The tea service glinted in the morning sunlight. Of course, it was only aluminum, not silver or anything fancy. But Florence thought it looked pretty enough as she struggled with the trolly. The ground was flat, but muddy, and the little round wheels had a strong urge to dig themselves into the muck and pitch the whole thing forward.
“Molly, the cart!” she shouted at the girl in front. The ragamuffin snapped out of her revelry just in time to catch it before the whole thing tipped over. She’d been staring up at the airship again. The girl was useless.

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