Sammi always said the Yue Opera House had swallowed a minor palace and several egos and then decided it was still hungry.
Tonight, the north end of the Su Causeway blazed with its appetite. The Opera House reared out over the lake like a lacquered ship that had forgotten how to sail, its tiered balconies dripping lanterns and decorative outrage. Gilded cherubs wrestled with dragons along the cornices; stone muses held scrolls of legislation instead of lyres. From the highest box, the Thearch’s empty seat glowered politely at the stage.
Sammi adored it.
“Look at you,” she breathed, staring at Eriko instead of the building. “My sleek little theorem.”
Eriko was busy trying not to trip on the marble steps.
The lil black dress—Sammi’s prize from a tailor who owed her for pamphlet placement— hugged Eriko’s curves with scandalous precision. The neckline was modest; the fit was not. Each step made her acutely aware of her own existence.
“I am not sleek,” she muttered. “I’m…compressed.”
Sammi’s grin went incandescent. “Compressed elegance. Very efficient.”
Inside, chandeliers the size of minor planets glittered. The foyer churned with silk, brocade, gears and gossip: court ladies with cleverly hidden spyglasses, foreign merchants with translation charms, theater kids in elaborate makeup fetching drinks for divas.
Near the grand entrance, Brother Wei stood beside a marble column, begging alms and witticisms with equal sincerity.
His gear-halo ticked faintly, now almost—but not quite— symmetrical.
“Spare a proverb for the partially enlightened?” he called to passersby. “Accepting spare change, sharp rebukes, and constructive paradoxes.”
Eriko slowed. “Brother Wei.”
“Ah!” Wei brightened. “Patron saint of argumentative staircases.”
Sammi laughed. “No, that’s mostly Eriko.”
Eriko reached into the small embroidered purse that did not go with the dress but did go with her anxieties. She drew out an old coin—worn, dark, heavy with the touch of countless thumbs.
“This should be in a museum,” Wei said quietly, taking it.
“Tonight,” Eriko whispered, “it belongs in your journey. Complete it, brother.”
Something in the weight of the coin clicked against the teeth of his halo. One tiny cog shifted. The sound was almost lost beneath the lobby chatter.
Wei looked at her, eyes suddenly bright and damp. “I will…try,” he said. “Enjoy the opera. Beware the final syllables.”
Old Handle’s Newest Catastrophe
The curtain rose on the first act to reveal a set that looked suspiciously like the Su Causeway rendered by someone who’d only ever heard rumors about it.
“This feels targeted,” Sammi murmured.
“It is a satirical opera about municipal infrastructure,” Eriko pointed out.
Onstage, actors in exaggerated court robes argued over bridge budgets while dancers dressed as stones, beams, and bureaucratic seals whirled behind them. Old Handle’s lyrics skewered everyone with equal glee: corrupt officials; forgetful architects; citizens who complained about taxes but insisted on living above tea houses in flood zones.
Up in the highest tier, Aya of the Yue reigned.
She entered in a burst of crimson silk, her sleeves like the wings of furious birds, her gaze a precision instrument. When she sang, the air tightened. Her voice could slip from traditional Yue ornamentation into something almost modern, then back, without dropping a bead.
At the climax of the act, she delivered a final line about “bridges that bear more than they admit” with such precision that the chandeliers chimed in sympathy.
Somewhere, unnoticed, three wine glasses cracked. A minor courtier burst into tears and had no idea why.
In the lobby during first intermission, Sammi vibrated like a tuning fork, half from Aya’s artistry, half from narrative overload.
“She weaponized the rhyme,” Sammi babbled to a circle of Thearch’s concubines and visitors from Seleucia-on-Tigris. “Did you hear how she slipped the scansion just off enough to imply the bridge was complicit?”
“Oh yes,” sighed a concubine in peacock blue. “We shall be referencing it for months. I may have it embroidered on a scandal.”
“Old Handle has outdone himself,” said a Seleucian scholar, adjusting his spectacles. “Though I suspect he is going to be exiled to a garden again.”
Sammi soaked up gossip like a sponge dropped in tea. She didn’t notice, at first, the ripple that went through the floor, up her spine, into the back of her skull.
It was not sound. It was pattern.
