[City of New York, November 2nd, 1866]

Romy tried not to wrinkle her nose. The adventure stories never covered the smell of cities. Between the horse dung, the stink of sweaty bodies pressed together, and just the mass of grimy stone warmed by the sun and traffic but cooled by the air. 

"You seem too well traveled to be in shock over this," Karsten noted, eyeing her. "Don't like this city?"

Romy smiled a little. "First impressions aren't that important in a city. Big settlements just show you the facade they want you to see while you do your business and get out, so you tell your friends and family what they want you to tell them. You have to visit a few times or stay a while until the city grows bored of you and stops keeping up appearances."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Karsten nodded, looking around at the people crowding the boardwalks. "This is my third time in the City of New York. I wasn't impressed by the other two either. How many times have you been?"

"This is my first encounter. When I came to this country, I was in Barbados on business. The ship I arrived on went to New Orleans. I've spent most of the past two years in the south."

"Well, then. Maybe we should linger a bit. Look behind the mask."

She shook her head. "No, Madame Posat is waiting for us."

"She might be dead," Karsten pointed out. "Even if she isn't, we're ahead of schedule thanks to the dead horses. We have time for a day out." He gave her a winning smile.

Romy grinned back. He did have a point. "Alright. The driver was supposed to take us to a dockside house to prepare for boarding. We can make arrangements there if Madame Posat fails to be there to greet us right away."

They rolled along the cobblestone. The locals only gave way through the sheer mass of the animals leading the coach. Romy eyed each as they came close, looking for signs of recognition. None came, and they existed in a bubble of anonymity that comforted her greatly. No sign of another ambush, no sign of being followed. Fatigue from the last several days' ride settled into her and she supressed more than one yawn before they arrived. 

The dockside house was a hideous ramshackle clearly owned by a skinflint with enough money to fix it up but enough spite to let it rot instead. The house itself was a simple bunkhouse, albeit with partitions between the bunks for some semblance of privacy. Or perhaps it was simply to spare sailors the sight of one another during shore leave activities. Romy made the necessary inquiries and discovered that Madame Posat had reserved them rooms in case they arrived early and left her a note.

The note simply read that she would meet them on the 4th as planned. Romy glanced out of the door to the street where Karsten and the others were unloading the coach. She watched Inola approach the horses with open wonder on her face.

"We've been riding for days without more than a few minutes' stop. These poor horses must be exhausted."

"They're dead tired," Karsten confirmed, glancing at Romy with a sly grin. She tried not to snort in response and only mostly failed. "Let's let the stables take care of them. We made good time, we have a patron, and I want to see if I'll hate this place as much as I did the last time I was here."

Romy stepped into the street. "Apparently we have the day tomorrow as well. I propose we find something to eat that isn't cheese and stale bread and then bed down for the night. We can explore tomorrow."

The group assented, clearly tired and sore from the punishingly long coach ride, and in short order they had located a dockside eatery. Romy paid for the table and they settled in. They were supplied with a weak, grimy coffee without having been offered and the heavily pregnant waitress sullenly informed them that their food would be done in a few minutes.

"Anyone read a good book, lately?" Aaron asked, wistfully.

"I just finished Der Nekromant not too long ago. Ah... the Necromancer."

Aaron groaned. "Isn't that one of the horrid novels that Miss Austen skewered? I thought that was a myth."

Romy flashed him an angry look that brought him up short. "No, it is no myth. It was 'translated' by an Englishman hoping to strangle the Gothic genre in its crib. His translation was horrid, but it is quite a brilliant book in the original German."

"Have you thought about doing a translation?" Inola asked, and Aaron was visibly relieved to have Romy's attention elsewhere. "If the Englishmen failed so thoroughly, perhaps it would be better coming from a German speaker?"

"I've thought about it, truly. I've long wanted to translate many books to and from my mother tongue." She smiled, and the tension left the air. "I love books, and if I had an ambition to truly improve the world I'd settle down and become a librarian. Alas, I was born to this," she gestured broadly, "So such childhood fancies will have to wait to see if I survive long enough for retirement."

Palmer leaned back onto the back legs of his chair, one foot on the ground and the other swinging like a child's. He was the picture of pensive relaxation. "I myself have a weakness for penny dreadfuls. My mum mails boxes of the stuff to me in the post. I've got enough for a little library of my own, if you're ever looking for donations. Don't seem right to just throw them away but not much interest in them here on this side of the pond."

"That's very generous," Romy answered, sipping her coffee and resisting the urge to spit it onto the floor. "What is your favorite?"

"Oh, I like Varney the Vampire the most I think. There was a new twist for every penny, and it ran long enough that there are plenty of pennies to spend." 

Romy laughed. She had stories about the authors of that particular piece but decided to keep them to herself for the time being. "I enjoyed those books as well. Very amusing." She turned to Aaron. "You brought it up, surely you must have something you have read."

