She has not slept in Crystalglass, in all this time, or she might believe this a dream; but the streets of the City are all too solid. And, after a moment of orientation, its strangeness is dimly familiar, and she finds herself walking.

Not Oceanus, her blood murmurs, but very like it. Like what once it was. The whisper of inherited memory-- her prime companion this daymonth, much louder than her loving shadow-- is for the first time unwelcome. Irrylath, her heart whispers. My husband has been here. Irrylath may be here yet.

Pushing open the door of the tavern-- she knows it is the same one, as surely as though it were written in beads of flame upon the door-- Aeriel cannot allow herself the luxury of hope. Still, her hand rests unconsciously against her breast, where there is no mark but that of memory. Adamant's edge is too keen to leave a trace.

Holding a breath, she searches the crowd for a familiar face.