The Su Causeway, whose foundations underpinned the Opera House’s flamboyant footings, had been listening. It did not entirely approve of the building’s pretensions, but it enjoyed Aya’s voice and Old Handle’s commentary. More importantly, it had felt the particular resonance of that last syllable.
Aya had pronounced it in the key of Reckless Confession.
The tone ran along nerves of stone and steel, through the Causeway’s length, out into the city. Sensitive hearts caught it like a virus—with varying symptoms.
Cap’n Jin, miles away at dock, suddenly had the urge to tell his airship that he truly appreciated it. Chef Wu almost admitted the secret of his spice blend to a customer before biting his tongue.
And deep in the Opera House, in a corridor near the boxes, Engineer Xiangyun froze mid-step.
Aya’s Spell, Side Effects
Xiangyun had come in her work clothes, because what else was there? Her idea of dressing up was changing into the less-burned tunic and braiding her hair more symmetrically. She felt as out of place in the velvet corridors as an honest invoice in a court archive.
But the opera…that she understood.
Aya’s voice obeyed the same rules as engines: pressure, release, resonance. Old Handle’s libretti were full of hidden mechanisms. Xiangyun sat in the cheap seats and mapped each motif to a gear, each key change to a pressure valve.
When Aya’s last note hit, it went straight through Xiangyun’s calculations and struck that tender, well-defended place in her chest labeled Eriko.
Suddenly the idea of not saying something felt mechanically unsound.
“My system is under-vented,” she realized, a little dizzy. “This is a safety issue.”
She downed a shot of yè from a passing tray—plum, rice, bad decisions—and stumbled out during intermission in search of fresh air, or failing that, one specific mathematician in a little black dress.
The Anime Pose
Eriko had fled the crowd the moment the lights went up.
Aya’s final note had left her oddly raw, as if the song had peeled back a layer of abstraction. The dress didn’t help; every glance she caught in mirrored panels made her feel like a misprinted diagram.
She slipped into a side corridor where the traffic was thin, leaning back against the cool marble.
I am foolish, she thought. I look like I am trying to be someone else.
She was still arguing with herself when Xiangyun found her.
“Eriko.”
Her name in Xiangyun’s mouth came out roughened by yè, soft at the edges, too honest.
Eriko straightened. “Engineer Xiangyun. Are you—”
“Don’t move,” Xiangyun blurted, and for a heartbeat Eriko actually obeyed because the command sounded less like an order and more like a plea to a misaligned gear.
Xiangyun stepped in, close—so close Eriko smelled metal, engine oil, and plum wine. She planted her right palm on the wall just beside Eriko’s head, leaning in for balance.
It was, unmistakably, the classic anime kabedon pose.
Eriko’s brain provided this information helpfully and then vacated the premises.
“Listen,” Xiangyun said, staring not quite at her but at some point just beyond her shoulder, as if reading equations from the air. “I know you’re taken. By Sammi. Obviously. Engines run better in paired systems, I get it. I respect it. But Aya’s stupid note hit my stupid heart and now I have…unvented declarations.”
Eriko’s blush threatened to achieve escape velocity.
“Unvented—”
“Feelings,” Xiangyun said, wincing at her own word choice. “Pataphysical pressure. Trollish crush on your brain. And the rest of you. I am attempting a controlled release before something explodes.”
She slapped her free hand against her chest. The engines back at dock, miles away, coughed in sympathy.
“I am not—” Eriko swallowed. Her thoughts skittered. Aya’s note still hummed under her skin, making everything feel possible, which was not helpful. “I am not good at…receiving declarations.”
“I’ve noticed,” Xiangyun said, a twisted little smile flickering. “You sidestep compliments like falling tiles. But you deserve to know that someone else sees you as…well, as gorgeous mathematics in that dress, frankly.”
The compliment landed like Aya’s note, and Eriko’s knees nearly gave out.
Somewhere beneath them, the Su Causeway felt the way the pressure in the hall was spiking and thought, No, no, this is going to shear a beam.
It reached for its newest trick: psytrance linkage.
Su Causeway to Sammi: Incoming
In the lobby, Sammi was mid-story, explaining to a Seleucian merchant the finer points of protest pamphlet typography, when her feet suddenly buzzed.
