The kettle screamed like a steam valve about to burst.
Dr. Evangeline Everhart didn't flinch. She was too busy elbow-deep in the chest cavity of a half-dismantled automaton, her fingers stained with oil, her hair escaping its pins in wild copper curls. A delicate screw slipped from her grip, bouncing across the workbench before vanishing into the mechanical graveyard beneath.
"Damn it all," she muttered, squinting at the automaton's exposed heart—a complex nest of gears and pressurized tubes.
Across the cluttered workshop, the kettle shrieked again.
"You're going to summon the fire brigade," came a voice from the doorway—dry as aged parchment, warm as the amber glow of gaslight.
Eve didn't look up. "Then it's a good thing my husband is a detective. He can investigate the tragic demise of his own breakfast."
Detective Inspector Alistair Quinn exhaled through his nose—the closest thing to a laugh he allowed himself—and crossed the room. His mechanical arm whirred faintly as he lifted the kettle from the stove, the polished brass plates along its frame catching the morning light.
Eve finally glanced up, watching him. Even after five years of marriage, she still caught herself studying the way he moved—the careful precision of his flesh-and-blood hand, the controlled efficiency of the mechanical one. The arm was his own design, but she built it. And she knew the weight it carried. Literally and otherwise.
"You're staring," he said without turning.
"Admiring my handiwork," she lied. "That elbow joint does look exquisite in the morning light."
He set a cup of tea beside her, steam curling between them. "You didn't sleep."
It wasn't a question.
She wiped her hands on a rag already streaked with grease. "Neither did you."
A beat of silence.
The nightmares weren't as frequent as they used to be, but they still came—for both of them.
Quinn exhaled, long and slow, then reached out—his flesh hand brushing a smudge of oil from her cheek. "You have a lecture at the university today, Dr. Everhart."
"And you have a stack of case files taller than I am," she countered.
"Mm." He didn't move his hand. "We could both play hooky."
She grinned. "Detective Inspector Quinn, are you suggesting we ignore our responsibilities?"
"I'm suggesting," he murmured, leaning in, "that the bed is significantly more appealing when you're in it."
The automaton lay forgotten.
Outside, the city stirred to life.
The great Aether Spire hummed at the heart of Brasshaven, its colossal gears turning in a slow, ceaseless rhythm. It chimed loudly at every hour. Airships drifted between the towering brass-and-iron buildings, their envelopes gleaming in the dawn light. Below, the streets teemed with workers in soot-stained overalls, automatons hauling cargo, and the occasional aristocrat in a steam-powered carriage, noses turned up at the grime of the city they ruled.
Inside 7 Blackthorn Street, however, the world narrowed to the warmth of tea, the scent of oil, and the quiet comfort of shared silence.
Eve stretched, her back popping after hours hunched over her workbench. "I swear, this automaton is fighting me. The calibration is off, but I can't find the—"
Quinn's hand settled on her shoulder, his thumb kneading the tension there. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "Flatterer."
"Realist."
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
Firm. Official.
Quinn went still. Eve sighed.
"Duty calls," she muttered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, just for a second—a silent apology—before straightening. By the time he opened the door, his expression was all business.
Constable Briggs stood on the step, hat in hand, looking like a man who'd rather be anywhere else. "Inspector. Apologies for the hour, but—well. There's been a murder."
Quinn's jaw tightened. "Where?"
"Lord Thorpe's estate."
Eve, now hovering behind Quinn, stiffened. Thorpe. A name that carried weight in Brasshaven.
Briggs hesitated, then added, "The Chief requested you specifically, sir. Says it's… delicate."
Quinn didn't glance back at Eve. He didn't need to. She was already reaching for her coat.
"Give us five minutes," she said.