Josiah loomed at my shoulder like a thundercloud. “My father? I saw him barely six weeks out of fifty-two for all the years of my life. I warrant he spent more Christmases in your company than in mine.”
“He sent you to school! Gave you an education and a name. He made sure no doors in any society were closed to you.”
“I imagine he would have sent you to school, too, if you had wanted it—using the money that should have gone to support his wife in her old age.”
“Oh, yes. Can you imagine the life of a courtesan’s daughter at an oh-so-proper school for young ladies? And why should he not spend his money as he saw fit? He loved doing things for Maman because of all the happiness she brought him over the years.”
“And in so doing, brought untold misery to my mother,” Josiah said, his tone harsh enough to etch iron.
“She knew his motives before she married him. Captain Rollins was too honorable to deceive anyone, least of all a woman.” At least, I had thought so, before his death.
“So it is my mother’s fault for believing she could reclaim her husband’s heart from the clutches of a woman of loose morals?”
“There are always two bodies involved in cases of ‘loose morals’, as you put it,” I stamped my heels down as I marched to give my words greater force. “Where is the man who forced my maman into her present position? Why is he not condemned as well as her—and me?”
“She did not have to resort to prostitution…”
“So you would have had us starve in the streets?”
“I would not have had my father injure my mother’s tender sensibilities by continuing his association with you both!”
“Why should she care? She had you, a legitimate son and heir, at her side whenever she wanted. I was torn from Maman before I turned twelve years of age.”
“Why should you care? You had my father,” Josiah taunted. “He kept you beside him all these years, trusted you with his engines, graced you with his company!”
I spun to face him, the searing Turkish wind tugging curls free from my hairpins. I thrust my face into his, hands clenched into tight fists. It was all I could do not to hit him in his handsome, arrogant face. “He gave you my ship!” I shouted.
He glared down his perfect nose at me as if I had suddenly become one of the demons I was supposed, as a pyromancer, to consort with. His eyes went colder than I had ever seen, either on him or his father.
I had gone too far. I knew it.
He would never forgive this display. He would never forgive me for having more of his father than he felt he had had.
I had just lost him and worse, the Mercury.
I crumbled, shoulders curving and head drooping like a sail going slack. “He gave you my ship,” I repeated in a whisper.
How had our relationship exploded in such a short time? This morning, we had respected each other. I’d had hopes of a successful professional association. And mere minutes ago, he had given me reason to hope for more; much more.
All my hopes now lay in ashes at my feet.
With an effort, I forced my chin up until I could look Josiah in the eyes. “Captain Rollins, I shall spare you the effort of terminating my employment. I resign.”
With stiff precision, I turned on my heel… and came face-to-face with Reuben, standing slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the junction of the street and the airfield.
“Everley!” Josiah said, his voice rising in a warning.
“Mel? What’s happened? Did you quit?” Reuben reached out as if to catch hold of my hand, but I slid away and plunged into the busy street opposite the airfield, darting between a camel loaded with caged chickens and a woman balancing a baby on one hip and a basket of pastries on the other.
I heard Josiah bark “Everley!” one last time before Constantinople’s busy streets swallowed me up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I could not stay lost in Constantinople’s warm, spice-scented embrace forever. I had to return to the Mercury to retrieve my possessions and collect my final wages. I needed the money in order to secure passage back to…
To where? London? Paris, with Maman? Neither of those places felt like home. No, my home had silver gasbags and wicker cladding. Pine decks, and a curtained-off sleeping ledge, with a finely tuned steam engine to turn her airscrews.
No sense in wishing circumstances were different. I would find that feeling of home again, perhaps aboard one of Silas Fairlane’s airships. The Falcon’s Flight heavy-lifter had moored next to us this morning. Perhaps I could cadge a ride back to their home offices. I hoped Mr. Fairlane’s offer of employment remained open.
