“I hear we are again reduced this morning,” Madame Barsteau said, greeting them with a dismal wave as she crossed the lobby and joined them on the bench. “We’ll be four, setting out. Lavinia insisted that Cantlebury not give up his chance. He’ll be down shortly.”
“How are you feeling, Madame?” Eliza asked.
“Tired. Angry for Cecily. Nostalgic . . . no, the meaning is different. I think you say ‘homesick.’”
Eliza put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, then, impetuously, embraced her. “Just a few more days now and we’ll be on our way home by fast clipper.”
Madame Barsteau returned the hug for a few moments, then straightened and gathered herself. “As you say. Here is Mr. Cantlebury. Ah, and a rally official.”
Mr. Nesbitt, one of the rally committee’s representatives, reached them just as Cantlebury did, then stood turning his hat nervously in his hands. He’d all but ruined the brim of what appeared to have been a rather nice derby.
“A very good morning to you all, you remaining four. I trust you all know that today begins the air leg of the Sky and Steam Rally. From this point forward, all progress to San Francisco must be made by airship, whether dirigible or balloon, rather than by ground travel. I’ll remind you all that upon the arrival of the final competitor at the penultimate stop, Carson City, your running time tallies will be sorted and your overall placement by time will determine departure order handicaps for the following morning when you embark for San Francisco. Racers will depart at ten minute intervals.”
“Yes, yes, we remember, man,” Cantlebury told him. “We only want to know our current rankings. Unless anyone else needed to hear more about the handicapping?”
Having been reassured by the others that they agreed with Cantlebury, Mr. Nesbitt pulled out the official time tally. “The current standings have Miss Eliza Hardison in the lead, followed by Mr. Matthew Pence and Madame Jeannette Barsteau at a tie, then Miss Lavinia Speck and finally Mr. Edmund Cantlebury.
“No Miss Speck,” Eliza informed him. “Influenza.”
“Ah, I see.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose and pulled a pencil from some hidden pocket, making a careful note on the tally page. “As for this morning, departure will be in one hour’s time from the town square. A coach will arrive in approximately thirty minutes to take you all there, so you may access your vehicles for your airship equipment. And on a more personal note,” he added, with a self-conscious throat-clearing, “though I may be out of order for saying so, and I’m not sure I’d like my employers to know I’ve said this, I should like to apologize for the very odd turn things have taken in this rally. After reading the summary report I received from the post express rider this morning, I am simply astonished and horrified. While these events are always a risky enterprise, never in all my years have I seen anything quite like this. While I admire you tremendously for your desire to persevere, I will also say it’s within my authority to call the race off. Are you all four quite sure you want to continue?”
They all nodded, though none of them did so with much enthusiasm.
“Very well. Best of luck to each of you, and I’ll see you at the starting line.”
As they had all already breakfasted and packed, it was a question of waiting thirty minutes for their ride. Whitcombe arrived before then, greeting them with a face that looked better rested than any of theirs.
“If you’ll all come into the private dining room,” he requested, “the sheriff and I have put together a going-away package for each of you.”
The “package” consisted of revolvers and ammunition, which all four of them accepted despite the extra weight it entailed.
• • •
IT WAS MORE of a starting box than a line. The four vehicles had been parked at the corners of the town common, a patch of sickly grass that hadn’t really recovered from winter yet. The flowerbeds that edged the square were pretty, however, full of pansies and other bright flowers.
The El Dorado Foundation ladies seemed diminished both in number and volume, Eliza was pleased to notice. The group with signs had mainly congregated along one side of the square, and a heavy police presence kept them relatively subdued.
Why a temperance society? Eliza couldn’t help worrying over that tidbit, wondering why on earth a supposed opium kingpin would want to bankroll such an enterprise. The ladies were fundamentally opposed to everything he was trying to achieve, as far as she could tell. And it seemed too convenient, too pat, that the organization had also taken so vehemently against the rally.
One of the placards read, ONLY ANGELS AND BIRDS WERE MEANT TO FLY. Eliza was glad she wasn’t of that mindset. For one thing, it completely discounted other creatures like bats and those ballooning spiders. For another, she was looking forward to going aloft, leaving these drab, angry women and all her other concerns on the ground and soaring high above it all. She was also starting to sweat inside her fur-lined flight suit, and was eager to get into the air in order to cool off. But the mayor must make a statement first, then the other rally official, whose name she’d forgotten, and finally Mr. Nesbitt with the official announcement of rankings.
The ladies booed Eliza when her name was called, and some hissed, but she was used to that now. One of them, however, pitched a fist-sized rock at her steam car, startling her and leaving an ugly scratched dent in the freshly washed red paint. She turned her attention away from them, very deliberately, and ignored the scuffle of hooves and the shouts as one of the policemen sought the stone-thrower.
She had a flight checklist to go through and a semi-rigid dirigible to inflate. And Eliza always loved this part, the unfurling of the primary balloon. She focused on that, on making sure everything was in its proper place and her harness fittings and panniers were secure.
