Sister Chase leaned against a crystalline railing, then observed the multitudes of white clothed nuns who sang for strength in bitter cold.

  She frowned, the energy was off. Choruses limping through the hall made the song sound less as a request for strength and more a plea for permission to curl up and cry.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It's not like she didn't understand, given the news, but they ought to hide it better. Ice Mother forbid the Lord of Steam find out! Or we'll all be forced to endure centuries of humming above our heads.

  For the Ice Mother's storms keep that windbags fleet of flying airships away.

  There's a silver blessing in that our lady is so reclusive, Sister Chase thought.