“Is it now?” I said, smiling, but feeling a bit sick at the same time.
“In many circles, yes. But I think that’s a very old-fashioned way of thinking, don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You should really get to know who you’re kissing before any of that.”
“Very modern of you.”
“Anyway,” she said, “I don’t think either of us is interested in that marriage nonsense.”
“No,” I said with relief, then looked at her. “You mean you think the idea of marrying me is nonsense?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” I wondered if she was being honest.
The idea of marriage was absolutely terrifying to me, but I hoped she didn’t feel the same. My friend Baz, who’d worked aboard the Aurora with me, had gotten married in Sydney a couple of months ago, and I’d been at his wedding. I kept staring at him as he walked down the aisle, not quite able to believe he was going through with it. I kept waiting for him to hurdle the church pews, vault through a window, and keep running into the Australian Outback. But he didn’t, and suddenly I did not understand him, or feel I could talk to him as I had. He was married now. Different. He certainly seemed his usual jovial self at the banquet afterward. But seeing his beautiful bride on his arm made me feel young and faintly ridiculous. There was no one in the world I wanted to be with more than Kate, but I did not want to marry her, not yet anyway. I still had nearly two years left at the Academy. And I was not at all sure she would even say yes to me.
“Your ornithopter is ready, Miss de Vries!” the harbor master called out.
We walked out to the edge of the platform, where her ornithopter was hanging expectantly from its trapeze.
“Thank you for a delightful lunch,” Kate said as I helped her up into the cockpit. “And thank you for inviting me to the ball. It’s a shame I’ll probably miss it.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked in surprise.
“Because I’ll be on my way to the Hyperion. And you will too.”
She gave me no time to reply, for she’d started the ornithopter’s engine, which made quite a roar as it got the wings flapping. I stood back, shaking my head. She flashed me a smile, adjusted her goggles and hat, and revved the engine to full. When the wings were a blur, she gave the harbor master the thumbs-up. The trapeze released, and down she plunged in her ornithopter for a few heart-stopping seconds before leveling out and soaring skyward.
PUTTING ON THE RITZ
The sky had cleared by the time I got back to the Academy. In the porter’s lodge there was a message waiting for me from the dean, Mr. Ruprecht Pruss. At your earliest convenience, he had written, which I took to mean right away.
I started down one of the great stone hallways toward his office. Narrow arched windows let in streams of late afternoon sun. The Academy was largely deserted; everyone was still out on their training tours. Mine had been cut short by five days. Coming home early was virtually unheard of, and I felt like a failure. I was worried people would think I’d been kicked off my ship because of incompetence or recklessness. I wasn’t surprised Dean Pruss had summoned me. I hadn’t even had a chance to write my formal report yet, but I suppose he wanted to know firsthand why I was back so early. I waited only a few minutes in the vestibule of his office before his secretary told me to go in.
“I understand you’re a celebrity once again, Mr. Cruse,” the dean said, motioning me to a chair in front of his grand desk.
I was never quite sure when Mr. Pruss was being sarcastic. I took aerostatics with him, and though he rarely spoke directly to me, he sometimes talked about me, before the entire class. “Of course, not all of us here have been fortunate enough to land a nine-hundred-foot airship on a sandy beach, like Mr. Cruse,” or, “It is never advisable to have a fist fight on the airship’s elevators when in flight, as Mr. Cruse might attest.”
At first I’d felt flattered to be singled out like this, but after a while, it started making me uncomfortable, as if I were some kind of a circus freak, and Mr. Pruss the mocking ringmaster.
He’d been a distinguished pilot until a motorcar accident had confined him to a wheelchair. Some people said the accident hadn’t just damaged his legs, but had left him all twisted up inside too. It seemed perfectly understandable to me, for being landlocked so would make me bitter too.
On his desk I spotted today’s newspaper, with the news of the Hyperion on the cover. He swirled it around for me to see.
“This is quite a story,” he said. “It’s true, I take it?”