Although her airship was modeled on Charlotte’s tiny craft, Gossamer Wing, Eliza’s ship had several important differences. Improved steering and pitch control, by the addition of ballonets. A harness system that allowed Eliza to stand upright while launching, then latch the cradle into the horizontal position once she was airborne. Other minor refinements. But the biggest change was that unlike Charlotte, Eliza didn’t choose to have her balloon blend tastefully into the blue of the sky.
Once the pilot was lit and the balloon began to billow and rise, the crowd gasped. No subtlety, no ladylike pinkish tint here. The ship was the unabashed vermilion of a Chinese lantern, complete with figured black and gold designs near the base and top to increase the resemblance. It was one tradition from the old country her grandmother’s family had retained, and that Eliza Chen had passed down to her children and grandchildren, the symbolic meaning of this particular red. The crowd saw brazen, lustful scarlet, but Eliza saw good fortune and happiness.
“My Firebird,” she whispered as the craft expanded to its full grounded inflation, just enough to fill the balloon without pulling her off the ground. “Well done, Dexter.”
Looking across the square, she saw Matthew’s somewhat larger balloon rising, revealing its horizontal gradations of green, from the fresh clear color of a budding spring leaf to the deep hue of a pine branch. They lent his bullet-shaped ship something of an organic air.
Cantlebury’s balloon was more traditional in shape, with vertical panels of bright blue, orange and yellow, and all the subtlety of a circus tent. Eliza felt more cheerful just looking at it. And Madame Barsteau’s craft earned another gasp from the ladies, a more appreciative one this time. The design of the silk was clearly couture inspired, and utterly French. On a background of crisp white, a design of black filigree swirls stood out in stark detail, and the color scheme was continued in the glossy black of the craft’s small basket. It was an elegant and stunning ball gown, transformed into a dirigible. Eliza wanted to applaud.
She and Matthew would have an immediate advantage, she realized. Both Barsteau and Cantlebury relied on tethers to moor their crafts, and wouldn’t lift o
ff as quickly. She followed Matthew’s lead, quickly getting her bearings and turning her ship west-northwest, in the direction they must head. Then it was simply a matter of buckling herself into the harness and waiting for the starting pistol, her fingers ready at the altitude control to fully inflate the balloon and be on her way. Eliza found her hand was trembling; she hadn’t been this nervous since their initial start from New York.
That seemed a lifetime ago, and she could hardly believe it hadn’t even been a full week. She glanced at Matthew again, trying to remember what it was like to dislike him. To be irritated when he drew near, instead of calmed and excited at the same time. She wasn’t even sure when her perspective had changed. But it had, and now everything was different.
“Fly safely, Matthew,” she whispered, just before the starter pistol fired.
And they were off.
EIGHTEEN
MAJESTIC. THE WORD kept popping into Eliza’s mind, each time she caught sight of a new vista, a higher ridge, a more dramatic river valley. She’d heard that parts of the Spanish territory south of the Dominions were even more stunning, a desert land of fantasy colors and jaw-dropping canyon systems. But this . . . she’d read, seen some artwork, studied topographical maps galore, but she simply hadn’t grasped how big it all was until she saw it from the air. Even flying low, below the clouds and the risk of ear damage, she could see for miles when she topped the rises, and the mountains seemed to go on forever.
As the plains dwindled behind her, the crests and snow-topped peaks grew higher. After the first few hours of being too in awe to notice much else besides the view, she realized she was growing quite cold. At the same time, the uncomfortable pressure in her eardrums grew to a stabbing pain, despite the special plugs Dexter had designed to help her adjust to the changes in altitude.
I should have gotten those implants, like Charlotte suggested. It had seemed so extreme, not to mention costly, considering the air portion of the rally lasted less than a week. Tonight’s nameless checkpoint camp, then Salt Lake City. From there, they continued to Elk City, then had another two-day window to reach Carson City on the western side of the Sierras. At least, whoever remained in the race would continue in that order, before the final sprint to San Francisco.
Matthew had taken the lead from the start, and she’d stayed within eyeshot of him all day. It grew surreal by afternoon, seeing his balloon and sometimes nearing enough to see Matthew himself, but not being able to speak to him. They should have incorporated some sort of short-range communication devices into their airships, she thought. Then she remembered that at the time they were preparing for the race, Matthew Pence was the last person she would have wanted to talk to, even by radio telegraph. When exactly her opinion had changed, she wasn’t quite sure, but now she found his concern more endearing than annoying. Somehow everything he did now seemed right.
Her thoughts drifted to the night in the barn, how he’d touched her. How she’d touched him, and that had been unexpectedly entertaining. The whole interlude had been not only sensual and exciting but fun, playful, and sweet at the same time. The sort of thing a girl could grow used to. And then at the end, had he really said he loved her? Perhaps she had dreamed that part, after all.
But thinking of the hotel room, how he’d held her as she fell asleep, then tucked her into bed without waking her, she suspected it was no dream. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. What it meant to her.
