The wine breaks open far closer to Grace than Bastion anticipated, and in the moment between the bottle making contact with her harpoon and the cloud of airborne alcohol clearing, they let out a sharp alarmed whistle, afraid the fast-moving shards will sever an important blood vessel or take out her eye. But she's fine, just soaked. The descending whirr they produce is like a sigh of relief.

It's a vigorous vintage; 1878 was a fruitful year for the production of Black Wings Absinthe. And the drop of Vake-blood that acts as its secret ingredient is as potent as the day it was bottled, no more subject to the ravages of age than the creature that shed it. The dark liquid slithers over her skin like a live thing. Grace feels stronger. Fiercer. More interested in wearing black cloaks.