product a little better.

Even so, the panko was super tasty and I was pleased with the overall meal. A fun experience that I would never have bought the ingredients for and tried on my own.

Recipe 2: Cherry Drizzled Pork Chops

HUGE win. Super delicious and tasty, and fun to make to boot!

The only downside is that one of the ingredients was missing. There should have been a little packet of soup base to use in the cherry drizzle sauce, but it was nowhere to be found.

The couscous side was very easy to make (though if I make it again, I’ll saute the shallots before adding them to the mix) and turned out zingy and fresh.

The pork chops turned out PERFECT. Delightfully crisp on the outside and the cherry sauce? MAGNIFIQUE.

I added the pork chops and cherry sauce to my recipe cards.

Recipe 3: Winner Winner Chicken Orzo Dinner

The side dish was a big big win, but the chicken itself was uninspiring.

Alas, the downside this time was the chicken itself. One of the breasts was off-color and both of them had … an odor. We rinsed them, sniffed again, and decided not to chance it.

Luckily, I live across the street from a butcher shop, so we got some replacements there.

The chicken was just butterflied and fried with spices. If I do this again, I’m slicing, marinating in italian dressing, and frying THAT up. OM NOM.

However, I bought the recipe because I wanted to try the orzo and I was NOT disappointed.

What a LOVELY texture and shape the orzo has!

Plus, they had me roast zucchini and tomato … then sprinkle panko, mozzarella, and parmesan over top and broil until toasty.

I then added THAT glorious, cheesy, crispy mess back to the orzo and you guys?

*kisses fingertips*

You bet your bottom dollar that recipe got added to my box.

Another Box?

Yup! I want at least one more … plus, I emailed in about the chicken and the missing soup base and they gave me a $30 rebate.

I mean. They addressed the email to “Rick” but I still got the rebate, so I’m not complaining.

StitchFix Update – Box 2

Box 2 hath arrived!

I lowered the price point on this one to the minimum for all categories.

I got:

1) A navy knit top with a heavy lace hem and a string/tie in the back.

Nice, flattering, good fit, LOVED the lace … but the tie tangled in my hair and was a super duper no-go. Alas.

2) A black knit top with a twist in the back.

Boring in the front and the fun twist was totally hidden by my hair. No-go.

3) A heavy white long-sleeved shirt with a HUGE rope/string lace-up the front. 

Huge rope/string was super awkwardly huge. Like … as wide as my thumb huge. Also, the neckline it was lacing went waaaay down, so it would have needed an undershirt. No-go.

4) An ADORABLE silk kimono top in a blue and gold pattern.

Flattering and amazing … but every three steps, it gossammer’d its way off my shoulders. SO SAD. But I had to let it go. Practicality first!

5) A clingy/stretchy black long sleeved cover-up.

Originally I didn’t think I’d like it, but it was SUPER comfy and the hemline does this flattering swoopy curve thing that involves POCKETS so … yeah. I kept it.

Another Box?

Yes, but it may be my last one. It’s been fun, but also expensive and I’m just not a clotheshorse. I’m fine wearing a $15 top I got from J.C. Penney that I might see someone else wearing … or even a $5 top from a resale shop, without cringing or shame.

I did request to get two bottoms in this next box and specified that I like boot cut. We shall see how they do … I’ve been told sometimes they hit the jackpot on pants that fit, and I hate pants shopping.

So! One more box for sure, but perhaps the last one. We shall see!

12. The Note

Jinn woke to a certainty that something was wrong. Unmoving and without opening his eyes, he assessed his situation.

The dryness of his tongue, the faint aftertaste of copper, and the sharp tingling in his arms and legs told him he’d been drugged. The flicker of cool air against his face meant it was no longer high sun. Early evening or late afternoon, perhaps. The beat of steady foot traffic indicated that he was near a major thoroughfare. Not in a building then, and still in town.

The absence of Remora’s near-constant verbal dialogue bothered him more than he cared admit. The girl seemed unable to let even the passing of a single seabird go unnoticed and unremarked upon. Peace and stillness he’d once craved now felt flat and empty.