The sky was fairly clear but the wind was fitful, sometimes aiding their progress and sometimes slowing them. The last few hours were excruciating in a way Eliza had never anticipated, with the sun glaring straight into her eyes. Even her darkened helmet visor wasn’t quite enough to prevent a sun-dazzled headache by the time night began to fall. She nearly cried in relief when she saw Matthew’s balloon, silhouetted against the last of the fading light, sinking toward the signal fire that marked their checkpoint.
Charlotte had warned her about landing after a long trip, even with the improved harness arrangement. But when Eliza released the clip to slide into a vertical position to land on her feet, she realized she was in trouble before she even touched down. Cold and exhausted, for the last few hours she had neglected the series of subtle posture shifts and stretches that relieved the pressure from the harness.
She couldn’t feel her feet. She hit the ground and kept on going, nearly pitching forward on her face, then falling ignominiously backwards when the balloon caught a final updraft and tugged her upward at the last moment.
“Well, damn.”
“Eliza!”
“I’m fine,” she called from beneath the layers of silk, as she frantically pushed them aloft again until she could kill the flame entirely.
“What in the—where are you under there? Oh, there you are. My goodness, not the smoothest landing I’ve ever seen you perform.” He bundled the puffy red balloon up and into his arms, clearing the rigging so she could handle it safely.
“You’re one to talk. I’ve seen you tip straight on your back trying to land in that chair.”
“You sound grumpy, darling. Is it pain? Would you like me to kiss it better?”
She glanced to one side, where the rally official was fast approaching them to check her in officially. “Maybe later.”
“Now, now, Mr. Pence. Remember the racers aren’t supposed to interfere with one another’s equipment.” The man was barely visible in his thick parka with its fur-lined hood. “Miss Eliza Hardison, yes? Initial here, please. Thank you.”
Eliza stabbed the pen toward the check-in form in something that resembled her initials, then attempted to stand. She sat down harder than she had on the landing.
“Owwww . . .”
“Are you all right, Miss?”
“Pins and needles, Miss Hardison?” Matthew knelt beside her, extending a hand carefully toward one of her ankles.
“No, no, don’t touch. It feels like bees swarming up my legs. It’ll pass.”
“Do you require a medic?” the official asked.
She shook her head, focusing on detaching the rest of her harness and rigging to take her mind off her legs while the stinging buzz and general sense of humiliation subsided. Her hands were shaking, fingers dull with cold, complicating the task. The official finally took himself back to the fireside, a spot Eliza was eager to reach herself.
“No pirates,” Matthew commented, removing his gloves and blowing on his fingers in a vain attempt to warm them. “I didn’t expect to make it here unmolested, did you?”
She freed the last of the clips holding her to her rigging with a sound of triumph and began stuffing the deflated balloon into a specially designed pouch on the harness. “No, I didn’t, but I’m not complaining. Are there guards here? What if they attack by night?”
Matthew shook his head. “Two rally officials, a medic and a cook. A pair of hostlers for the mule teams and wagons that brought them all here. Armed with rifles but they won’t be able to do much against pirates in the dark. None of us will. Do you think you can stand now?”
She nodded and took the hand he offered as he rose. Her feet still tingled, but they would work again. And tomorrow she’d know to be more careful.
The race officials had finished giving Matthew and Eliza a quick tour of the camp facilities, and they’d availed themselves of such, when Cantlebury touched down. It was full dark by then, and his first words filled them with foreboding.
“Madame Barsteau fell behind a few hours ago and I lost sight of her. I think she may have had to land, it looked like she was having mechanical trouble. Hard to tell through my spyglass.”
In any other race, they would probably have rejoiced at the news that one more tough competitor was out of the running. But at some point between ground and sky, the four of them had begun to feel like a unit, the last surviving representatives. At least Eliza felt so, and the two men seemed to as well.
“And then kept right on going afterward, until you arrived at the previous checkpoint? Your heart’s back in Colorado Springs, Edmund,” Matthew pointed out. “But Lavinia will be well by the time you get back there from San Francisco. I don’t think she’d approve of your giving up at this point.”
“She told me as much,” Cantlebury admitted as he stowed his gear, securing it all in the basket with a tarpaulin. “Said if I didn’t at least try to finish, she wouldn’t have me back. Then she said something rather unkind about my poor wife, but I think that was the delirium talking.”
Eliza blinked. “Did you say your w—”
“Let’s see if there’s any food available, shall we?” Matthew suggested a bit too loudly and cheerfully.
Cantlebury reached under his tarp and retrieved a heavy fur mantle, slinging it around his shoulders as he headed for the campfire and the meal that presumably awaited the racers.
“Tell you later,” Matthew whispered apologetically. “It’s not what you think.”
She decided not to worry about it until after she’d eaten. And warmed herself up. And possibly slept for eight or ten hours.
• • •
“IT ISN’T A secret, by the way,” Matthew said much, much later.
Eliza looked at him, obviously unsure what he was talking about.
“Cantlebury’s wife.”
“Oh.”
The gentleman himself had retired to his insulated tent immediately after dinner, leaving the other two warming themselves by the fire. The rally officials were in their own tent, along with the medic. The cook and hostlers were either asleep or up to quiet pursuits of their own in the covered wagon. Matthew was as alone with Eliza as he was likely to get that evening.
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