“It is, sir.”
“Perhaps you could give me your personal account.”
As succinctly as I could, I told him of our voyage through the Devil’s Fist, and then skyward to try to salvage the Hyperion.
“You disobeyed the captain,” was the first thing Mr. Pruss said when I finished, and it shook me.
“Not directly, sir. He wasn’t thinking properly, because of the altitude. He never actually told me not to vent gas.”
“But he did not order you to do so.”
“No.”
“Or to turn the ship around?”
“No, sir.”
“You realize what you did was a serious breach of aeronautical protocol.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was, in fact, mutinous.”
I drew a sharp breath. Mutiny! “We all would have died, sir.”
“Perhaps, yes.”
I wondered if Mr. Pruss would rather I had done nothing and sent us all to an icy airborne grave.
“So, are you a hero or a mutineer, Mr. Cruse? An interesting question, don’t you think?”
I did not find it at all interesting. “At the time, it seemed the right thing to do, sir.”
“Well, given Captain Tritus’s conduct, I doubt this question will ever be posed in a formal Sky Guard tribunal. The Flotsam used to be a perfectly respectable vessel, you know, before Tritus gained its command. We certainly won’t be using it again for our training tours. Would you agree with that, Mr. Cruse?”
“I would, sir.”
He rolled his wheelchair back from the desk and moved around to the side, where a patch of sunlight warmed the wood. Maybe it was just the light, but for the first time, the hardness in his face seemed to disappear and his eyes took on a kindly glow.
“I saw her once too, you know. The Hyperion. We were off Rio de Janeiro, and we spotted something above us, very high. We couldn’t read her name, but I saw her profile. I knew there were no ships of her type still sailing. It could only have been the Hyperion.”
“It was quite something,” I said.
“You know who the Hyperion was carrying, do you?”
“Theodore Grunel.”
“Very good. Reputedly carrying his life’s belongings and riches. And who should telegraph me this morning but the Grunel family? Yes, quite a surprise. One of Theodore’s grandsons, Matthias. Once they saw the story in the papers, they made enquiries. Apparently Captain Tritus refused to speak to them. Then they managed to get a hold of the ship’s transit papers in Jakarta, and found the name of the navigator.”
“Mr. Domville,” I said.
“That’s it. They were hoping he might give them the last coordinates of the Hyperion. But apparently he has died.”
For a moment I could say nothing, I was so dismayed. The one decent man aboard the whole wretched ship.
“When?” I asked.
“Just last night, of respiratory failure.”
If only Tritus had turned around earlier—or I had. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Yes. Very upsetting. It seems Matthias Grunel discovered your name listed as assistant navigator in the ship’s papers. He’s wondering if maybe you can shed some light on the location of the Hyperion. He’d like to meet with you.”
“He’s here in Paris?”
“Flew in this morning from Zurich. I told him I was doubtful you could be of any help.
The navigational charts are no doubt with Tritus.”
“There are no charts,” I said. “They were destroyed when a water tank burst.”
“Ah. So, presumably no one has accurate coordinates.”
I hesitated a moment and then said, “I saw the exact coordinates as Mr. Domville wrote them down.”
“Planning a little treasure hunt of your own, Mr. Cruse?”
I gave an uncomfortable laugh. “No, sir, not at all.” But I thought of Kate and all the grand plans she’d already made for us. Dean Pruss was staring at me, and for an uncomfortable moment I wondered if he was going to ask me for the coordinates.
“It would be a foolhardy pilot who tried to reach the Hyperion at that height,” the dean said.
“I agree, sir.”
“Still, given the ship’s contents, some may try. If I were younger, and had my legs, maybe I’d be foolhardy enough too, who’s to say? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Grunels offered you a small reward for any information. That could hardly be unwelcome, eh?”
I wondered if he too saw the scuffs and scrapes in my uniform.
“What you tell them is your own business, of course. The Hyperion doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. Not until someone boards her and claims the right of salvage.”