Only death or unconsciousness could still her tongue were she nearby. The one was past his assistance and the other not immediately remedied, so he set the matter aside.

Every situation could be reduced to base elements. Attempting to handle more than one element at a time led to lack of control. Lack of control led to death.

The tingling faded, concentrating in his hands and feet. The symptoms of his poison indicated that he’d been drugged with dried iocane. Deadly in larger doses, it was one of the few poisons that guaranteed an immediate state of unconsciousness in a Shinra’ere.

Iocane, he was familiar with. It had, as a matter of fact, been chosen for his Shinra’ere poison exams. No agoge student took the poison exam more than once—there was no need. The exam was simple: the student must survive the initial poisoning, self-diagnose, and self-medicate. The very real possibility of death was more than enough to encourage most students to study, and Jinn had been no exception.

Whoever had done this to him was either very stupid or very, very good. Iocane was no tool of a common thief. Either his attacker had wanted him dead and failed in that goal, or he’d known the precise amount of the poison to use in order to take him out of the equation for a while.

One problem was simple enough to solve. He was alive, and any attacker foolish enough to try and kill a Shinra’ere would be easy to find. The other . . . well, he hoped it wasn’t the other. He did not have time for a clever enemy.

He cast his memory back. Perhaps he could find a clue.

Remora had darted off to a side alley. Like a bird, the girl moved in rapid spurts, never telegraphing her intent until the movement was complete. Her erratic movements would have made her a formidable opponent in battle. As it was, they simply made guarding her all the more difficult.

He’d called after her and followed to the mouth of the alley before blackness claimed him.

No, there had been something else. The cat-dresl he’d brushed past, impatient to chase Remora. His eyes had met Jinn’s squarely, without the sideways glances and hooded glares the rest of the dresl in town had given him. Had the cat’s arm moved as he passed? He could have been scored by an iocane-laced dagger then. He burned the cat’s face (gold fur, dark rosettes, green eyes, left ear decoratively nocked in two places, two bent whiskers on his right side) into his memory. It wasn’t much, but it was a good start. A better start than he expected his foe wanted him to have.

The tingling finally left his feet. If he were required to defend himself, he could now do so with only moderate difficulty.

Jinn opened his eyes.

He sat in the mouth of an alley. Late afternoon shadows stretched over the white limestone wall across from him. Pinned to that wall by a blooded dagger—in a place he would be absolutely certain to see—a piece of paper struggled like a trapped butterfly.

11. Ally

Remora looked up to see another Shinra’ere leaning against a nearby wall, skin the same slate gray as Jinn’s and eyes just as red. Where Jinn’s wrappings were black, this other Shinra wore pure white bindings. The tassel dangling from the hilt of her weapon was tied with a different knotting pattern than Jinn’s and was red where his was yellow.

Once again, Remora cursed the tight-lipped entries on the Shinra’ere found within the pages of her Ardelan Encyclopedia. Surely those differences in color meant something, but she felt certain that it was an inappropriate time to inquire about them.

“Nolan,” said Jinn, voice even and unsurprised.

“You’re back sooner than expected,” the new Shinra’ere said.

Remora’s eyebrows rose. Back? So Jinn had been here before?

“I am not here for that. It is not yet time,” replied Jinn, shooting a warning glance to Remora.

The new Shinra’ere followed the glance to Remora, red eyes assessing her only momentarily before clearly dismissing her. Remora wasn’t sure if she should be insulted or relieved.

“That doesn’t matter. There’s been a problem with . . .” a quick glance to Remora “. . . the package.”

Immediately, Jinn animated, straightening his posture and dropping his hands to his side, one hand brushing against the yellow tassel attached to his arcblade’s hilt. “What problem?” he asked.

Nolan stiffened. “Stand down, Jinn. We have known each other a long time, but this is my territory and you are Exile.”

With visible effort, Jinn relaxed, crossing his arms over his chest. Nolan nodded. “I take a risk even speaking to you. You are here overnight?” she asked.

Jinn dropped his chin.

“Good. Seek a room at the Lion’s Pride. I’ll be in contact.”

Nolan took a step away, then paused, looking back. “Lose the human. Bad enough that you came back at all, let alone with a dirtsider.”

