Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  “Yes,” I said, patted his hand, then let him go. “Regardless, you are in serious need of a bath, and I don’t like that moustache.”

  Phineas laughed. “I thought it made me look gentlemanly,” he said, stroking the moustache. “You know, I’ve been wondering. Why, out of all of us, was old Salvatore the one to win you away from Byron? What made him so special?”

  I grinned at him. “Get some rest and don’t forget to come by the Stargazer tomorrow.” I rose to leave.

  “All right, Lily,” he said with a laugh. He followed me to the door.

  Outside, thunder rumbled. I grabbed my hat, adjusted my lily pin to ensure it was securely fastened, tossed it on, and headed outside.

  “And shave off that moustache,” I called to Phineas who was leaning against the door frame smoking his pipe. Grinning, he bowed ever-so-elegantly then went inside.

  I walked away thinking about Phin’s question. I’d never really seen what had happened between Sal, Byron, and me like that. In the end, I still cared deeply for Byron. I just wanted something more, something different . . . with Sal.

  THE AIR WAFTING OFF THE Thames was perfumed with the mix of factory spill and spring flowers. Trees along the river were bursting with blossoms and crisp green leaves. Overhead, thunder rumbled again. The clouds were dark and forbidding. I sighed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why someone would sabotage us, but I was still shocked and angry.

  As I walked, I thought about the Stargazer. I would never forget the first time I saw her. Angus and I had been flying the Deirdre since Mr. Fletcher’s death. In 1818, we raced in the British qualifying and made second place. We realized that our ship, not our crew, was what had held us back. We needed a faster machine. As the 1819 qualifying approached, we had leads on two racing airships, one in Paris and the other in Stuttgart. Angus, Pidge—our balloon man at the time—and I headed first to Paris.

  The Paris transport towers, unlike the race towers, were situated on Île de la Cité, the small island in the Seine River running through Paris. On one end of the island the Cathedral de Notre Dame stretched to the heavens. On the other end were more bawd houses, opium dens, and taverns than an opium eater like me could have ever asked for. The joke was that you could sin on one end of the island then repent on the other. I never made it to the Cathedral.

  We’d arrived in Paris very late only to discover the ship vendor was even later than we were. Pidge stayed on the Deirdre to get some rest. Angus and I headed to the taverns below to look for trouble. It was easy to find, and it had a name: Lord Byron.

  I had just returned from the opium den when Byron and his entourage entered Le Blonde Sale, The Dirty Blonde. The tavern was a dark, smoke-filled place that reeked of stale ale. Lit by just a few lamps, the space glowed with soft orange light. The noisy tavern erupted into a cheer when Byron walked into the room.

  “Who is that?” I asked Angus as we both strained to get a look.

  “Bloody hell, that’s Lord Byron,” Angus replied then whistled at the bartender to pour us another drink.

  Lord Byron. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t know his name and reputation. Byron, a famous poet and a scandalous lover, was living in self-imposed exile abroad. I’d never seen him in person. I gazed through the crowd to get a look. Through my opium haze, I saw he was exactly as he had been described: heart-stopping. With dark curly hair, alabaster skin, red lips, and a laugh that filled the room, he made something in my stomach flutter. I wasn’t the only one who responded to him. Every woman in the room, and many of the men, rushed to the door to meet him, to touch him, to be near him.

  The bartender set the shots before us. I turned away from the crowd that thronged around the poet.

  “What, aren’t you going to gush all over him too?” Angus asked.

  I lifted my drink and motioned for Angus to do the same. “One. Two. Three!” Angus and I drank. I downed the harsh liquor in one long swallow. It burned. I set the empty glass down. “No, I’m not.”

  “Why lassie, I’m surprised,” Angus teased.

  “There is only one way to get the attention of man like that.”

  Angus raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Ignore him,” I explained with a wicked grin. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Come on,” I said and headed toward the door. As we passed Byron, I could see he was very drunk, maybe more drunk than me. And I didn’t like the looks of the people who surrounded him. They looked little better than thieves and common street whores. Byron, however, seemed like he was having fun. I paused at the door to hold it open for Angus. And then I waited just a moment longer. Byron turned and leveled his blue eyes on me.

