Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic

by Maureen L. Mills

“Chief is fine,” I said, my voice high and harsh in response to the roaring wind and the absurdity of the situation. Why was Josiah bringing up the question of my gender now, with the ship still in danger? I’d have thought the issue could wait for a more settled time. “Or Everley,” I continued. “The ‘Miss’ is coincidental, and unimportant under the circumstances.”

  Josiah’s frown was clearly visible, even in the crazily swinging light of the lantern hooked to my waistcoat. “Unimportant? I came up to lend my chief engineer a hand and ended up having to rescue a foolish chit.”

  “I had everything under control. You are the one who almost knocked me off the ladder!” Speaking of which, he still had his arms wrapped around the uprights—and me. His voice may have been cold, but his body—and I could feel a large portion of it through the slender rungs—radiated a delicious warmth, almost as comforting as my engines—and almost as dangerous.

  He opened his mouth to argue, I assume, due to the look on his face, but I continued without more than an instant’s pause. “As we stand here wasting time, we are gaining altitude at an unknown rate. Or, worse, descending. We are both needed below.”

  “After you, Miss Everley.”

  Again with the “Miss”. The chances of him ever gaining respect for my engineering skills were getting smaller and smaller. “I’d rather you went down first, sir. Your feet are already below mine. Also, if you happen to fall, I do not want you coming down on my head.”

  “A valid point, Miss Everley. Whereas if you fall, I may be able to catch you. Again.”

  Insufferable man! I never fell, and I had not fallen earlier. I would have been perfectly fine and safe without his interference. If he hadn’t chosen that moment to remove his hands from me and start down, I might have said some things I would later regret.

  Josiah descended more slowly than I had expected, and seemed to be having some difficulty getting past me. I heard his breathing harshen as his head drew level with my middle. Perhaps a bit higher than my middle.

  The corner of my mouth kicked up, mollified that my own extreme reaction to Josiah was, in some part at least, reciprocated. I knew what his hesitation meant. How could I not, considering Maman’s profession? But the fact that Captain Josiah Rollins found me physically attractive was more a curse than a blessing. I would much prefer he see me as an engineer than as a woman.

  On the other hand, I did find him quite attractive, as well. As long as he kept his mouth shut. And as long as I could blot out the strange mixture of guilt and resentment I felt nearly every time I looked at him.

  Maybe I was a foolish chit, after all.

  When he reached halfway to the deck, I started after him. I could tell from the movement of the ship we were no longer losing altitude, but were we rising? And at what rate?

  The deck was a mere few feet below when I felt hands circle my waist and lift me from the ladder. I whirled to find Captain Josiah watching me, stony-faced.

  “I shouldn’t have done that, sir, if’n I were you,” whispered Reuben as he scurried past on his way to return a sack of flour to the galley. He had been witness to the many “accidents”—collapsing bunks, jammed personal locker latches, that sort of thing—that plagued crew members who dared treat me as a doll instead of as another crew member.

  But I had to get to my engines, and the captain needed to get to the bridge. I would deal with the problem later.

  I swallowed a sharp retort and snapped off as sarcastic a salute as I could manage. “I’ll be in the engine room, sir.”

  I spun on my heel and left him to scowl as he would. Lieutenant Whitcomb would take care of the ship, even if its captain wanted to fume instead of fly.

  The fires still burned as brightly as when I had gone to fix the gasbag. A glance at the barometer showed the mercury level creeping downward as the ship rose. The temperature gauge still did not move.

  I anticipated the speaking tube’s tocsin and reached for the tube before the last sharp tones ceased. “Sir?”

  Lieutenant Whitcomb’s voice grated in my ears. “Lower temperature ten degrees. All ahead full.”

  “Sir, the gauge is still broken. I’ll close down the valves some, but you’ll have to tell me if it is enough or too far.”

  “Thank you, Everley. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Between Lieutenant Whitcomb’s terse instructions and my experience with how the valves should look, we managed to level off the Mercury at an acceptable cruising height as dawn touched the tops of our gasbags, washing the ship in pink and gold while leaving the French countryside below in purple shadow.