Dirtsider? A terribly derogatory term to apply to someone she hadn’t even bothered to greet!

“I cannot,” said Jinn, voice level. “She is my charge.”

Nolan’s eyes narrowed. “You are a sell-sword now? A sell-sword to dirtsiders?”

Jinn said nothing.

Nolan curled her lip and spat once to the side. “Your brother is not worth a handful of living earth, let alone all you sacrifice for him. By the Mark, he will be the death of you in truth one of these days, Jinn.”

With that, she was gone.

Remora shook the folds of her skirt, dislodging a few specks of sand. “I must say, Jinn, I do not much care for your friends.”

“She risks much for me,” he said, and no more, despite several plaintive looks cast in his direction as they continued their stroll to the marketplace. Truly, the man kept his thoughts to himself more than any other being she had ever met! She would almost have preferred the company of McCoy over this brooding silence.

Remora adjusted her parasol and forced her lips into a smile. She would not allow Jinn’s sullen attitude to spoil what might be her only trip to a Shinra city. Nor, for that matter, would she allow Nolan’s rudeness to darken such a wonderfully sunny day.

A tantalizing smell met her nose, yeasty and sweet. Pastries from some nearby vendor? Surely so! That would be just the thing to salvage the mood. She had never known Jinn to refuse a pastry. She could purchase a cupcake with extra sprinkles and perhaps coax a smile to his eyes.

Snapping her parasol closed, Remora turned darted up a side alley, following the scent. It couldn’t possibly be far.

“Remora, wait!” called Jinn, but Remora ignored him with dogged determination. He would no doubt try to dissuade her, but she was in no mood for it. She would have her pastry, and she would regain her gracious, if quiet, bodyguard in the process.

The alley turned a corner then stopped abruptly, no longer an alley but a wall, grayed with shadow.

She put her hands on her hips. She could have sworn the smell came from this direction. Perhaps she should have taken the next one up. No sooner had she turned to leave, than a wolf-dresl stepped from the shadows. His eye gleamed and his paw-hands curled around a rough-hewn wooden bat.

She did not like the way he was eyeing her. She glanced around, stomach dropping as she realized her ploy to outrun Jinn had been more effective than she had intended. She was alone, in a strange city, confronted by an armed stranger.

Though, of course, that might be a somewhat hasty assump­tion. Perhaps the dresl was as lost as she. “Do pardon me, I seem to have lost my way,” she said with a smile, making as if to step around him.

He gestured with a paw-like hand. Two more dresl stepped from the shadows, a sinuous cat-man and a powerfully built bull-man. Both were armed and neither looked particularly like a pastry vendor.

Remora gave a nervous laugh and slipped her hand into her skirt pocket, where her tiny derringer was.

Her heart froze. Where her derringer used to be.

Her hand fumbled through the folds of her skirt, but the familiar weight of the little gun was nowhere to be found.

The cat took a step forward and held out his hand. There, on the thick paw-pad of his palm, was her gun, pearl-inlaid handle and all.

“Why, that’s my gun! Where did you get it?” she asked, amazed. Could she possibly have dropped it?

The cat began to choke. It wasn’t until the wolf started huffing that she realized the odd sounds they were making were laughter.

Remora knotted her hands in her skirts. It was becoming increasingly obvious that these dresl were not here to forge a friendship.

More desperately this time, she looked around. Smooth limestone walls rose on all sides. No handholds for climbing, even if she felt she could accomplish such a feat. No doorways for ducking into or debris to launch toward them as weaponry.

The bull-man strode forward, nostrils flaring. He gestured at her, his hoof-like fingers opening and closing in a pattern.

She took a step back, feeling the cold stone of the wall press into her back. “I . . . what is it you want?” she asked, throat dry.

The bull-man repeated the gestures, more sharply this time. She stared dumbly at him. The wolf-man yipped once, then gestured in a different pattern. The bull-man snorted and gestured in return.

Speech. The hand gestures were speech.

For a moment, Remora’s enchantment at a language made entirely of hand gestures so consumed her she quite forgot her situation.

