I look up from the transit paperwork in my hands and over at Victoria Byng across her desk.
“Are you sure you want me going to the mainland for the parts?” I ask carefully.
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation. “You’ve worked well with all the groups helping repair Wellington Wells. People there may trust you more than they would most of us.” She folds her hands neatly atop the desk. “If it would make you more comfortable, take Roger or James. Or both.”
The thought alone tightens my stomach.
Even now, after everything, it feels less like a neighboring shore and more like somewhere half-imagined—spoken about so often it stopped seeming entirely real.
I swallow and nod once. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Victoria inclines her head, already reaching for another document. “Safe travels, Miss Sonny.”
The dismissal is gentle, efficient, unmistakably final.
I leave her office and cross the district to find James.
When I ask if he’ll come with me, I expect hesitation.
Instead, after only a brief pause, he says, “Alright.”
No questions. No visible concern. Just quiet agreement.
Oddly enough, that steadies me more than reassurance would have.
Before leaving, I find John near one of the inspection routes and tell him where we’re going.
“The mainland?” he repeats immediately, a crease forming between his brows.
“Only for supplies,” I assure him. “We’ll be back tonight if all goes well.”
He studies me for a moment, as though deciding whether concern will help or only make leaving harder.
“Stay close to James,” he says at last. “And if something feels wrong, you come straight back. Parts can be replaced.”
I smooth a hand lightly against the front of his coat. “I’ll be safe.”
He exhales softly through his nose before leaning down to press a brief kiss against my forehead.
Two hours later, James and I are crossing the Britannia Bridge aboard one of the restored delivery trains.
Repairing the bridge had been one of the first major reconstruction efforts after trade resumed. Even now, sections of it still look too new beside the older framework—fresh steel bolted awkwardly against weathered wartime iron.
The train rattles steadily beneath us.
Neither of us speaks much.
As Wellington Wells fades behind the fogged carriage windows, I realize how strange it feels seeing the island from the outside.
Ahead of us, the mainland rises slowly through industrial haze and low gray cloud.
No artificial cheer threaded through every street corner.
Just brick, smoke, damp concrete, and crowds moving with the blunt urgency of people too busy surviving to pretend they’re happy.
The moment we step off the train, conversations nearby falter.
A few people glance toward us before quickly looking away. Others stare openly, curiosity sharpened by caution.
Their expressions aren’t fearful exactly.
Like spotting an animal they recognize from stories but never expected to see up close.
“They’re a pair of them…” someone mutters nearby.
The speaker clearly thinks we’re too far away to hear.
James keeps walking beside me, expression unreadable. I adjust the strap of my bag and follow his lead, trying not to shrink beneath the weight of unfamiliar eyes.
The station feels overwhelming compared to Wellington Wells.
No cheerful music filters through hidden speakers. No artificial floral perfume hangs in the ventilation.
Just coal smoke, wet wool, cigarette ash, machine oil, and voices layered over one another without restraint.
Near the station entrance, a man argues openly with a vendor. Somewhere farther down the street, someone laughs too loudly. A child cries without anyone trying to hush them quiet for the sake of appearances.
The disorder of it all tightens something quietly inside my chest.
We follow Victoria’s list through rows of cramped shops and narrow streets lined with soot-darkened brick. Most people ignore us beyond the occasional suspicious glance.
Between two storefronts, though, a little girl no older than five sits perched atop a wooden crate, a rag doll tucked beneath one arm.
She notices us immediately.
For a second, I brace myself for fear.
Instead, her entire face brightens.
She waves enthusiastically.
James and I both pause before awkwardly waving back.
The girl beams at us, utterly unconcerned with where we came from or what the island is supposed to mean.
A moment later, her mother notices and gently pulls her closer—not harshly, just carefully.
But the moment lingers anyway.
It feels strange not being judged on sight.
Stranger still that such uncomplicated kindness comes most naturally to a child.
Collecting the supplies takes longer than expected.
One shop has the wrong fittings. Another insists on recounting inventory twice before releasing anything marked for Wellington Wells transit. By late afternoon, both James and I are exhausted from navigating unfamiliar streets, crowded queues, and endless paperwork.
Still, somehow, we manage to secure everything Victoria requested.
The crates are loaded carefully onto the return train beneath the watch of two rail workers who inspect our transit forms like they expect the ink itself to betray them.
Once everything is secured, I step into the station office long enough to call John.
“We’re heading back now,” I tell him. “Could you let Roger know everything’s sorted?”
There’s a brief pause on the line before his voice softens slightly.
I glance through the office window toward the crowded platform outside.
“Yeah,” I answer honestly after a moment. “Just tired.”
“Well,” he says gently, “come home safe, poppet.”
The tension sitting low in my chest eases just enough for me to smile.
By the time we arrive back in Wellington Wells, evening has settled fully over the island.
When James and I step off the train, John and Roger are already waiting on the platform.
Relief crosses John’s face so quickly he almost hides it.
Together, the four of us help unload the supply crates to be processed properly in the morning. The station is quieter now, filled mostly with the low hum of machinery and the occasional hiss of the Pneumatic Post tubes running messages through the district.
Before leaving, I stop long enough to scribble a quick note to Victoria and feed it into the post system.
We just arrived home safely. Sorry it took longer than expected, but we managed to secure everything.
The tube seals with a sharp hiss and vanishes into the wall.
Afterward, the four of us begin the walk home together, speaking quietly beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamps. A few night constables pass along their patrol routes, offering tired nods that we return in kind.
Eventually Roger and James split off toward another street.
We exchange our goodnights and continue on alone.
I slip my hand into John’s as we walk.
He gives it a soft squeeze.
Nothing more needs saying after that.
By the time we finally make it home, the tension of the day has worn itself thin.
Soon enough we’re changed into clean nightclothes, tucked beneath warm blankets while rain finally begins tapping softly against the windows at last.
