Kimberly's day off began the way all good days off should: with something already going wrong. The morning air tasted of wet stone and coal smoke, and her stomach churned with the knowledge that tomorrow she'd have to face Hegelia without a uniform. Five demerits would look like pocket change compared to what was coming.

Leaning Park wasn't so much "leaning" as it was actively collapsing at a geologic crawl. The old trees were half-uprooted, their trunks bending toward the river as if drawn by unseen hands. Their shadows stretched across the tilted cobblestones like sundial markers, counting down minutes she didn't have. The city's poorer folk had already spread their blankets and belongings across patches of yellowing grass, staking their temporary claims with the confidence of squatter's rights.

But Lady Daze was nowhere to be found.

Kimberly circled the park twice, her borrowed shoes (Billy's old work boots, stuffed with paper) pinching her toes. The regulars watched her pass with varying degrees of interest. A man in a patched coat who called himself the Professor suggested Lady Daze had "stepped out for a walk with the wind." He smiled as he said it, showing gaps where teeth should have been.

A woman who kept laughing at her own jokes finally gave her something useful. She sat cross-legged on a faded quilt, surrounded by old alarm clocks she'd arranged in a precise circle, their hands spinning at different speeds.

"Oh, I saw her, alright!" The woman's laughter was rich and guttural, like stones in a tin can. "Last night, wobbling toward The Horse Feather! I said, 'Daze, you're walking like your shoes are made of bad decisions!' And you know what she said? 'They are!'" More laughter, accompanied by the discordant ticking of her clocks.

Kimberly groaned. The Horse Feather was on the other side of town, past the marketplace where vendors sold everything from salvaged machine parts to yesterday's newspapers, through the district where the buildings grew so tall and crooked they had to be propped up with wooden beams and rope.

She dug a copper circle from her pocket—one of her last—and stepped into the nearest telephone alcove. The booth smelled of damp wool and something sharper, more industrial. The receiver was sticky, and something dark clung to the rotary dial, but she forced herself to ignore it as she spun Clive's number.

The operator clicked in, voice as dry as old paper. "This is the Office of Communal Lines. Your privileges are restricted to emergency calls only."

Kimberly swore under her breath. "It is an emergency. Please."

A sigh that could have rusted metal. A pause long enough to birth regret. Then a brief ringing tone.

Clive's voice was rough, like he'd been gargling with gravel. "If this is about your uniform, you owe me three cigarettes just for picking up."

"Clive, come on. I just need a ride."

Paper rustled. A distant whistle—probably the 10 o'clock mail train, running late as usual. "Can't do it. You still haven't worked off your demerits. If I help you out, I'm gonna get fined, and I'm already stretched thin. Got three kids to feed, and the youngest one's started asking for meat instead of just bread and beans."

She knew better than to argue. Demerits ruled everything in this city, even favors between friends. They were like invisible chains, binding everyone together in a web of mutual caution.

But Clive wasn't heartless.

"I don't want to see you around 24 Falling Leaf Avenue," he said slowly, emphasis heavy on the 'don't.' "And I especially don't want you taking my mule from there. The one named Truffle. Who won't be tied up behind the old newspaper stand."

Kimberly grinned. "Understood. I won't go anywhere near there."

Clive hung up with a click.

---

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The mule was exactly where Clive didn't want her to find it. A sturdy old thing named Truffle, with a coat the color of burned toast and an attitude that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. The animal watched Kimberly approach with the weary resignation of public transportation.

Kimberly climbed onto Truffle's back, and together they spent the next several hours chasing ghosts through the tilting streets.

First, The Horse Feather. The bar smelled of spilled beer and wet sawdust, its windows filmed with decades of tobacco smoke. The bartender only half-listened to her questions, more interested in polishing a glass that had probably never been truly clean.

"Oh, the homeless woman?" He grunted. "Left sometime before dawn. Muttering about bread and revolution."

That led her to the alley behind Foster's Bakery, where two men huddled around a tin can fire, still laughing about last night's entertainment.

"Daze threw the first punch!" one of them hooted, his beard full of breadcrumbs. "Over a day-old loaf!"

"She bit him!" the other added, eyes shining with admiration. "Right on the nose! Never seen old Foster run so fast!"

Kimberly sighed and swung back onto Truffle, who had been eyeing the men's crusts with interest.

She checked the abandoned tram station, where the tracks disappeared into walls of stacked crates and the ceiling dripped even when it hadn't rained. No sign of Lady Daze among the makeshift shelters.

She rode down to the river docks, where fishermen sorted their catches into "probably safe" and "definitely not safe" piles. No one remembered seeing a woman with a laundry cart.