So that was how the dresl and Shinra communicated with each other. It made sense. With so many different types of mouths and throats, a spoken language would be impossible.

The two finished their silent conversation and the bull-man turned back to face her. “Please, I only wish to leave. I want no confrontation,” she said. Again the choking cat laughter from behind the bull-man. They could certainly understand her perfectly well.

The bull-man reached toward her with obvious menace. Her heart clattered fearfully against her chest as she stepped away. Where was Jinn?

10. Helion

It seemed Remora’s feet had only just touched the salt-scored wood of the Helion dock before Hank childishly turned the Miraj round and sped off, sails unfurling as if impatient to be away from them.

Remora watched the ship disappear, some part of her yearning to call out and request that it return. The dull, unmoving wood of the dock felt unpleasant beneath her boots. She’d read about the phenomenon. “Sea legs,” the Ardelan Encyclopedia had called it. At the time, she’d wondered how anyone could feel as if solid ground were heaving and buckling. Now all she wanted was to be back aboard the ship, where the wood beneath her feet seemed almost to be alive and breathing.

Jinn was scant comfort. Had the black-wrapped warrior been a smaller, more nervous sort of man, she might have called his current behavior “timid.” Assigning such a mundane term to the Shinra’ere warrior seemed out of place, yet she could find no better description for his silent and incessant pacing, nor the line between his brows that had not disappeared since he learned that Helion was their destination.

She would not be so rude as to call attention to his behavior and he seemed unwilling to discuss it. She had hoped to take this opportunity to get to know the man better, but at this rate, she might well have been alone save for a particularly tall and muscular shadow.

The sunlight beat down upon them stifling force and Remora sighed. Groceries were certainly not going to purchase themselves.

Remora lifted her parasol, pushing it open and settling it against her shoulder. “Well then,” she said to the air, as Jinn was clearly not listening, “one presumes the marketplace is in this direction.”

She strode forward and Jinn followed. The man was twitchy as a cat in a room full of dogs. She could not fathom it. The entire city of Helion was under Shinra rule. This should be near a homecoming for him, yet he acted as if it were a misery.

Helion itself was beautiful enough to distract her from Jinn’s nervousness. The port city rose from the desert sands like a tooth thrust through soft fabric. The walls, buildings, and even the streets themselves were constructed primarily of gleaming white limestone. Emphasized by the starkness of its surroundings, ornate rooftops blazed with color. Here, a building was capped with a complex pattern of colored clay shingles. Its neighbor had a low, flat roof with a furnished veranda. The next building sported billowing cloth canopies in rich jewel tones.

Punctuating every corner of every building, it seemed, golden gargoyles hissed, scowled, or glared down at passers-by. She found the intentionally hideous statues disconcerting. Must every statue be a horned, winged, serpent-fanged nightmare? They seemed almost out of place in such opulent and beautiful surroundings.

Unsettled, Remora’s steps slowed and she paid more attention to the opulent city. Something else, something other than the gargoyles, bothered her.

It wasn’t until she saw a horse-dresl woman carrying a basket of turnips that Remora could put her finger on the most unsettling thing about Helion.

There were no plants. No cheerful flowers in boxes underlined curtained windows. No artfully trimmed hedges in pots dotted stone verandas. Swaying gaslamps on limestone armatures dotted the thoroughfare where tall trees would have been in her home city. Not so much as a single blade of grass could be seen.

Remora moved a step closer to Jinn. The lack of plant-life seemed unaccountably eerie, even given the city’s desert location.

The people of Helion were almost universally dresl, of course. The Shinra and the half-animal dresl shared an alliance that even her expensive Ardelan Encyclopedias had not been able to explain.

Not much was known about the secretive Shinra race. Humans were allowed only in port cities, and even then only as guests. The Shinra chose not to discuss themselves and the dresl could not speak with their animal throats and mouths even if they wanted to.

Watching the dresl go about their business, Remora wondered how they did manage to communicate. Certainly, they had to speak with the Shinra and with each other. They might share physical aspects with animals, but they wore human clothing and walked upright on their hind legs. Surely they were of human intelligence.