  The beauty of the scene through the open engine room door and portholes was the only thing keeping me on my feet. After the excitement of the night, I felt as if I could fall asleep standing up if I so much as leaned against the bulkhead.

  I refilled the hopper and banked the fires, arranging the coals so the flames would follow on from one pile to the next, allowing me to grab as many as two hours of unconsciousness before the fuel ran low. I needed to fix the temperature gauge, but I had to get some sleep first to clear my head.

  I closed the flimsy door of the engine room and pulled the last of the pins from my hair, the few that had survived the rigors of the night’s excitement. Crossing to the workbench, I took a relatively clean hand cloth from its hook on one side and dampened it with water from the overflow tank spigot. I wiped the warm water over my face, removing the sweat and soot deposited there by the long hours of labor, and then did the same to my hands.

  Among the leftover globules of patching glue, I saw the telltale dark streaks of pitch and remembered the smell of the substance on the tear. Could someone have cut our bag while we were docked in Paris and sealed the slash with a substance sure to fail at operating temperatures? Could we have been deliberately sabotaged?

  Something to consider, especially after the incident with the draft horse back at Wormwood Airfield. But for now, my head felt too muzzy to think straight. I needed to catch a few hours of rest.

  I stripped off my waistcoat and laid it across the foot of my bunk, since I wouldn’t get much rest lying on the myriad lumps from the tools and supplies I kept stashed about it. My tool belt went beside the waistcoat, for the same reason.

  I had begun to tug off my boots when I heard the door swing open.

  “Miss Everley?” Josiah said in clipped tones.

  I spun, dropping my boot to the deck. What had gone wrong now? “Yes, sir? Is the ship well?”

  He had taken the time to right his clothing, although he had not shaved. I found the contrast between his crisp uniform and the slightly roguish scruff on his chin fascinating. I studied him with interest until I realized he had not answered my question about the status of the ship. He stood there, motionless, a remote and disapproving frown melting away to blankness as he stared at me.

  “Uh…” he stammered.

  It took a moment, but the brush of my hair against the bare skin of my shoulders hinted at the problem. I glanced down at the way the sun glowed through the thin cotton of my camisole and gilded my throat, arms, and the top swells of my breasts.

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” I snatched my coat from its peg and tugged it on, near to rolling my eyes at Josiah’s extreme response. I supposed I had grown a bit cavalier about my appearance in my working gear. Still, I’d have thought a man who’d crewed aboard a ship named the Winged Eros would have been bit more sophisticated and, perhaps, jaded.

  My actions seemed to snap the captain back to his original purpose. He took a deep breath and his frown returned. “I wish to speak with you, Miss Everley,” he said. He reached back and closed the door.

  My heart sank. A quick glance at my instruments confirmed the ship was flying well, so another problem with the ship could not be why he felt he had to beard me in my own den, as it were. I guess he intended to administer a private setting-down. Perhaps he did not wish an audience when he released me from service, as he knew I had supporters among the crew.

/>   “Yes, sir,” I said, coming to attention. If I had to endure an official reprimand, I’d do it with dignity.

  “Miss Everley,” he began. “It has come to my attention that my chief engineer, the man I must rely on to keep this ship in the air, is, in fact, a woman. A detail the whole crew kept from me.”

  I stifled a heavy sigh. “Because it was not relevant. Captain Rollins, I have served extremely competently as the assistant engineer aboard this vessel for longer than you have been flying in any capacity. Chief Engineer Butterfield was confident enough in my capabilities to hand over his job to me, and Lieutenant Whitcomb agreed with his assessment. I…”

  “Miss Everley,” he broke in, but I ignored him. I would no longer answer to “Miss.” If he wanted my attention, he could call me by my title of chief engineer. A title I’d earned.

  “I am a woman, yes,” I continued. “But I am also a cracking good engineer. I behaved like a foolish chit, as you put it last night, only in agreeing to stay on with the Mercury to see you off to a smooth start in your career.”