I felt a sharp pang of guilt for reneging on my promise to Obadiah to help Josiah find his feet, but it was not my fault, really. Josiah would not accept the daughter of his father’s mistress as his chief engineer. How could anyone expect him to? And the Mercury would run just as well—nearly—for any other engineer, with all the modifications to her engines Obadiah and I had made.
I could not stay. Josiah hated secrets, and he hated anything that smacked of impropriety. And, although he had ferreted out two of my scandal-fodder secrets, I had one left I dared not entrust to him. How soon after he found out I could work fire would I find myself locked in a stone cell on some remote British military base, with Maman left a fugitive for hiding my abilities?
No, better to leave now than to risk our safety to a man who, though he admired my physical appearance, would hate me even more if he found out what I was.
I wound my way through dusty alleys and roughly-cobbled twisting alleys, heading once again toward the airfield. The rumble of engines beat against my body as I approached. I paused as the ranks of towering gas bags came into view; huge ones like mountains for cargo, medium ones like cathedrals for passengers, and the Mercury’s slim trio of aether and hot-air bags, minuscule by comparison, denoting her speed and maneuverability.
Maneuverability and speed I had helped give her. My heart, sweat, and blood infused every part of the Mercury, my mind had inspired much of her design. Leaving her felt like leaving my child.
I thrust away that foolish thought. The Mercury was merely a ship. It had been Captain Rollins, who had made it my home.
The heavy-lifter moored next to us that morning had already departed. I did not see Falcon’s Flight’s insignia on any of the other ships.
Oh, well. Perhaps I would catch up to Mr. Fairlane in Paris. I could leave word at their offices, at the very least, and allow Maman to drag me to all the fashionable venues until Mr. Fairlane contacted me once more.
I would consider on some other day what to do in the event Mr. Fairlane had no need of my services.
I strode resolutely through the gate onto the airfield, steeling myself to say goodbye to my home of so many years, and to her crew whom I knew and, almost, loved. Although saying a final farewell to Lieutenant Whitcomb was not so great a hardship, I would miss Reuben and Benjamin.
I felt strangely void after the events of the day. As if some force had emptied me out like a boiler in need of repairs. All my touchstones, all my most cherished associations, were gone, now. I had lost my position, my precious Mercury, my mentor in Obadiah, my friends…
Henry was lost permanently.
I had lost most of my purpose, too, for how could I protect Josiah now? And how could I discover Captain Rollins’ murderer if his son would not allow me to look?
I had lost Captain Rollins, the only father—of a sort—I had ever known. For all his faults, I loved him still.
And I had lost Josiah. I had no definition for his position in my life. Not my captain; we had been a crew for too short a time for that particular relationship to carry much weight. Not a friend, exactly. Not a lover. Maybe, in Josiah, I had lost the possibility of all three. I did not know. What I did know was this last loss seemed, at this moment, to be the most painful of all.
Probably the effect of so many hard blows coming so close together.
As I approached the Mercury
, I noted an inordinate amount of activity on her deck. Ground crew scuttled up and down her gangway, loading on coal and supplies. Shouts rang above the low-level mutter of engines at idle, cursing the oxen that slowly dragged the water wagon into place at our stern.
Dodging a man hefting a basket of bread on his shoulder, I strode briskly up the gangway. Whitcomb stood at the top, directing traffic.
“Thank goodness you’ve turned up, Everley,” he said, ticking off the bread against the list he carried. “To the galley, man!” he shouted at the basket-carrying crewman. “To the galley! Don’t leave that on the deck!”
“You are checking all the foodstuffs for poison, are you not?” I asked, grasping the crewman’s shoulders and turning him toward the correct passage.
“Of course. I have no desire for a repeat of the last voyage’s troubles. I bought the comestibles directly from the store of another airship. I am friendly with the first mate. He would not sell us tainted goods.” Whitcomb turned to the fore and snapped, “Benjamin! Make sure the guest cabin is clean!”
