“I can’t imagine an Azura stopping like that. I feel like they would either bring their work with them, or make a grand ceremony out of the whole affair. Mind, I haven’t got the largest sampling, so maybe it’s different elsewhere, but I’ve yet to meet someone [i]really[/i] involved with the Skies who looks like they could take a simple vacation. The sort where you go on a beach, lay down, do nothing but…no, sorry, that’s not quite right. Home is not a vacation, home is supposed to be every day. It’s supposed to be a part of normal life. And it’s missing from all of them. It’s like they’ve carved it out and thrown it into the fire, in service to something that makes them cry glory, glory.”

They’re walking the decks now, through endless sepulchers and cradles. In the distance, strange music carries on the breeze, and it will not stop until the ship is full. On the wall before them, a glittering mural of Summerkind are arrayed around a tiny sheep, holding up a pie bigger than him. All pose in artful, overwhelmed joy at this miracle of sumptuousness. In very small letters, all around the tin, somebody’s written the recipe.

And this is what the Azura strive with all their might to ignore.

“What a waste.” His voice cracks. “What a horrible waste.”