  “I don’t consider this a smooth start,” he said. “We nearly smashed into the ground last night.”

  “But we did not, due in part to my efforts in repairing the bag. This is why we fly with a trained engineer, not just someone to stoke the firebox.”

  “At least then I wouldn’t have to put up with a pestilential woman who argued over my every decision!”

  Perhaps due to lack of rest, the shaky hold I’d retained on my temper slipped completely. “I do not! I simply disagreed with you on the matter of fuel, which is my responsibility as engineer! At the moment, I know better than you what…”

  “Everley, that is enough,” Josiah snapped.

  My fists clenched involuntarily, and I stepped forward. “Oh, of course. Silence anyone who tries to give you a little helpful advice. Do you think your position as captain is the only one in danger during this transition? What happens to the rest of us if you can’t keep Winged Goods profitable? What happens to Henry McDonnell? He’s too old to start over aboard another airship, or, heaven forbid, go to sea on a sailing vessel. What about Whitcomb? If the Mercury fails to make a profit under his watch, his reputation as a lieutenant will be ruined. Not to mention your crewmen on all your other ships, and the ground crew, the repairmen, the clerks in the office…”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Josiah shoved a hand through his hair, tugging at the neatly trimmed strands until they stood straight up like hedgehog spikes. “Let me assure you I feel the responsibility quite keenly.”

  “Then why won’t you listen when I tell you we don’t need so much coal? Or when Whitcomb tells you we can make it to Saint-Etienne before refueling? We could save ten percent of our fuel costs a trip!”

  “Because ten percent is not enough money to risk running out of fuel in the middle of a flight!”

  “Do you even know how low that risk is? You’ve never come down to inspect the engines or the improvements Chief Butterfield and I have made. How can you accurately assess the chances of running out of fuel when you have no clear idea how efficiently your engines run?”

  “I am well acquainted with the engines on the Eros…”

  “But not with my engines.” I flung out a hand to indicate my pride and joy. The morning light gleamed warmly over brass dials and copper tubing, glinted off crystal gauges and iron firebox.

  “Look,” I said, grabbing Josiah’s starched sleeve, dragging him to face the copper and iron edifice. “This lever controls the angle of the air scoops, allowing me to adjust the burn rate. We installed it last year. The Eros doesn’t have one yet.”

  I released his coat and climbed the rungs mounted to the water tank, pointing to the complex tangle of copper tubing looping around the structure. “See this? The tubing recovers most of the moisture and residual heat from the steam, allowing us to go longer before we have to take on more water. Also allowing greater fuel efficiency. This particular design is mine, not yet adopted by any other airship.”

  Dropping to the deck, I continued to point out this improvement, or that new design, not allowing Josiah to get in a single word, although he drew breath several times as if he’d like to speak.

  He lost patience with my recitation while I crouched with my head beneath the firebox, explaining the system of grates that retained the coal pellets while shunting away the spent ash and funneling airflow through the fire for maximum heat. Grasping my arm, he jerked me to my feet.

  “Enough!” he barked. “You have made your point, sir!”

  The sudden motion, coming after a sleepless night, caused me to stagger. Instinctively, he took my shoulders to steady me, and I ended up leaning against his front, practically in his arms.

  His chest felt very solid.

  My tongue seemed to be paralyzed. I could not get out a single coherent word.

  He paused, blinking down at where my coat gaped open, exposing my throat and shadowy clefts below. His cheeks flushed with more than the engine room’s heat. “I… I mean, Miss Everley.”

  I had to swallow twice before I could make my voice heard, and it sounded high and breathy even then. “I prefer ‘sir’ to ‘miss’, Captain. At least aboard ship.” How peculiar I felt! My insides were as light and unsettled as if we were still falling from the sky, and yet his strong hands supporting me made me feel as safe as if I were in my own bed.

  Better to banish the thought of beds where Josiah was concerned. That particular image seemed to effectively derail my brain’s processes.