It was not an actual vibration. More like the floor whispering, very insistently: HEY. HEY. YOUR PERSON. CORRIDOR C. LEFT TURN PAST THE GOLDEN CHERUB THAT LOOKS LIKE IT REGRETS EVERYTHING.
Sammi’s focus snapped into crystalline clarity. The chatter around her dimmed, colors sharpening.
“Excuse me,” she said politely to the circle of concubines. “My structural integrity is needed elsewhere.”
One of them arched a knowing brow. “Domestic emergency?”
“Romantic engineering problem,” Sammi replied, already moving.
The Causeway guided her like a beat in her own pulse. Down the side hall, past a pair of bickering critics, around a cluster of musicians tuning weirdly sentient instruments, to Corridor C.
She turned the corner and saw:
Eriko, pressed mildly but unmistakably against the marble, eyes wide and dark. Xiangyun leaning in, one arm braced above her, the other fisted at her side, shoulders tense. Two faces close; too close. Aya’s lingering spell glittering between them like stray notes.
Sammi’s heart thudded once, very loud.
Then she moved.
Breaking the Spell (Gently, Mostly)
“Eriko,” she called, letting every ounce of affection she had pour into the name.
Eriko’s head snapped toward her, relief flooding her face like light through paper. The spell wobbled.
Sammi didn’t yank or shout. She slipped between them like a practiced stagehand sliding into a scene change, one hand on Eriko’s waist, the other gently but firmly nudging Xiangyun’s shoulder back.
“Whoa there, engineer,” she said, keeping it light. “Careful with the metaphysical pressure. These walls are load-bearing.”
Xiangyun froze, horror dawning through the haze of yè.
“I—Sammi—I wasn’t—well, I was, but—oh no.”
She jerked her hand away from the wall as if it had burned her. Then looked at Eriko, at Sammi’s arm around Eriko, and went dead pale beneath the smudges of engine soot.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “That was… Aya’s fault. And mine. And the plum wine. And Old Handle’s structural metaphors. And possibly the moon. But mostly mine.”
Eriko exhaled shakily. “No harm,” she managed. “Just…surprise.”
Sammi felt the tremor in her—nerves, yes, but also that stylishly aroused flush, that unsettled thrill. She tucked Eriko closer, a clear answer.
“Look,” Sammi said, catching Xiangyun’s eye. She softened her voice. “You’re allowed to have feelings. You’re even allowed to say them out loud. You’re not allowed to corner my girlfriend while under magical vocal influence. That’s a safety violation.”
Xiangyun winced. “I’ve violated my own protocols.”
“Next time you get hit with an Aya Note of Reckless Confession,” Sammi went on, “come find me first. I’m structurally designed for overflow melodrama.”
That won a tiny, crooked laugh out of Xiangyun. “You…would let me rant at you?”
“Sure,” Sammi said. “I collect stories. ‘Pataphysical engineer with unrequited crush’ is excellent material.”
Eriko elbowed her gently. Sammi grinned. “I mean that respectfully,” she added. “And I promise to remind you—kindly—that I go home with Eriko.”
Xiangyun scrubbed her hands over her face. “Understood. Absolutely. No more anime poses. The engines will be mortified when they find out.”
“In fairness,” Eriko said, surprising both of them, “it was… structurally impressive.”
They stared at her.
“I mean,” she floundered, “the torque distribution? You didn’t lean on me at all, just the wall. Very considerate load allocation.”
Xiangyun blinked, then laughed—a real laugh this time, giddy with relief and lingering humiliation.
“You are ridiculous,” she said fondly. “And perfect. And I will accept my fate as a supporting character.”
Sammi squeezed Eriko’s hand. “Best supporting engineer,” she amended. “We’ll put it on the playbill.”
From somewhere high above, Aya’s diva instincts pinged: someone is improvising character development without me. She made a mental note to steal this corridor scene for a future opera.
Intermission Epiphanies
They went back to the lobby together, not quite as a trio—the spacing had changed—but with less static in the air.
Brother Wei, still working the concourse, saw them approach and tilted his head, listening to the faint changes in their heartbeats.
“Ah,” he said. “A nearly-misplaced confession, a timely intervention, three hearts learning about boundary conditions.”
Sammi arched a brow. “You get all that from our footsteps?”
