The next day Drew arrived at the dock tired and worn out. The previous day’s tragedy had pushed him to study his instruction books with a fervor that only death could inspire.

  He took his place next to Rafael and Isabela. Rafael was dressed as flashy as ever, with a padded white doublet with vertical scarlet slashing. He also wore all white puffed shorts with a rapier secured at his waist and, thankfully, no codpiece.

  “What, never see a person die before?” Rafael quipped.

  Drew snapped back, “Yes! That’s the problem. People are dying like flies left and right.”

  Isabela grabbed his hand gently. “Every year, two or three of us die.”

  Drew’s eyes widened in horror. What kind of messed up university/startup accelerator was this?

  He looked around the warehouse. The atmosphere was somber, with limited conversation.

  A couple of mentees were missing, and instruction was about to start.

  “Where is Claire?” Drew asked.

  “Probably won’t show,” Rafael dismissively gestured. “Probably read too many Blood and Thunder novels. Used her family’s money to purchase a slot here but found out it’s not all adventure and dreamy pirates.”

  “You think?” Drew asked.

  Looking thoughtful, Isabela responded, “Maybe. She doesn’t even sleep on Deadwake. She stays at the Casa Solariega.”

  The instructor’s bell rang out, silencing the quiet conversations. The large doors to the warehouse creaked open.

  Claire and her taller blond companion strode in, both chins raised high. Claire was composed, but her companion’s cheeks were flushed from the exertion of rushing to the warehouse.

  “Today we will cover how to craft a sky canoe.” The instructor sharply glanced at the late attendees. “The afternoon will be an introduction to crossbows and muskets.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  Above them, the main canoe vines hung from clay pots lashed to the rafters, thick roots buried in soil, the living lengths stretching nearly thirty feet toward the warehouse floor. The vines swayed slightly in the warm air, alive, patient, waiting to be shaped.

  Large kettles were rolled out and set over burners. Steam billowed upward as the instructors demonstrated how to soften the vines without killing them. The heat loosened the fibers, making them pliable enough to bend.

  Working together, Drew and Rafael guided the softened vines around a wooden frame while Isabela managed the steam, careful to keep the vines intact and, more importantly, still connected to their pots. Every bend had to respect the living core. Sever a vine too deeply and it would die. Let it cool too fast and it would crack.

  Watching the structure take shape, Drew couldn’t ignore what was missing.

  The dried vine reinforcements were sparse. Braided wicker gave the canoe form, but not strength. The frame flexed under its own weight, alive but compliant.

  María’s crash replayed in his mind. The way the hull had folded. Not shattered. Folded.

  His engineer’s Spidey sense tingled.

  The skin was wicker. Non-aerodynamic. Flexible. Good for lift, terrible for load. The design assumed grace under failure, but there was no margin when things went wrong. No stiffness. No controlled break.

  Wood was expensive. Metal was heavy and offered no lift. He could see why the design had settled where it had.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  But they already used resin. A thick, viscous vine sap, brushed into seams and gaps to seal the structure.

  Drew watched it glisten as it cooled.

  Maybe the problem wasn’t the vines.

  Maybe it was how they were being used.

  The instructors went on to explain the group project and final challenge.

  “In two months,” the lead instructor said, “each keel will present a completed sky canoe. We will hold a race between all the keels here. The winning crew earns a slot in the Windfall Run, where you will compete against the top racers on the island.”

  Rafael, next to Drew, was trembling with excitement. “Looks like we’ve got two months to make history.”

  “There is a lot that can be improved in the design and manufacturing of the canoes,” Drew added. “We can prevent the catastrophic failure that occurred yesterday.”

  Isabela was the measured contributor. “Let’s each come up with a design and go over it in two days.”

  Drew frowned. Two days in a world without AutoCAD and computer aided design? How was he going to approximate loads and test aerodynamics in that time frame?

  “Okay, let’s do it.” He agreed, the excitement of the task overtaking him. This was a project in his wheelhouse. The level of engineering here was so far behind what he was used to that there was no way he could not design the best canoe on the island.

  The afternoon weapons lesson did not go well.

