213 Days Post Regina. The Collector cannot even find the palace. It has burned. So much of the Floating City has burned. Blood is still being scrubbed off the stone streets. Windows are knocked out of shops. Down an alley, something small. A child, probably, scuttling into the shadows at the sight of the Collector. In the distance, bells. There is a festival in the bazaar. Hundreds of bells are ringing. Large bells. Small bells. Shops have put bells on their doors. The people are wearing bells on their ankles and wrists. There is dancing, shouting, laughing. The people are drinking wine and aged liquor. The women have made an ale flavored with gruit. The Collector makes their way through the crowds. Somebody puts a clay mug filled with the ale in their hands. The Collector drinks. It tastes floral, and a little like oranges. Finally, the Collector stands within view of a stage. On the stage, a wax woman wearing a red dress is carried out by two upright clockworks with heads like bulls. They place her neck on a chopping block. A third bull clockwork raises a gleaming axe and brings it down on her soft neck. Her head rolls. The people cheer, thunderous. The Collector drinks.