"Uh... yes. Yes, have you ever heard of the Scarlet Letter?"

Inola giggled and wrinkled her nose. "A romantic? I never would have guessed?"

Aaron feigned theatrical indignity, "Why I will have you know, my dear lady, that within this scholar's body beats the heart of a true Romeo!" The table laughed and he beamed at his little audience. "It's actually the theme of one's mind expanding once you escape the orthodoxy. I may be imagining the connection but I sometimes I empathize her isolation with my own work."

"What work is that?" Karsten broke in, suddenly curious.

"Well," he started, suddenly sheepish. "I have been studying the indigenous peoples of America. Several years ago, I came across the grave of a Lakota war chief from before the time of the Puritans. He was buried under a stone cairn the way the Scots do, but the dirt had filled in and over the mound. I suspect it was of great antiquity, perhaps even pre-Lakota entirely. A proto civilization that later would give rise to the Lakota and their nations. The age was not the most notable factor, however. I say he was a war chief because he had the most beautifully made set of copper weaponry that I have ever seen. He was laid flat, which is unusual, and between his ankles was lashed an enormous human skull. When I removed the skull, everything but the jawbone crumbled into dust. When I tell you that the jawbone suggested a mouth that could have entirely contained my own head, I am not exaggerating.

"From there, I have joined any expedition I could to unearth remains in pursuit of more giant remains. I've found several, actually."

"What's your outfit think about the bones you're digging up?" Karsten asked, glancing at Romy. He was rooting something out, she realized. 

"They... well, they don't think much of it, to be honest. They keep saying that there is no evidence for a race of giants and making the bones disappear."

"And this disappearance is used as part of that lack of evidence?" Karsten's questions made Romy's blood run cold. 

"Why- yes!" Aaron exclaimed, clearly glad to finally have someone believe him. "They're just behaving as though the bones that they're looking at are the only ones that they have ever looked at! Then, off they go to whatever dusty warehouse holds all the others!"

"That's very interesting," Karsten answered, softly. 

"What is it..." Romy asked, carefully, "That you believe you have just uncovered?"

"Oh," Karsten chuckled, "Nothing new. Simply that there seems to be an especially powerful organization interested in preventing the world from appearing to be interesting."

Aaron was clearly lost, but before he could ask what Karsten was getting at the other man turned to Inola. "You've been quiet. Not a reader?"

"I read," Inola sniffed. "I probably read too much, in fact. I can't choose a favorite. I am currently working my way through Gautier's Albertus."

Palmer snorted. "French poetry? Why not Chaucer? Canterbury Tales is better than anything you'll find from that wine-soaked hellscape."

"I thought the French countryside was rather lovely, actually," Inola answered.

"Countryside aye," Palmer laughed. "It's the frogs you've got to worry about. Half of em have started thinking their emperor is a little god. The other half pull out the knives if you suggest that there's a god at all."

"That wasn't my experience," Inola objected. "I liked France and her people. I found them vibrant and interesting..."

"What were you doing in France, if I may ask?" Palmer took a sip of his drink, grimaced, and dumped the contents of his mug into Dupont's.

"Finishing school. My mother thought it would be a good experience for me. Especially with the... tensions at home. I also tutored under some of the finest painters of our time."

"That was it," Palmer nodded, biases confirmed. "You were hobnobbing with the academics. You never slouched." The surly waitress arrived with their food. Palmer grinned at her and quietly said, "Thank you, love." She favored him with a genuine smile that broke through her overcast demeanor and bustled about with slightly more energy.

"Well," Inola tried to argue, "No. I didn't go into the Grenouillère. It was relayed to me that to do so would be too dangerous..."

"The Grenouillère?" Palmer barked a brief laugh around a mouthful of fried fish. "Madame, that's just where the washer women are. There are whole neighborhoods that are basically warzones without the spiffy bangles."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating," Inola shot back with a scandalized grin.

"It's true!" Beckingham insisted, puffing up his chest and mimicking someone else, perhaps a French street tough if his assumed accent was anything to go on. "Stoopeed gahrl, geev moi vouz vahl-yoo-ah-bulls! Hon hon hon hon!" The table laughed again, except for Karsten whose attention was somewhere beyond the eastern wall. Even Romy had to suppress an undignified giggle at Palmer's antics.

The conversation died down as the group set about eating in earnest, with only a few quips back and forth. Even Karsten relaxed enough to have a laugh now and then before the plates were clean. When they were finished, they continued talking for nearly an hour before Palmer fished yet another flask from somewhere around his person and distributed a dodgy brandy into everyone's mug. 

He raised the glass and everyone followed suit. "To a successful venture!"

"To adventure!" Karsten exclaimed, and they clinked and tossed their drinks back.