  I winked at him then left.

  Once we got outside, Angus laughed loudly. “Aye, that should do it,” he said, and we headed into the tavern across the street.

  Inside, we found tables lined up side by side as pairs engaged in a drinking competition. The place was packed with spectators. Angus and I pushed through the crowd to get a look. One man downed a shot then slumped sideways to the floor. Half the crowd around him cheered, the other half of the room ruefully handed over their francs.

  “Let’s bet,” I shouted to Angus over the noise of the crowd as they lined up the next pair.

  “Which one?” Angus replied.

  We sized up the next pair; a wiry French lad was about to take on Russian twice his size.

  “The boy looks too mean to lose,” I said.

  With a nod, Angus agreed, and we threw in our bet for the Frenchman.

  Up went the shots. Both men stayed upright. Again, they drank. The Russian downed his drink, rose inexplicably, then toppled over. Angus and I cheered, collected our winnings, then took a table off to the side. I ordered an absinthe, Angus ordered a scotch, and we settled in. We’d been there for less than fifteen minutes when the bawdy crowd that surrounded Byron rambled in, the poet at its center.

  I sipped my drink and watched him. He scanned the room. When he spotted me, he smiled. I looked away, pretending I hadn’t seen him.

  “Oy, I almost pity him,” Angus said with a laugh.

  I grinned. I heard Byron order a round of drinks which helped to disperse the crowd around him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him cross the room.

  “Here he comes,” Angus said, never looking at Byron.

  “Puis-je vous joindre?” Bryon asked politely.

  Angus grinned then got up to go watch the drinking match. “If you want,” I said, motioning nonchalantly to the empty seat. Several people from Byron’s entourage attempted to join us, but Byron shooed them away.

  “English?” Byron more stated than asked. “Well, that is a surprise.”

  A tavern girl arrived at our table with two absinthes. She heaved her breasts toward Byron, trying to catch his attention, but he ignored her. Ruffled, she set the drinks down and stalked away.

  Byron prepared our drinks, pouring cold water over sugar, then pushed a drink toward me. “To the green fairy,” he said as he lifted his glass, referring to the enchanted—and occasionally monstrous—hallucinogenic creature thought to be evoked by drinking absinthe.

  I lifted the drink, and we tapped our glasses together: “To the green fairy. May she guide us into the unknown,” I agreed with a grin.

  I took a drink, set my glass down, then leveled my eyes on Byron. We made direct eye contact. While my head was swimming in a haze of opium and alcohol, the color of his blue eyes was strikingly vivid. They drew me in like a chain had snared my heart. For a moment, I think I stopped breathing. But it wasn’t the flashing blue of his eyes that had so ensnared me. There was something beyond them, behind them, which spoke to me. It was like, in that single instance, I saw him as everyone else did then saw past the façade to the soul within him. A fragile, broken, yet dangerous man lived behind those eyes. I’d never experienced anything like it in my life.

  Byron, too, took a deep breath. He looked away, trying to appear nonchalant
. He fidgeted with his sleeve. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  I smiled weakly and tried to look bored, but my hands were shaking. “Of course.”

  He liked my answer. “What’s your name?” he asked, turning again toward me, leaning on the table. His eyes searched my face.

  For a split second, I wanted to say Penelope, my true given name. The instinctive reaction startled me. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

  “Hmm,” Byron mused then took a drink. “Let’s have a match.”

  “A match?”

  Byron smiled slyly then motioned to the drinking game. “If I can match you five drinks, or win you over, you will tell me your name.”

  I thought it over. I had a solid ten drinks still left in me before I was apt to kiss the floor. “Agreed. Of course, if you win me over, I won’t be able to tell you.”

  Byron laughed. “This is true. Let’s make it more interesting . . . if I can match you or beat you by ten drinks, you’ll owe me a kiss.”