There was, of course, one obvious way to find out. Remora stopped the next dresl walking past, a well-muscled horse-headed man carrying a bundle of sheepskins. “Pardon my interruption, but is this the way to the market?” she asked, gesturing the direction she had been walking.

The dresl’s mild brown eyes blinked, ears swiveling forward to catch her question. He nodded and pointed a hoof-tipped finger in the same direction they had been heading.

Remora smiled at him. “Thank you very much, that is quite helpful.”

The horse-man snorted once, the sort of mild whuffle she often heard from her carriage horses back home.

Behind her, Jinn moved. “You need not ask directions, Lady. I know—”

Catching sight of the Shinra’ere for the first time, the dresl’s eyes rolled back and showed their whites. Tossing his head and pinning his ears back, the muscular dresl fairly leaped backward, dropping his bundle in his haste to be away from them.

The line between Jinn’s eyes deepened and his lips pulled into a pained grimace.

“Jinn, what is—?” Remora began.

Her bodyguard interrupted her, the first time she could recall him ever doing so. “We should keep moving,” he said tersely, pointedly not looking at the horse-man, whose fur visibly twitched, nostrils flared.

For the sake of the clearly distraught dresl, she followed Jinn’s advice and walked swiftly up the street, anxiously spinning her parasol in her hands.

As soon as she judged them to be out of earshot, she scowled at her bodyguard. “Jinn. Thrice, aboard the Miraj, you asked that we not come to Helion and thrice I was rebuffed when I requested reason to change our destination. Pressing the matter may not be ladylike, but it would seem that your presence here is particularly unwelcome. I believe you are in possession of insight as to why that might be.”

Jinn remained stoic. “I do not believe the answer you seek will hinder the intent of our visit, Miss Gates.”

Remora stopped and put a hand on his wrapped arm. “It is not the fate of our groceries which so concerns me.”

Jinn’s red eyes closed briefly. Almost, she regretted asking him. The look on his face as the dresl backed away from them had been terrible. He had reacted as though the dresl had slapped him.

No, more disturbing than that: he’d reacted as though he deserved such a slap.

“I do not know how to explain.” He gritted his teeth, eyes on the road, or the wall, or the sky—anywhere but her face. “I am no longer Shinra,” he said, finally, as though that explained everything.

“I do not know what that means,” Remora said, brow furrowed.

A new voice spoke up, sharp as flint. “It means he has no family. It means he can never return to his home clan because even his mother, his father, and his brother would kill him on sight. It means he’s a godless, damned traitor.”

9. Sprinkles

Never a dainty eater, the taste of the pastry didn’t actually hit Hank until after he’d already swallowed the first bite.

Remora’s face shone. “How is it? Do you like it? I’m terribly afraid that I might have used too much cinnamon.”

The striking flavor invading his gullet wasn’t cinnamon. Hank suppressed a rebellious heave. Not cinnamon at all.

Sardines, perhaps, or possibly even onion.

The frosting was most definitely orange, though. He’d have testified in a court of law that the frosting was orange.

If she hadn’t told him it was supposed to be a muffin, he would have thought it was an assassination attempt.

“Well?” she prompted, eyes glistening with hope. “What do you think?”

Hank swallowed again. The taste did not improve upon a second encounter.

“It’s . . . . well, I’ve never tasted anything like it,” he offered weakly.

She clapped her hands joyously. “Oh, marvelous! Here! Have another.” She reached to the plate and lifted another lumpy pastry, this one adorned with vibrant red sprinkles. She paused. “Which batch was this one, I wonder?” She tapped her lips pensively with her free hand while Hank stared at the cupcake in her hand as if it were a coiled viper. “Ah, now I remember! I ran out of protein sources before I could make this one. This was part of the sweet potatoes and pickles batch.”

She dropped the thing into his hand. Hank stared at it, horrified. She couldn’t possibly expect him to eat another.

“Remora,” Jinn’s deep voice rescued him by drawing away her attention. “Pardon my saying so, but would it be accurate to surmise that you did not follow the recipe in the book when you made these?”