I thought of Kate, of how much she wanted that frozen bestiary. I thought of all the money, glinting coldly in the ship’s vaults. Even Tritus did not have her coordinates—a rough idea at best, given his airsick brain. The thought of him claiming the salvage was revolting to me—after what he’d done to his ship and crew.
Someone’s going to get her, Kate had said. Why not us?
I’d been holding my breath, and now let it out in a silent gust. Kate could dream if she wanted, but the Hyperion was probably untouchable, and anyway, I had more pressing things on my mind. Exams were in less than three weeks, and I had a lot of studying to do. If anyone was going to undertake a risky salvage attempt, it seemed right it should be Grunel’s own family. Best to give them what they wanted, take the reward money, and be done with it.
“He asked if he could see you at eight o’clock,” Dean Pruss said. Across the desk he slid a thick card embossed with the insignia of the Ritz hotel. In beautiful script was written:
Matthias Grunel Trafalgar Suite.
“Of course.” I took the card.
“Be careful, Mr. Cruse. The Grunels may not be the only people seeking those coordinates. This afternoon, apparently, there was someone asking for you at the lodge. I’ve instructed the porters not to give out any information about you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I felt a first flicker of apprehension.
The dean looked at me carefully. “You seem a sensible sort, Mr. Cruse. I don’t think you’ll be one to go chasing after phantom gold.”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“Good lad. I daresay your thoughts are on your upcoming exams.” He looked at a ledger on his desk. “I see your marks in aerostatics and physics are far from satisfactory.”
“I know, sir.”
“Instinctive ability will take you only so far, Mr. Cruse. Theory and mathematics are equally, if not more, important here. Past heroics will not win you a flight certificate. You’ve got a great deal of work ahead of you if you plan on passing your second term.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rolled himself back behind the shadow of his desk. “And if I could have your full written report by the end of the week, that would be most appreciated.”
The Academy was built around a large quadrangle, with a wide arched entranceway overlooked by the porter’s lodge. The dormitories occupied the south and east wings, and were divided into several houses. I was lodged in Dornier house, on the second floor, in a room just big enough for a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and a closet. My window looked out onto the quad. It was noisy on the weekends, especially in warm weather, when the students drank and caroused until all hours. Right now the residence was eerily quiet, and I didn’t like it. Apart from the prehistoric caretakers treading the hallways, there were only a few teachers, clerks, and a handful of upper-year students who, for one reason or another, hadn’t gone out on training tours.
In the great dining hall, the rows of long wooden refectory tables were all but deserted as I ate my supper. For company I had only the giant portraits of famous aviators and past deans looming over me. Clement Ader, Billy Bishop, Amelia Gearhart, Henri Giffard, Camille von Zeppelin. It was humbling company to be in, and I’d certainly been humbled since coming to the Academy.
I was not the star pupil everyone had expected. Before working as a cabin boy, I’d attended school for only a few years. I could read and write. I could add, subtract, and multiply. But at the Academy I was suddenly expected to know all sorts of fancy math, with symbols I’d never seen before. Working hard, I could just manage the Latin, and the expository essays, and the history, but those numbers vexed me to no end, jittery and slippery as eels. I just could not make sense of them. It seemed like all my years aboard the Aurora, watching and listening in the control car, counted for nothing. I had launched a nine-hundred-foot airship; I had flown her. But I could not explain how it all worked in equations and scientific laws. Some nights I would glare at the pages in my textbook, and I might as well have been trying to read Egyptian hieroglyphics. I told no one of my difficulties. I was too humiliated. I had dreamed of attending the Academy; all I’d ever wanted to do was fly.
I looked up into the pale eyes of Dean Pruss’s portrait, and swallowed down the rest of my food with some difficulty. He was right: instinctive ability was not enough. I was not good at school, but I would work harder. If others could learn it, I could learn it. I would work until I mastered those numbers and made them do their tricks for me. I gave the dean’s portrait a wink and left the dining room.