I looked around at the barely-controlled chaos engulfing the ship. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“Some petty princeling somewhere is rattling his saber is my best guess,” he replied, with astonishing familiarity, considering whom he addressed. “We have another emergency commission to deliver dispatches and diplomat to London. We need to leave within the hour, and here we sit with no engineer, no quartermaster, and Captain Rollins refuses to leave the command deck!” Whitcomb’s normally controlled voice rose unsteadily at the end, and I could tell the man was close to the end of his rope.
“I am sorry, Whitcomb,” I said, and, to my surprise, I did feel sorry for him. “But I am no longer with the company. I’m only here to collect my things.”
Whitcomb’s hands tightened on his fountain pen until I thought it would snap. “You can quit our employ later, when we reach home, if you cannot learn to tolerate Captain Rollins. We have no time to hire another engineer.” His voice lowered, so the constant rumble of the surrounding airships’ engines drowned out his words to anyone farther away than I. “I had to pay a premium for the foodstuffs and for the hired guards to ensure we have no more ‘accidents’. Even with the bonus for delivering our passenger and his diplomatic pouch within five days, we will barely break even. After the disaster of our last trip, we cannot afford to fail our government contacts again. Please, Everley. One last time.”
One last flight aboard the Mercury. One last chance to fulfill my oath to Obadiah. One last opportunity to honor Captain Rollins’ memory.
Plus, it would save the cost of a ticket home.
“But what about the captain?” I asked, feeling my resolve waver. “I am afraid most of the animosity between us is on his end.” Mostly. “He will not tolerate my presence aboard his ship.”
“Everley, I can hardly tolerate your presence aboard the Mercury.” His back stiffened, confirming my opinion of the man as an ass.
“However,” he continued, “you have proved your worth to the ship and the company many times over. Therefore, I will smooth things over with Captain Rollins. Just… try to keep out of his way.”
Reuben dashed up to us, watch cap wildly askew. “Mel, should I have Benjamin stoke the fires?”
I studied Whitcomb, his stiff posture curving forward in a silent plea. What could one more voyage hurt, especially if Captain Rollins stayed to his own territory and left me to mine? “One last voyage, Lieutenant, but that is all.” I turned to Reuben. “I shall see to the fires, Reuben. Have Benjamin help you square away the foodstuffs in the galley after he finishes with the guest cabin. Unless Lieutenant Whitcomb has other plans for the boy?”
Whitcomb shook his head. “Carry on, Dodd.” He turned back to directing the flow of the ground crew supplying the ship.
I raced for the engine room, surprised at how light my heart felt at the prospect of another journey aboard the Mercury, even one I knew would be a grueling trial of endurance. Five days to reach England! I prayed we would have the wind at our backs.
I squeezed past the last of the ground crew toting bags of pelleted coal, my bustle and skirts threatening to have us all head-over-teakettle, and dropped to my knees in front of the firebox, opening the baffles and switching on the fans to rouse the flames. I had no time to change into my working gear. I had to build up enough steam to turn our airscrews, right away. Maman would not mind buying me another dress.
I wish I could replace my airship so easily.
I put that thought out of my mind. I had work to do now, to get us into the air.
One last time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Perhaps the less said about the journey back to London, the better. The burst of energy and relief I felt at the beginning lasted mere hours before exhaustion flushed it away.
We travelled quickly, stopping only to take on water and fuel. Whitcomb had apparently persuaded Josiah to conform to my recommendations on where and how much coal we needed, and I pushed the ship to her limits.
We battled a storm from the north over Italy that threatened to blow us into the ocean, but my engines managed to climb above the worst of the blast, and we outran the winds before the night ended. We had not a single incident of sabotage, confirming the theory it had all been aimed at Mr. Jones.