The afternoon light was growing thin when the idea finally struck her.

The police station.

---

The building looked like it had been assembled from parts of other, more dignified structures. Marble columns that didn't quite match. Windows at slightly different heights. A brass door handle that might once have been part of a ship's wheel.

Sure enough, Lady Daze was in a holding cell.

"Got herself into a scrap," the desk sergeant said, flipping through a logbook thick with similar stories. "Not the first time."

"Can I talk to her?"

The sergeant checked a list pinned to the wall, his finger moving down columns of names and numbers. Shook his head. "Not with your demerits."

Kimberly's patience snapped like a rusty spring.

"This is ridiculous! I didn't do anything wrong!"

The volume of her voice turned heads. For a moment, she thought she'd made things worse. But a uniformed officer—middle-aged, with tired eyes and cheeks that suggested he understood hunger—stood from his desk and approached. His name tag read: EDWIN.

"Tell me what's going on," he said kindly.

So she did. The lost uniform. The wild chase across half the city. Lady Daze and her cart and the tea stain that started it all.

Edwin listened without interruption, occasionally nodding as if each detail confirmed something he already knew. Then he disappeared into the back and returned five minutes later with a grim expression.

"She was robbed."

Kimberly's stomach dropped. "What?"

"After she got drunk, someone rolled her for everything she had. Your uniform included." He paused. "She tried to fight them off with a rolling pin, if that helps."

For a moment, Kimberly could only stare. Everything she'd done today had been for nothing.

Edwin sighed, the sound carrying the weight of too many similar conversations. "Tell you what. There's a seamstress who might be able to help. Lives on a barge down at the river market. Name's Deirdre. Tell her I sent you." He hesitated, then reached for his clipboard. "And I'll clear one of your demerits, just for the trouble."

Relief flooded through her. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He smiled slightly. "Really. Don't."

---

Night had fallen by the time she found Deirdre's floating shop. Lanterns bobbed in the water, casting rippling light across wooden planks and lines of laundry strung between the masts of old, half-sunken boats. The air smelled of soap and river mud.

Deirdre herself was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and fingers stained with indigo. She eyed Kimberly up and down, listened to her plea, and named her price.

"Two silver stars. And a brass cross."

Kimberly laughed bitterly. "I don't have that."

Deirdre only raised an eyebrow. "Then I guess you don't have a uniform."

Kimberly thought fast. "How about a wager?"

The seamstress folded her arms, the gesture making the tattoos on her forearms shift like living things. "Go on."

"A riddle contest. If I win, you make me a new uniform for free."

"And if I win?"

Kimberly hesitated. "Then... I owe you a favor."

Deirdre considered, then extended a calloused hand. "Deal."

The riddles came fast and sharp. Kimberly had always been good at them—a skill picked up from long hours in the sorting room, trading puzzles with Greg between shipments. She held her ground, answering each riddle with the same quick certainty she used to sort letters by district.

Until finally—Deirdre faltered.

"What speaks without a mouth and hears without ears?" the seamstress asked, voice already carrying defeat.

"A telephone," Kimberly answered, and knew she'd won.

Deirdre grunted. "Fine. You'll get your uniform. But it won't be ready in time for work tomorrow."

Kimberly's relief soured like milk in summer. "What do I do in the meantime?"

Deirdre disappeared into her shop and returned with a dress. The fabric shimmered oddly in the lantern light. "Give this to your boss. Say it's a gift."

Kimberly scowled. "Why would that help?"

Deirdre smirked. "It's a nice dress. And Hegelia used to be a customer, back when she could afford my prices."

Kimberly took it, the material cool and smooth against her fingers.

"Oh, and one more thing," Deirdre added. "You're babysitting my son tomorrow."

"What?!"

But the woman was already closing up shop, the creak of wooden planks drowning out Kimberly's protests.

---

On the way home, something strange happened.

Kimberly rode Truffle through the dimly lit streets, dress tucked under one arm. The city had quieted to its nighttime whispers. The last street vendors were packing up, their carts leaving dark trails in the dust. Shadows stretched long between the buildings, and somewhere, a mechanical bird sang its winding-down song.

And then—

A figure.

A girl, slipping between the alleyways, vanishing into the dark.

For a split second, Kimberly saw what she was wearing.

Her uniform.

Kimberly gasped, reined in Truffle, jumped down to give chase. Her boots slapped against the cobblestones as she ran, but by the time she reached the alley—

The girl was gone.

Only the city remained. Watching. Waiting. Its crooked buildings leaning close like conspirators sharing secrets.

And above it all, perched on a creaking weather vane, the black bird watched with eyes that caught the lamplight like polished brass.