  “How could I possibly have called someone like you ‘sir’?” he muttered. His fingers gripped and loosened, gripped and loosened, kneading the flesh of my arms and shoulders. I don’t think he realized what his hands were up to. I, however, was acutely aware of every motion. Each constriction sent waves of heat through me, washing from my toes to well over my head, swamping me in sensation.

  “How…” I paused, swallowing before I could continue. “How about you call me ‘chief’ like the other crewmen do?” The clean, exotic aroma of sandalwood and chamomile teased my nostrils, and I wanted to lean closer and bury my nose in the crook of his neck.

  Impossible to carry out that action and retain any of the captain’s respect, scant though that commodity might be. I clenched my hands to prevent them from doing more than brushing against the sides of Josiah’s trousers.

  Josiah didn’t answer, and the silence spun out to cocoon the entire room. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the dark shadow of stubble limning his throat and firmly cut jaw.

  I had thought I understood from the tales Maman’s girls told the power of the attraction that could exist between a man and a woman.

  I had been wrong.

  What I felt now went far beyond some simple matter of animal magnetism; far stronger than any rare earth magnet I had ever experimented with. This feeling was a force of nature, like the steam that turned the turbines to power the ship, or a typhoon.

  I knew what happened when one got caught in the path of either.

  Abruptly, fear chilled the heat within me that had been growing with every second Josiah held me so close to his body.

  I brought my clenched fists to his chest and shoved. He sprang back, his hands dropping away from my arms as if he had been holding a hot coal.

  “I… I apologize…” He whirled to present me with his back, and scrubbed both hands over his face, digging them through his dark hair. His shoulders heaved as he drew uneven breaths.

  My own breath seemed determined to hitch and gulp, as well. I could not tear my eyes from his broad shoulders that narrowed into well-muscled buttocks showing the effects of his years clambering about the rigging. The sense of danger did not abate, despite my confidence in my personal safety. Josiah was a gentleman, and my captain.

  Besides, I had a knife in my boot, close to hand on the floor beside my bunk, and three crewmen well within a scream’s range.

  And still, the tension in my gut grew as I waited
for Josiah to speak.

  Josiah’s shoulders stilled. His hands dropped to his sides, and he turned to face me once more, his expression closed. Remote.

  “Chief,” he began, his voice as cool as his mien. “It is your responsibility to make sure this airship is in perfect operating order. I do not need to tell you how disappointed I am that your preflight checks missed the weakness in the hot-air envelope’s fabric.” He turned to the door. “See that it does not happen again.”

  He wrenched open the door and stalked out without acknowledging my faint “Yes, sir.”

  I sank down to sit with my back against the engine, hugging my knees. Could this interview possibly have gone worse?

  One matter had become crystal clear from our encounter, however. Despite how much I wanted Josiah physically, my instincts were dead-set against any such dalliance.

  Was I afraid of the man? Or was my subconscious mind warning me of something more serious?

  Cowardice, I hated. But I despised foolishness even more. I could not decide which caused my hesitation, not with a mind so dimmed from fatigue.

  I stood and fell face-first onto my bunk, more than half-way asleep before I realized I had not told Josiah about the strange appearance of the tear in the envelope, or the unusual substance with which it had been smeared.

  Chapter Twelve

  The tocsin woke me, seemingly mere moments after my head hit the thin pad I used as a pillow.

  “Marseille in thirty minutes, Everley,” barked Whitcomb when I answered the speaking tube.

  “Aye, sir,” I replied around a gaping yawn, I could not smother. I scrubbed at the sticky remnants of sleep that had gathered in the corners of my eyes and turned to tend the fires. If I hurried, I’d have time to snatch a bite to eat before we entered Marseille’s airspace.

  Since Josiah knew my gender, I could think of no reason I should not join the crew in the galley for my morning tea and toast. I viciously squelched the little voice inside my head that whispered I might see the captain there, too, taking his own breakfast. Why should I care what the captain did, or when I would see him next?