Meals were a makeshift affair, gamely prepared by a woefully inexperienced Benjamin with Reuben’s equally unskilled assistance. I lent a hand when I could, but after two days of no sleep except what I could catch in between tending the engines, I was doing well to be able to brew tea. If not for Whitcomb’s decision to take over all night bridge duties, I do not know if I would have survived the flight. None of the crew got close to enough rest, but we each spelled the others often enough we all got some sleep.
We stumbled into Wormwood Field late in the evening of the fifth day. We had earned our bonus. Winged Goods remained solvent. I had fulfilled my obligations to Obadiah and to the spirit of Captain Rollins.
And, through some combination of my and Whitcomb’s efforts, I had not once set eyes on Josiah during the entire length of our flight.
I banked the fires and gathered my possessions, blinking through bleary eyes at the hammers, spanners, screwdrivers and pages of design notes scattered about my workbench. No, not my workbench. The workbench. The workbench in the engine room.
And what else belonged to the ship and not to me? My clothes were my own, of course. And the graduated set of calipers Obadiah had given me when I had been made assistant was mine.
But what of the papers detailing the changes I had made to the Mercury’s engines? What of the books, engineering and novels, that Captain Rollins had lent me? Did they stay here with the ship, or could I take them with me when I left?
My exhausted brain refused to spit out any logical, i.e., useful, decisions. Which left me only my emotions with which to decide.
I left the papers. The next engineer would need them to figure out how to run my engines, and I could not stand the thought of being able to look at my engines and not work on them ever again. I knew I would think of ways to improve them. To be unable to fix a flaw I might find would keep me up nights.
The books were a more difficult matter. I studied the shelf, with books jammed into every spare nook. Too many for me to carry, particularly considering how little energy I had left. I pried out two; a treatise on gearing ratios—one of the first books Captain Rollins had given me to study—and a copy of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, signed by the captain with the inscription “To my dearest friend, Amelia.” He had given it to me this last Christmas.
I shoved the books into the bottom of my canvas rucksack and threw my remaining bits and pieces on top. My one dress, the blue muslin I had worn in Constantinople and which had apparently been the inspiration for Josiah’s kiss, was soot-stained beyond recovery. I left it behind, along with the memory of that moment.
Or I attempted to leave the memory, anyway.
I pulled my cap over my bound-up curls, shrugged on my frock coat, and scrubbed a damp cloth over my face and hands to remove the worst of the grime. Hefting my bag over my shoulder, I turned to my engines.
The flames in the firebox huddled low inside their wall of pelleted coal, as worn out and morose as I. The glass fronts of the dials and gauges caught the low light and threw it redly back onto the far wall.
I stretched out a hand as if to stroke the hot metal. “Goodbye, old girl.”
I turned away, and felt in my breast the heavy pulse as the flames went out.
Benjamin and Reuben were gone by the time I made my way onto the deck. I was spared saying goodbye to them, at least. I did not see Whitcomb, either. The deck and gangway were deserted; the rigging was empty. Where were the guards? Winged Goods could still be under attack.
But that was none of my business, now. I headed for the gangway.
The heavy tread of boots from the command deck brought me up short. I turned, expecting Whitcomb to come see me off, if only to gloat. I am certain he felt a measure of satisfaction at seeing the last of me.
But it was not Lieutenant Whitcomb who came striding down the ladder.
Josiah, his trunk on one shoulder, face pale and set, came toward me across the deck. I froze, drinking in the sight of him as if I had been lost in the desert for a week, and he was water.
“Sir.” I dropped my bag and came to attention.
He never even glanced my way. Brushing past me, he continued onto the gangway and down to the packed earth and scrub of the airfield. A carriage bearing the Winged Goods insignia waited below. He slung his box up to the driver, who settled it on the back, climbed inside, and shut the door.
Shut me out.
And drove away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I told myself that hearts did not actually break from such things. I told myself I was over-tired, and a few days’ rest would find me back to my usual, steady self. That I had never expected anything to come of our friendship, anyway, so why become upset when the inevitable came to be?
Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic Page 20