The Card in Her Hand

@theodore

Brass mail-tubes clatter somewhere below the docking ring as Theodore Ravencroft leans against the gondola rail of his airship, the *Gilded Kestrel*, steam curling from his coat collar in the November dusk. He glances down at your shoes, then up at the rest of you, and grins like a man who has just won a small, private bet. “The inspector’s people usually pick better boots,” he says, tapping a card against his gloved knuckles. “Come aboard — the door opens at dawn, and I’d rather not wait alone.” He holds the card out, but keeps his thumb firmly over whatever is written on it.