The Marchand sisters shared a room on the second floor overlooking the main street. A large window seat was built into the wall, almost as long as a bed. This was where Sorrel found the boy, still unconscious when she and Gwynn entered their room. 

“I didn’t know where else to put him.” Gwynn removed her boots by the door. “He only had the one cut. I think he fell off of one of the seats in the capsule and hit his head on impact.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Sorrel kicked off her boots and removed her coveralls. There was a relief to just wearing her camisole and shorts. There was no more grime from the junkyard, no more bundling up to fight against the winter cold—just comfort. 

“I hope so.” Gwynn bit her lip. “He’s been out a little longer than I thought he’d be.”

Right on cue, the boy stirred. 

“Oh!” Sorrel dashed over to where he lay on the window seat, a strip of gauze taped at the back of his head. 

He blinked up at her with indigo blue eyes. “Where—where am I?”

Sorrel glanced over her shoulder. Gwynn had joined her like her own shadow, silently and without asking. “You’re safe now, you weren’t awake at the crash site.”

“Crash?” He sat up quickly, only to wince and slowly recline. “Ow.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Gwynn asked.

“Just my head, I think.” He propped himself up on his elbows—a happy medium, Sorrel supposed. He looked to the sisters again. “I crashed?”

Gwynn and Sorrel shared a glance. 

“It makes sense you wouldn’t remember, you hit your head pretty hard,” Sorrel said. “But yeah—you ejected your escape capsule and it landed right in the middle of the junkyard where we were working. You were lucky you didn’t crash into the middle of a street or something.”

“Oh, did I? Sorry.” His cheeks turned pink. “I think I remember now. . . Where is my ship?” 

“We don’t know,” Sorrel said. “But when we saw Annwynese war ships show up in the atmosphere, we thought it was better to get you out of there. So we took you home, where we can come up with a better plan.”

“There’s no ‘we’ here.” His voice was gentle but firm, and he sat up all the way, swinging his legs down to the floor. He gripped the side of the bench, bracing himself. “I’m sorry you’ve all gotten mixed up in this, but this isn’t your fight. They’re here for me. I just need to get off this world, and they’ll leave everyone alone—“

“No can do,” Sorrel interrupted. She folded her arms, moving to stand in front of him. “The Annwynese formed a blockade and the Governor’s banned anyone from trying to enter or leave until they get what they want.”

“That. . . makes things more tricky.” The boy looked at her. “Where are we, again?”

“Oh, right, never mentioned the world!“ Sorrel smacked her forehead. “You’re on Perrault, in Hoffman—if you’re familiar with Perrault?”

“Vaguely.” He nodded. “Who are you? I want to thank you. Even if I’d rather others weren’t involved, you did save my life.”

“Sorrel and Gwynn Marchand.” Sorrel gestured at her sister. “You’re in our family’s bed-and-breakfast. We smuggled you in, though, so no one knows you’re here. Well, except for our mother.”

“You—Marchand?” He tilted his head. “I recognize the name.”

“I guess it would be hard not to.” Sorrel shrugged. “There’s lots of us on Perrault.”

“We’re one of the oldest families who’ve lived here,” Gwynn said. “We have a lot of cousins. Maybe you’ve met one of them before?”

“Not me personally, but my father. . .” he trailed off, looking at Sorrel like an animal caught in the headlights of a land speeder. “I mean, thank you.”

The room drifted into silence. It felt like a small eternity before Sorrel finally spoke. “Well?”

The boy frowned at her. “Well, what?”

“We can’t just call you ‘hey, you.’” Sorrel gestured between herself and Gwynn. “We have to call you something. Thought it might as well be your choice.”

She placed a finger on her chin and tilted her head. “Although, I could come up with a nickname, if you prefer. There’s Starboy, Asteroid, the Traveler—“

“Coppelius.”

“What?” Sorrel hadn’t heard it in her determination to come up with more nicknames, and his quiet tone. 

He paused, looking as if he were thinking better of it. Still, he met her eyes. “You can call me Coppelius.”

He stood up. “Again, I thank you both for your kindness, but I can’t stay. I have to leave.”

“But you can’t, the Governor’s declared a state of emergency.” Sorrel didn’t move. “There’s a curfew and the constables are out—they’ll catch you, and if they know that Annwyn is looking for you, they’ll turn you in to keep the peace.”

“It’s a risk I have to take.” Coppelius took a step forward, only to plunge forward. 

Sorrel caught him by the shoulders. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere, at the moment.”

He braced himself on her arms, returning to an unsteady standing position. He opened his mouth as if he were going to argue, only to stop as his eyes met hers. She found herself breathless.

“I guess not,” he admitted with a sigh. 

Sorrel gently pushed him back down into the window seat and sat next to him. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you.”

“It’s what we do.” Gwynn managed a smile. “Speaking of which, Maman’s probably done with dinner already. Might as well get out there before she calls us.”

“Then she can think we’re psychic,” Sorrel joked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Coppelius laughed, but there was an uneasiness to it. 

“Come on, I’ll help you.” Sorrel took his hand, and pulled him to his feet, more quickly than she’d planned. 

He almost tumbled into her again, but he managed to steady himself. Still, Sorrel found her cheeks heating up at their proximity. 

“Sorry!” Sorrel backed away, keeping her hand in his. “Is that better?”

“Uh. . . yeah, thank you.” His face had turned red, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of Sorrel. 

They managed to get out to the little living room that functioned similarly as the Marchand family’s dining room. It was an open area with the kitchen, the only door being over the stairwell to keep out any of the guests. Sorrel was grateful they were entitled to at least that bit of privacy. 

Coppelius was not nearly so unsteady on his feet by the time they made it to the living room, but he held onto her hand like it was a lifeline nonetheless. 

“I hope you’re hungry.” Celine smiled warmly as she set the large tray down on the low table in front of the well-worn sofa. “I take it you’re a long way from home?”

Coppelius nodded. There was something wary in his eyes, and he let go of Sorrel’s hand. Not that she minded for long. 

“You saved some cider for us too?” She cried as she accepted a mug with a delicate pattern of red and white roses. 

“Of course I did.” Celine smiled. “You were out in the cold looking for those parts, after all.”

“Looking for parts. . .” Coppelius turned to Sorrel. “So you don’t just run this. . .bed and breakfast, you said earlier?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid that doesn’t quite pay all the bills, as much as we’d like them to.” Celine took her favorite armchair, with the needlepoint pillow with an elaborate heart set upon it. 

Celine picked at the fruit basket on the tray. For a moment, her cheerful, warm expression faltered to one that Sorrel knew all to well. The grim, gray exhaustion that had set in after her father’s death. 

“We scavenge the wrecks of old ships at Madame Abelard’s junkyard for the parts that are salvageable and are either still in good condition or can be restored,” Gwynn elaborated. “Madame Abelard cuts us a share of the profits.”

“She’s a little too old to be climbing around in the wrecks of old starships, so we’re happy to help her,” Sorrel added. “If everyone pitches in, everyone wins.”

Coppelius smiled, but there was something nostalgic—a little sorrowful, even—to it. “I grew up somewhere very similar. I’m glad there are still places like that out there.”

“It’s not really everyone, Hoffman isn’t the village it once was, you know.” Sorrel paused to take a sip of her cider. “But there are enough of us who look out for each other, who aren’t just merchants and spacers passing by.”

The room drifted into a comfortable silence of good food and kind company. Between the warm cider, the fresh strawberries imported from one of the warmer Inner Worlds, and the hearty cassoulets, it was a feast on the Marchand family’s table.