When Horn arrived at that small pub in the Highbury district, it was packed with people. Bagpipe was waving vigorously at her from across about a dozen others, and by the time Horn had made her way through most of the pub, half the ale in Bagpipe's hand had spilled out. Bagpipe shoved the half-filled mug into Horn's arms, then turned back to the bar to grab a new one, which she downed in one go. Her cheeks were flushed, beads of sweat clinging to them—it was clear she'd been working hard helping out here.

"Robin's eldest has some grand skill. The ale he brews has a lovely grain aroma, and it warms ye right up when ye drink it," Bagpipe said with a smile. "Captain, ye must gie it a try!"

Horn glanced at the warm golden liquid in her hand. The pub's decor was mostly in warm tones. Londinium had weathered the period of extreme shortages, but folks were still in the habit of using their own curtains and tablecloths to decorate places. The pub's reopening was a big deal for the nearby neighborhoods, proving that everyone was back to work and had resumed their after-work lives.

When the music started, Bagpipe grabbed Horn's hand, and Horn was momentarily startled before following along. Bagpipe's plaid skirt had a long hem; when she twirled, it looked beautiful—like big daffodils, or like a wee oil lamp by the bedside. Horn realized she wasn't wearing her military uniform either. This tight white dress was something she'd dug out from an old school locker; it still fit, but it felt unfamiliar—just like her hands without sword and shield.

"Captain, ye've got tae move! No one's gonnae laugh at ye," Bagpipe thought she was feeling shy. "See, keep up wi' my rhythm—it's nae hard at all!"

"What rhythm?" Horn couldn't hold back her laughter any longer. If dancing to the beat were a class, Miss Fiona Young would've had all her points docked by now.

Back at the bar, Horn picked up the ale Bagpipe had prepared for her and drank it down in one go.

"It is really good," she said, still smiling. "To Robin."

"To Robin," Bagpipe echoed.

"And to Abigail, Henderson, Gwen..." Horn set down the empty mug. "Gwen—ha—the malt ale that our cellist loved most, what was it called again?"

As they stepped out of the pub, Horn's pace noticeably slowed. The evening breeze blew, and she walked over to the wall and lowered her head.

"Captain, uh, ye'll feel better if ye let it oot," Bagpipe suggested.

Horn shook her head, but her shoulders kept tensing up.

Sensing something, Bagpipe shifted the hand that was about to pat Horn's back to her shoulder instead.

Horn finally raised her head. Contrary to what Bagpipe had guessed, the corners of her mouth were lifted, and her eyes were bright.

"Bagpipe, my test results are out. My injuries have pretty much healed, and I don't have Oripathy."

Bagpipe smiled too. She helped Horn up, and the two of them walked slowly along the quiet street.

"We're awful lucky, aren't we?" Bagpipe said.

"Yes," Horn took a deep breath, looking toward the distant city walls and the warm light gradually rising above them. "Truly lucky."