  Drew was quickly relegated to a crossbow, unable to hit a single target with the smoothbore pistols. Back home, he had only been to a range once, but he had at least managed to put rounds on paper with a Glock. Here, even at ten feet, he could not land a shot. The smoothbore muskets were wildly inaccurate. Or at least that was what he told himself as frustration set in.

  Worse, no one had ever heard of hearing protection. His head rang continuously, and he was fairly certain a migraine was setting in.

  Rafael, by contrast, was thriving. He performed trick shots and fast draws with easy confidence. An unannounced shooting competition broke out among the students, and Rafael won handily, with Claire a surprising second.

  “Not a soft noble, then,” one girl muttered, watching Claire work.

  Rafael earned a mix of dreamy looks and openly hostile glares from the other mentees.

  Eventually, Drew switched to a crossbow, where he could at least hit what he aimed at.

  “I swear to God, I’m going to invent the Minié ball,” Drew muttered under his breath.

  That earned him a sharp slap from an instructor for taking the Lord’s name in vain and an unceremonious confirmation that he would remain downgraded to a crossbow.

  Leaving defeated from the target practice but excited about the challenge of designing a sky canoe, Drew stepped into the palanquin to head home.

  “Diego. Are we able to stop at a shop or market for canoe manufacturing supplies?”

  The man briskly responded, “Yes. Price is no option. You need to earn your keep for Thren.”

  Drew ignored the comment and immediately began sketching designs in his workbook.

  Arriving at a crowded complex of outer warehouses, a market of colorfully advertised vendors all vied for Drew’s attention and purse strings.

  Walking amongst the stalls and small warehouses, Drew surveyed what wares were for sale.

  He picked out the recommended crafting materials from his lectures: Windvine sheath fibers, split structural vine ribs, rigging cord vine strands.

  He still needed something more. Some material or combination that could form a hull more rigid and aerodynamic than wicker. Something stiff enough to carry load on its own instead of relying on a living frame to forgive mistakes.

  Wicker bent. Wicker folded.

  He needed something that resisted.

  They were passing through a narrow market lane when Drew slowed, his attention caught by a small stall tucked between canvas awnings. Decorative trinkets and jewelry hung from hooks and cords. Vine necklaces. Bracelets. Pendants.

  What stopped him were the stones.

  Glossy, translucent jewels the color of old honey were set into the vines. Inside them, insects were frozen mid-crawl, wings and legs suspended as if caught in time. Not glass. Not crystal.

  Resin.

  Drew stepped closer.

  “Excuse me,” he said, nodding toward one of the pendants. “What resin is this made of?”

  The stall owner, a portly woman with sharp eyes, didn’t look up from arranging her wares. “Trade secret, hon.”

  Drew opened his mouth to press, but Diego was already moving.

  “There are three other stalls selling the same stones,” Diego said calmly as he stepped forward. He loomed just enough to be uncomfortable and placed a few copper coins on the table. “Secrets don’t travel that well.”

  The woman glanced at the coins. Then at Diego. Then back at the coins.

  She sighed.

  “Vine sap,” she said quietly. “Boiled down and strained. You mix it with a hardener, shell lime or chalk usually. Helps it set.”

  Diego frowned, clearly unimpressed.

  The woman swallowed and continued. “If you want it tougher, you add vine ash powder. Makes it hold shape better. A drop of plant oil or wax sap if you don’t want it to crack.”

  Drew barely heard the last part.

  Resin. Hardener. Filler. Plasticizer.

  His pulse picked up.

  This wasn’t jewelry. This was a matrix.

  He looked again at the amber stones. They weren’t flexible. They didn’t sag or creep. They held insects rigidly in place, suspended under stress for years at a time.

  Drew smiled.

  “How much,” he asked carefully, “for the full recipe. Measurements. Temperatures.”

  Diego started to lean in again, but the woman straightened her back.

  “A silver,” she said, firm now.

  Diego hesitated, then reached into his purse and produced the coin. He slid it across the table.

  The woman scooped it up and began rattling off ratios, cure times, and warnings about overheating. Drew listened closely, committing every word to his journal.

  By the time they walked away, his head was already full of layers and load paths.

  Tomorrow was the Lord’s Day. No classes. No drills.

  Plenty of time.

  Drew felt a grin pull at his face.

  Tomorrow, he was going to make epoxy.