  I looked over at Angus who, despite the fact that he was looking away from us, seemingly watching the game, was hearing every word. I waited for him to look back at me. He didn’t, but he nodded.

  “Agreed again.”

  “All right,” Byron said with a grin, pounding his fist on the table, then called to the barkeep: “Nouveaux joueurs!”

  The tavern erupted into a cheer.

  Byron and I took seats across from one another and the barkeep poured five shots.

  “Are you ready, Mademoiselle?” Byron asked me.

  “Are you?”

  Byron laughed.

  “Santé,” Byron said, toasting me, then tossed back his drink. I matched him drink for drink until the fourth shot. Byron slowed a little then looked me over, assessing me. “You can tell me now. You don’t have to push yourself.”

  I laughed, picked up the drink, and downed it.

  Byron grinned and matched me.

  The crowd around us booed. It was a draw.

  “Well?” Byron asked, arching an eyebrow at me.

  “Lily,” I replied.

  “Lily? Hmm. Bonjour, sweet Lily. I’m George,” he said then took my hand, daintily kissing it.

  Beside me, Angus chuckled.

  I grinned at Byron as the bartender set out five more shots.

  “You do recall we’ve got some actual business to attend to tonight,” Angus whispered in my ear. “It might be nice if you weren’t out stone cold.”

  “I’m good,” I replied.

  Angus shook his head, but he was smiling.

  “Now, for a taste of those lips,” Byron said. “Cheers, Lily,” he called and drank the first drink.

  I matched him and drank the second as well.

  Byron laughed, picked up his second glass, and drank.

  The crowd around Byron cheered.

  I picked up the third glass. I could handle it, but after one more, things would start going downhill. Both Angus and I knew it. I smiled at Byron then drank.

  “Bloody hell, the girl is more liquor than woman. Cheers to Lil-” Byron began, standing to toast me, but then his legs went out from under him. Down he went. His entourage, laughing loudly, caught him and dragged him to a chair along the wall where they propped him up.

  “He’s out,” one of them shouted with a laugh.

  Again, the laughing patrons exchanged francs. Many of them clapped me on the back in congratulations.

  “Just in time too. I had to guess which one was the full glass last time,” I told Angus as I settled the tab. I looked back at Byron who was surrounded by a crowd of noisy revelers. I smiled. He was snoozing peacefully propped against the wall. He’d have a hell of a headache when he woke.

  Angus and I left the tavern and headed toward the towers. It was already after midnight. When we got to the guard post, they told us the vendor had arrived and was waiting for us on his ship.

  “Christ, I can barely see straight,” Angus said with a laugh as we made our way down the platform, a guard leading the way.

  “Here you are, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Robert?” the guard called.

  To my great shock, we had stopped beside a bulky old tub no better than the Iphigenia, the ship I’d grown up on. Monsieur Robert, the vendor, came to the ship’s rail to greet us.

  “What? What the hell is this?” I growled.

  “Mademoiselle, I am sorry. The racing ship was sold in Toulouse. But this is a fine old ship. Very sturdy. I thought, perhaps, I could interest you in this vessel?”

  “Oh, piss off!” Angus swore at him. “I should bust your teeth in for wasting our time.”

  “But Monsieur,” Monsieur Robert protested.

  Enraged, I called to mind the best French curse words Nicolette, my adoptive sister, had ever taught me, and told Monsieur Robert what I thought of him. When I was done, the vendor stood, pale and still as a stone, grasping the rail of his floating bathtub.

  “Let’s go,” I told Angus who was laughing so hard his eyes watered.

  “Christ, Lily. What did you do, curse his family line? I think he shit himself.”

  “Something like that,” I replied, feeling a bit sorry for my words after the fact.

  Depressed that we were no better off than before we’d come to Paris, Angus and I headed back to the taverns where he hoped to get one last drink, and I wanted one last smoke, before we went back to the Deirdre. We’d leave for Stuttgart that night. We didn’t want to be late again.

  “We’ll have better luck next time,” I reassured Angus.

  “I sure as hell hope so, otherwise we’ll be ferrying the circuit for another year.”

