The doors slid closed with a hiss. Risa sat on a steel bench attached to a matching paneled wall, breath hitched in her throat as the ship jerked into motion. It took hardly any time for her chestto constrict painfully around her ribs and, with each passing second, tighten a fraction more the farther they flew from Javi and the others.
She breathed in slow, stuttering lungfuls of air. Black crowded the edges of her vision. Her stomach clenched in painful anticipation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she reasoned that perhaps this was how she was meant to die all along.
“You look terrible,” Gomez remarked from the perch across from her. “Are you having a panic attack?”
Risa could not answer. She had no clue what a panic attack was, but she was sure she was actively dying. Brunie seemed to agree, giving her a few tentative, supportive licks.
By the time they docked at what she hoped was the Flying Palace, Risa could barely stand. She dug the heel of her palm into her sternum.
“Do you—need a minute?”
She shook her head. There was no stopping Brunhilda’s curse. This was the price she had to pay.
If she hadn’t been at death’s doorstep, she might have been able to appreciate the Flying Palace more. From what she could tell in her hunched position as she disembarked, it was a grand thing. It looked like a real palace, stretching high into the sky, turrets painted gold with matching arched windows that lined the metal walls. Pillared balconies rimmed with gold balusters jutted out at random, serving as docking stations for the smaller airships of important businesspeople or dignitaries, or whoever else was allowed to visit the Regent. No matter how grand, though, it lacked warmth, perhaps because it had been built from steel hammered into place and held by rivets, its reflective surface blinding.The only natural thing was the bleached-gray cobblestone floor under her boots.
The inside was a splendid testament to the Regent’s genius, though again, Risa wasn’t sure she could truly appreciate it when she was so busy dying. She had to lean against a pillar of black marble, forehead pressed against the cool stone, to gather her bearings, which were thoroughly displaced after the ride. She did find a moment to notice more polished black marble running across the floor, matching the dark paneling that made up the walls. Murals of white clouds spanned the ceiling, framed in ornate gold filigree. Dominating the main room was an imperial staircase, where porters in red-trimmed, pale green jackets stood stock-still every ten steps all the way to the top.
She almost considered giving up when she came to the stairs. They were brutal and long and seemed to go on forever. She had to pause every few feet, out of breath and on the verge of collapsing. The porters stationed on their designated steps looked concerned, while Gomez looked irritated at the possibility of dealing with a corpse.
“Are you dying?”
“Who can say?” Risa managed before hauling herself up a few more steps.
When they reached the next landing, she hardly had time to catch her breath—or breathe in general, really—before the officer led her down twisting hallways indistinguishable from the others. It was only when Gomez stopped before a dark green door that Risa registered the sudden change in scenery.
It opened into a spacious room with a roaring fire in an elaborate fireplace. A plush red-and-gold rug was spread before it; luxurious,deep-seated armchairs and settees faced the flames in silent invitation to settle in.
“The Regent will be along soon,” Gomez informed her.
Risa barely managed a nod before she was left alone to double over on the rug and properly perish without an audience.
After several minutes, she managed to breathe through the constricting pain around her ribs. With a bit more time, she could straighten to her full height without feeling a sense of vertigo. Eventually, the black spots in her eyes faded.
The first thing she noticed was a window that spanned the length of the wall, showcasing the wonders of San Cirilo. Airships dominated the skies. Big ships, tiny blimps, massive monstrosities that remained motionless. There were airship hubs that hovered in place and allowed smaller cabs to anchor in their cavernous hangars. Other airships clearly housed important businesses; they had bright, flashing ticker signs that boasted names likeRAT CASINO AND GAMBLING EMPORIUMandCLOUDBUCKS CAFÉ. Some airships playacted as manors, estates, and large parks. The rest remained stubbornly steel-faced, their domed hulls a muted silver that revealed nothing about their inner workings.
Once she had her fill of the skies, Risa took in the rest of the room. A long, tufted velvet couch was nestled close to a wall filled with various leather-bound tomes. Thankfully, none of the books hinted at nefarious activities like sacrifices or brainwashing whole towns. An ornate cherrywood desk stood proud before the wall of windows, sheets of paper and rolled parchment scattered over its surface. Lining the wall above the fireplace were paintings of fat cherub-faced children with wings flying through a cloud-filled sky and women clad in gauzy fabric pointing in random directions,interspersed with ones that showed the likeness of several stern faces with a familiar chin.
She paused by one miserable-looking older man with a bulbous nose, receding hairline, and prominent cleft chin. Beneath the painting was a gold plate that readEugenio Villanueva, 1437.
“He’s a great-great-great-great-uncle, at least twice removed,” said a voice from the door.
Risa spun around.
A heavyset woman had slipped in without making a sound. She was an imposing figure, as tall as Paulo, with deep-set eyes that looked both green and gold in the firelight, a prominent jaw marred by the familiar split in the middle, and high cheekbones in a round face. A myriad of wrinkles patterned her face, denoting a life well lived: deep smile lines, crow’s feet, furrows between her brows. The waterfall of large jewels wrapped around her thick neck matched rings on several of her fingers.
“So you’re the witch,” the large woman remarked, eyes shifting to Brunie, who had chosen to curl before the fire.
“And you’re the Regent,” Risa confirmed, sinking onto the armrest of an armchair. She was too weak to remain standing. If the Regent wanted to get rid of her, Risa would present little trouble.
The Regent did not seem particularly disturbed by the idea of meeting with a witch. There were no guards with her, nor any visible weapons on hand. She swept through the room like a strong wind, and when she perched on the back of the tufted couch and hiked a leg onto its edge, it appeared as if she were floating over it. She was dressed in a flowing burgundy robe trimmed in black feathers, cinched at the waist by a black ribbon that followed the same trail as her billowing sleeves.
Once there, she rearranged her robe over her legs, the dark trim contrasting with the red rug it pooled over. She resembled the women in her collection of paintings, plump and beautiful and far more concerned with appearing otherworldly than with how uncomfortable sitting on the back of a couch might be.
The two regarded each other, Risa half terrified and severely deprived of air, the Regent cool, as if meeting witches in her study were a regular occurrence.
“I was told you have developed abetterairship than my own?”
Risa nodded, trying to mimic the Regent’s composed air. “That’s right.” Her voice came out too high to sound convincing.