Jinn never appeared in public without full face and body wraps, making it difficult to be certain, but his red eyes looked pinched and the gray skin of his cheeks seemed a shade or two lighter than usual. The half-eaten pastry in front of the warrior fairly bristled with ominous red sprinkles. Hank looked at the red-sprinkled pastry in his own hand and hastily dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the table. Anything so terrible it caused a Shinra’ere to blanch was not something Hank wanted to eat.

“You would be correct! Those recipes were terribly unbalanced on a macro-nutrient level.” Remora leaned forward, voice lowered. “You may not realize it, but those recipes are comprised almost entirely from flour and sugar! Even the fruited ones add a preposterous amount of extra sweetener. Human dietary needs skew much farther toward protein and vegetable sources. Clearly, the recipes were in desperate need of correction, so I altered them. For balance, you see.”

“For balance,” the Shinra’ere warrior repeated weakly.

A high-pitched chittering sounded, followed by the familiar, flat translation of Montgomery’s craft. “These are revolting, Remora. I would not feed them to my enemies.”

Remora’s jaw dropped. “That . . . that can’t possibly be true! I measured the nutrients very carefully and threw away every burned or undercooked specimen!”

Hank’s eyes narrowed. Something she’d said a moment before blossomed into full realization. “Wait a tick. Did you just say you ‘ran out’ of protein?”

She froze, eyes wide in as clear an expression of guilt as he’d ever seen.

No. Impossible. Hank kicked back his stool and marched to the tiny shipboard kitchen pantry.

Throwing the doors wide, Hank froze. Anarchy met his eyes. Open, unwashed tins careened across crumb-strewn surfaces. Half-open boxes of dry goods spilled their contents onto the shelves. Shards of now-stale crisps littered every surface, shrapnel from bag explosions in some hellish food war.

Hank stood for a moment, completely and totally undone by the chaos that had, not one week before, been a fully stocked and carefully organized cupboard.

He took a deep breath and counted down from ten. With painful slowness, he closed the pantry doors, shutting away the horrors within.

“Remora?” he asked, not turning around.

“Yes?” she replied, her voice tiny.

He took another breath. Five months and two weeks. Five months and two weeks.

“I am going to ask you to never open these doors again,” he said.

“But how will I learn to cook?” she protested.

Jinn made a sound somewhere between a cough and a choke. Hackwrench, never one to stand on ceremony, began laughing outright, his ship translating the shrill chitters into a flat, mechanical, “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“This,” Hank said quietly, “is the part where you say, ‘Yes, Hank. I will never open the food cupboard doors again.’”

“But you were the one who said I couldn’t have a cook—” she began.

He interrupted. “Jinn, can you cook?”

“I can,” replied the Shinra’ere. Hank imagined the man was willing to agree to just about anything so long as it meant he didn’t have to eat another one of Remora’s muffins.

“Excellent. Now you have a cook, Remora. Say it.”

“But—”

“Say. It.”

She sighed heavily. He imagined her lower lip pouting and her arms crossed over her chest. She’d single-handedly managed to destroy four months worth of food stores in one cooking spree. It didn’t matter how much money she had: he couldn’t produce edible food from salt water and sea air. If they were going to leave port, he needed to be sure their food stores were safe.

“Very well,” she said.

“Say it.”

“You can’t possibly intend for me to repeat that whole ridiculous sentence.”

Hank waited.

“You are a uniquely obstinate man, has anyone ever told you that?” She sputtered. “Very well. Yes, Hank, I will never open the pantry doors again. Are you happy?”

“Thrilled. Bones, you listening?”

“Yes, Captain.” Bones’s voice sounded from the copper speaking tube in the corner of the room.

“I thought you might be. Set a course for the nearest city. You and I will continue as planned and retrieve the Hawks while Remora and her new cook replenish our food supplies.”

“Oh dear,” said Remora. “That will delay our arrival in Bespin, will it not?”

Hank turned a glare on her that had caused hardened pirates to regret their words. Lady Remora Windgates Price was made of sterner stuff. She took only a single, very small, step backward.

“Saving time to reduce the delay,” he answered, “is one reason we are splitting up.”

“And the other reason?” she asked tentatively.

“So that I do not murder you,” he said, then walked out of the kitchen.