  As we crossed the street, we heard a scuffle in the alley. A small group of people were working over a tall man they had pressed against a building, turning out his pockets and knocking him hard in the gut.

  “Keep walking,” Angus whispered.

  Something about the scene drew my attention. I realized that the crowd was the same I’d seen in the tavern clustered around Byron, and the man taking the pummeling was Lord Byron himself.

  “Hey! You bloody rats, lay off,” I yelled at them.

  “Lily!” Angus scolded.

  “That’s Byron,” I whispered harshly.

  “It’s not our business.”

  “Don’t tell me that you, a Scot yourself, will leave a descendant of Scottish Lairds in a ditch in Paris to be robbed and beaten by thieves!”

  “You had to bring that up, did you?” Angus grumbled at me. “All right. Bugger off you scoundrels,” Angus yelled at them as he pulled his sidearm from his vest.

  The minute the crowd saw the gun, they scattered. Moments later, Angus and I were standing over a bloodied and unconscious Lord Byron.

  “What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Angus asked.

  I shrugged. “Take him with us. We can drop him off in Stuttgart.”

  “What!”

  “Well, we can’t just leave him here. He’s out cold. When he wakes up, he can catch a transport back to wherever he’s supposed to be.”

  “He probably has people looking for him. Not to mention, he doesn’t exactly have the reputation as the grateful type,” Angus grumbled.

  I looked down at Byron. Something about what I’d seen in his eyes made me think otherwise. “I’m not going to leave him here. Take him by the arms. I’ll grab his legs.”

  “Christ,” Angus swore.

  And with a heave, we hauled Byron back to the Deirdre.

  “Who is that?” Pidge had asked sleepily, rubbing his hand through his thin white hair, as Angus and I dumped Byron into my hammock.

  “Lord Byron,” Angus grumbled as he tried to catch his breath. “Whew. He needs to drop a few stones.”

  Pidge laughed. “Caught a buck in rut, did you, Lily? What the hell are we going to do with him?”

  “That’s what I asked,” Angus grumbled.

  “Let him to sober up,” I replied. “Let’s anchors aweigh for Stuttgart. The Paris ship was a bu
st. Let’s haul it to Württemberg before someone cuts in on us again.”

  “You could have let me sleep another hour,” Pidge said with a yawn as he climbed into the burner basket. “And you two smell like you’ve been fished out of a liquor barrel.”

  “That’s Byron,” Angus said with a laugh then headed below deck.

  I untethered the Deirdre and maneuvered the ship out of port. We’d make Stuttgart in the Kingdom of Württemberg before morning light. Setting the coordinates on the ship, I turned the ship east and headed across country. Cruising, unlike racing, was easy. As long as you kept the ship on her bearing, an eye on the clouds, and stayed on the lookout for pirates, there was little to distract you. I ran with only two lanterns burning. To avoid pirates, it paid to cruise quickly and without too much flash.

  We sailed over the French countryside. The moon was nearly full, and there was little cloud cover. The stars overhead twinkled brightly. The moonlight above the rare cloud wisps cast long shadows on the ground below. The rivers and small ponds glistened with silver light. I locked the wheel and went to look over the side of the ship. Though it was a beautiful night, there was a chill in the air.

  “You got your coat, Pidge?” I called up to the balloon basket.

  “Aye, Lily, and some rum,” he said with a laugh.

  I chuckled and pulled my coat from the storage bin. I cast an eye back toward Byron whose loose white shirt ruffled in the breeze. I also pulled a thick blanket from the locker and went to the hammock. I lay the heavy blanket over Byron, tucking it around his body. When I moved to adjust his arms, his eyes fluttered open for a moment. He gazed wistfully at me, smiled, then closed his eyes again. I laughed, shook my head, then pulled the blanket up to his chin.

  I went back to the wheelstand. It was turning out to be an interesting night. Keeping my eye on the instruments, I guided the ship over the French border and into the Kingdom of Württemberg. Just a few hours later we were passing over the northern end of the Black Forest; we’d soon be in Stuttgart.