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Aisling groaned as she peeled her sticky eyes open, then frowned. Why was it still dark? And where were her pillows?

Someone knocked on the door—wait, the wagon’s door was canvas, so why did it sound like wood?

“Hello? Are you opening for breakfast?” Someone called.

And that was when Aisling realized she was in her bakery stall, in the middle of the market, with a terrible hangover and no idea what time it was. Or what day, even. An empty carafe and mug sat on one side of her, and an uncovered, now thoroughly dried out batch of dough in a cauldron on the other.

She poked it. Licked her finger. It tasted of sour ale and despair. Drunken experimentation. Lovely.

The knock came again, and this time it felt like someone was banging on her skull.

“Opening late!” she called, her mouth sticky and foul. “Come back in an hour! I’ll give you a discount!”

Thankfully she had enough makings in the ice box to keep her in business through lunchtime. She should really close up shop to work on the oven at that point in the day, anyhow. And maybe set a sign outside to let people know she’d be closing early. Or maybe Brook would—

Aisling winced at the thought of Brook. Beautiful Brook, as fast-running as her name. No one could catch and hold her.

Ugh, not only was she hungover, but Aisling was also sentimental enough to compose terrible poetry in her head.

Through sheer force of will, she got the stall up and running in the promised hour. The line outside was already thick and winding, and the day’s stock still baking in shifts, but she had enough to get going. Through the throbbing headache and midday heat, Aisling somehow managed not to vomit pure stomach acid into her own baked goods. She served her customers with a smile. If any of them noticed her hair and dress hadn’t changed since yesterday, they were far too kind to mention it. Or too hungry. Either way, she was grateful.

She actually smiled when she saw a familiar face, though. Durae, a blue-eyed Dun Steorran noble and regular customer. “Ah, hello, Durae. The special cake today is summerapple.”

Durae’s gaze flitted about distractedly. He was wide awake—which was an oddity for his morning visits to the stall—but clearly distracted. “Hello!”

Durae clutched a stack of papers in one hand, and the handsome, dark elf behind him pulled a long face.

Durae went on, “We are going to order in a moment, but I was wondering if we could put one of these up on your stall?”

She accepted the paper and read it: See the True Inventor: Blaze Levimist!

“Yes, of course.” Her head was banging too loudly for her to work it out on her own, so she asked, “What’s this about, though?”

Durae said, “Blaze, that’s this wonderful elf beside me, has created an airship! It’s a true wonder. But this bastard stole his schematics and made it, too!”

Aisling’s eyes popped at the word “airship.” Then popped a little more at the word “stole.” Stealing another inventor’s work was the epitome of criminal behavior for Gearwickians.

The dark-eyed elf, Blaze, hung his head. “I did show him the designs.”

“As part of a negotiation!” Durae insisted. “He used magic to copy them.”

Aisling’s cheeks heated. “The cheat! Have you been to Inventor’s Row with this, or are you going there last?”

Somehow, Blaze managed to look even glummer at that. “We’ve been by.”

“Lord Stelen has … a mixed reputation,” Durae said with a sideways glance. “And friends. We had trouble telling others about him.”

Aisling set her jaw. She’d seen this kind of thing before back in Copperford, but not on this scale. To steal someone’s invention right before the Innovation Awards. It was simply not done. “Well, I have friends too. I’ll talk to my family–Darra will spread it far and wide among the Copperford crowd, at least.”

And she leaned over the counter to stick the paper to the shutters. She couldn’t do much to stall this cheater here, maybe, but she could at least help him not get very far back home.

Durae very nearly smiled. “Thank you, Aisling. Could we get two Copperford pies, please?”

She stayed open until she ran out of food halfway through the dinner hour, wrote an apologetic note, and tacked it onto the shutters. Then she trudged back into the dark of the stall, forced herself to eat a plain fougasse she’d saved—which made her feel much better, actually. And got to work on the bellows system.

She’d wallowed in her misery enough last night, and now she was paying for it. Time to get back to work and focus on the Innovation Awards.

Though… she wasn’t going to beat an airship. Stolen or otherwise.