“From your halos,” Wei said, touching his own. “Yours are just invisible.”
He reached into his sleeve and produced a small, folded scrap of paper, pressing it into Xiangyun’s oil-stained hand.
“For when the engines are loud and the illusions louder,” he said.
She unfolded it later, backstage, to find a single line:
Unrequited love is still love; it just travels a one-way bridge. Remember to watch the scenery.
On the other side, in tiny writing:
P.S. There are other bridges.
Her throat tightened—but this time the pressure felt almost…bearable.
Aya’s Healing Note
When the bell rang and the audience trickled back in, the Su Causeway shifted its attention again. Aya had another act to sing, and this time it had a favor to ask.
In the wings, Aya felt the bridge’s nudge as a prickle along her spine. Old Handle, scribbling last-minute changes on his score, glanced up.
“Hmm?” he muttered.
“The Causeway wants a different cadence,” Aya said.
“Of course it does,” Handle sighed. “The bridge is a worse critic than you are.”
But he adjusted the line.
Near the end of the second act, Aya stood alone at center stage, the orchestra quiet beneath her. She sang of misaligned towers, of roads that almost met, of hearts that had to learn to run on parallel tracks without collision.
On the final syllable, she chose not Reckless Confession, not Shattering Grief, but a rarer mode: Gracious Reconfiguration.
The note flowed out over the velvet seats, climbed the boxes, seeped through plaster and stone. It washed over Sammi, Eriko, Xiangyun, Brother Wei, even Old Handle in his garret, listening through a cracked window as he revised next week’s satire.
It didn’t erase Xiangyun’s feelings; it didn’t mute Eriko’s fluster or Sammi’s possessiveness. It merely…rearranged their vectors, so they lay alongside each other instead of at dangerous angles.
In the dark, Sammi laced her fingers with Eriko’s. Eriko laced back, less self-conscious now, dress and all.
Xiangyun, in the cheap seats, let herself imagine—just once—that she was the heroine in an opera of impossible love. Then she smiled, shook her head, and started designing in her mind a new valve for Aya’s spell-notes: something to divert excess courage into productive channels, like better engine tuning.
Brother Wei felt his halo shift minutely again. Not a full click this time, but a smoothing of motion. Enlightenment, he reflected, might simply be the art of letting other people’s stories pass through you without derailing your own.
Curtain, For Now
When the opera ended in a blaze of applause and satirical fireworks, the crowd poured out onto the terraces overlooking the lake.
The Su Causeway carried them all: concubines and foreigners, critics and monks, the odd dizzy engineer, one exhausted diva, one over-caffeinated librettist.
Sammi and Eriko slipped away to their favorite vantage point, where the Opera House’s reflection shivered in the water like an over-decorated ghost.
“That was…” Eriko began.
“Too many metaphors per minute?” Sammi suggested.
“Exactly enough,” Eriko admitted. She glanced down at herself, then sideways at Sammi. “Did I…look ridiculous?”
“You looked like the theorem that proves happiness is possible,” Sammi said without hesitation. “Also your butt was amazing.”
Eriko made a strangled noise and hid her face in Sammi’s shoulder.
Across the bridge, Xiangyun leaned on a lamppost, feeling the engines’ murmur through the stone.
She watched them for a moment—Sammi’s easy affection, Eriko’s flustered joy—and let her own chest ache in a way that felt oddly…clean.
“Okay,” she told the Causeway under her breath. “Lesson received.”
The bridge thrummed, pleased.
It had shepherded another small crisis into a slightly better shape. Aya had sung the right note; Sammi had arrived in time; Xiangyun had stepped back without vanishing.
Old Handle, somewhere above them, was already rewriting the whole thing into a scene for his next opera: “The Engineer, the Philosopher, and the Bridge That Knew Too Much.”
The night settled around Song Hangzhou like a silk curtain. Lanterns bobbed. The lake held the city’s reflections gently, even the ridiculous bits.
And the Su Causeway, mercurial and proud, stretched itself under the weight of all these intertwined stories, humming with satisfaction.
Tomorrow, there would be letters to deliver, stew to serve, airships to launch, operas to write. But for now, it was enough that everyone had made it through the intermission with their hearts—if not unshaken—at least more truthfully aligned.
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