Nearly all the windows were dark as I crossed the quad. I’d be glad when everyone returned from their tours and the Academy was back to its usual bustling self. My heels clapped too loudly against the paving stone. Maybe it was the dean’s words about a stranger asking for me, but I felt ill at ease. My eyes fell into their crow’s nest rhythm, scanning the horizons for hidden dangers. I hurried into Dornier house, feeling silly.
I had a little time before heading off to the Ritz, so I buffed up my shoes and put on a clean shirt. I hoped my uniform was enough to get me past the doorman.
“Where you off to, then?” Douglas, the night porter, called out as I passed the lodge.
“Oh, just a meeting at the Ritz,” I said.
“Quite the man of the world now, aren’t we!”
I gave a cheery wave as I pushed through the great oak door and started down the steps. At the bottom, I glanced back over my shoulder. To the left of the Academy’s vaulted entranceway, someone was standing in the shadows among the ornamental shrubs and trees, not exactly lurking, but not really wanting to be noticed either. I did not stop, but kept walking, and turned onto the busy avenue that ran along the river.
It was raining lightly, so I unfurled my umbrella. After twenty steps I looked back toward the Academy and could no longer see the figure by the doors. There were plenty of people behind me on the sidewalk now, most with their faces half hidden beneath their umbrellas.
Horse-drawn carriages and motorcars vied noisily for space on the road. Barges and pleasure boats glittered on the water. Across the Seine, the city glowed invitingly. The man at the newspaper kiosk gave me a friendly nod as I passed.
The whole idea of being followed seemed idiotic right now, shenanigans from a penny novelette. Cutting across Place de la Concorde and into the Tuileries gardens, I left behind the crowds and noise. It was suddenly darker among the trees, the sound of motorcars and horses dulled. My unease returned. Up ahead a great fountain trilled water. I turned onto a path that would take me more quickly back to the street.
“Excuse me.”
I doubt I would have stopped if it hadn’t been a girl’s voice.
I turne
d. It was a gypsy girl, no older than me. She wore a long leather coat. An exotic scarf was wrapped around her head, strands of night-black hair hung damply across her face and forehead. She did not have an umbrella. From the moment I set foot in Paris I had been warned about the gypsies. They’d rob you blind, a train porter had told me; they didn’t even need to touch you, a shop owner had commented, they could spirit your pocket-book from your vest just by looking you in the eye.
“Do you have a minute to talk?”
Her accent was English, I noticed. “I’m in a hurry,” I said.
She took a step closer. I watched her hands.
“I just want to talk to you.”
I stepped back. “No, I really must go.” I’d heard the pretty ones sometimes distracted you while two or three of their burly men came up behind and thumped you on the head.
“You can’t be afraid of me,” she said, half-amused.
“I don’t know you.”
“Are you Matt Cruse?”
“How did you know?” I asked foolishly.
“Monsieur, is this woman troubling you?”
I turned to see a gendarme approaching with a lantern and a billy club.
“No, officer. But I must go. I’m late.”
The gendarme turned to the girl. “You heard the gentleman now, he doesn’t wish to speak with you any longer. Are you living here in Paris, or just passing through?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s precisely my business when dealing with your sort.”
“And what sort is that?”
“Gypsies, mademoiselle.”
“I’m a Roma.”
“Call it what you will—”
I walked away, feeling guilty at leaving the girl in the clutches of the gendarme. But I was truly unsettled now. Was she the one lurking in the doorway of the Academy? Had she followed me all the way? Perhaps Dean Pruss was right, and there were many people hungry for information about the Hyperion, people who might wish me harm.
I quickened my pace and within minutes I was in the Place Vendôme, encircled by sparkling restaurants and bars and boutiques. The Ritz, with its blazing windows and honeyed stone, radiated luxury and safety. An enormous doorman, clad in a brass-buttoned coat that looked like it could sink a battleship, stood before the hotel’s entrance.
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