Piper’s hand hovered over the edge of her mask. Her gloved fingers gently prodded and poked where fabric met skin. Patrolling the borders of her false face for any breach of their airtight walls. She, at last, let go of the breath she was holding and took in the unsteady air sprinkled with the herbs stuffed in her beak. The fog was thick; Piper only knew the coast was beside her by the crashing of the waves and the salt in the streets. The great beam of the lighthouse was invisible, unable to cut through the blanket of grey. “How are you holding up?” Piper asked her companion. “Fine… just fine.” Inkwell huffed. Her dark coat hugged her body like a second skin. Piper could see the doctor’s bloated belly bouncing slightly with each step. Piper gripped her own bloated belly. The countess’ meal was still sloshing inside her. “The theory was correct.” Inkwell noted. “The fog is thicker, so a possible source for it must be close.” “Here’s hoping, doctor Inkwell.” Piper pulled a small