Annika should have been as bold as Brunhild, too.
With a sigh, she turned over and stared up at the bottom of the shadowed bunk overhead. Now she doubly regretted refusing his invitation to supper. She’d never know why he ran after volcanoes. She’d never know whether her instincts had been correct and if he had wanted something from her other than company. Maybe he’d only wanted to know more about her, as he’d said—or had wanted to share her bed. That would have been easy enough to refuse.
Unless she hadn’t refused.
That was difficult to imagine, too, though she tried. She had the memory of kisses to draw from, a caress of her breasts. Her own explorations had taught her the brief ecstasy of release. But to lie with someone, to fully give herself over to that person…she would need to feel more than those things. She would need to know the rending need and longing that her mother had told her came hand in hand with passionate love, as if her guts had been riveted together and the only way to ease the pain was being with that person. Annika had no memory of such emotions to rely upon as she dreamed.
The rest was just physical pleasure, and she could do that for herself.
Not here, though. Few places on an airship offered enough privacy to attempt it, so it did her no good to imagine bedding the stranger. She’d only end up frustrated.
With effort, she pushed those thoughts away. Daydreaming did her no good, either. It never had. In Hannasvik, she’d never been responsible for tending the sheep, but she’d still earned the name Annika the Shepherdess—because she was always gathering wool.
Sleep would have served her better, but there was no hope for it now. The cabin door squeaked open, followed by the tread of boots across the boards and the scratch of a spark lighter at the washstand. The brass lamp’s flickering flame danced across the second mate’s fair cheeks and glinted gold in her chestnut hair. Elena wound the oil pump and the wavering glow from the burner softened, steadied.
Elena’s index finger marked her spot between the pages of a closed book—apparently she’d abandoned the wardroom to enjoy a few more minutes of reading here before her watch began. Across the narrow aisle, the other two bunks were empty. No surprise that Marguerite was gone; the steward’s assistant reported to the kitchen before breakfast and would be running ragged through supper, but was the only one of the four women who ever got a full night’s sleep. Mary Chandler ought to have been in the upper bunk, catching rest while the first engineer was on watch. No doubt Annika would hear an earful from her later, going on and on about how tired she was.
Glad that it was Elena who’d come in, Annika rolled up on her side and propped her chin on her fist. She liked Marguerite well enough, but her conversations with the older woman never seemed to range beyond food and the weather. Mary preferred to gossip, which was fascinating when Annika knew the person under discussion and unbearable when she didn’t. Since Mary had recently received letters from her family in Manhattan City, Annika knew from experience that it would run to unbearable over the next few days.
She never tired of Elena’s company, however—and a good thing, too, given that they’d shared a cabin for almost four years. Annika had joined Phatéon’s crew as the third engineer shortly after Elena had become the third mate. Their friendship had become fixed in the first months, with Elena spending every free moment teaching Annika to speak French and serving as her guide to the New World.
The loneliness of leaving home had been easier to bear with Elena—and initially, Annika had hoped that friendship might become more. But the passionate longing she dreamed of never developed and her guts never felt riveted, no matter how much Annika would have welcomed it at the time.
Perhaps it was for the best, though. Like most New Worlders, Elena probably wouldn’t have welcomed any romantic advances—and if found out, Annika would have lost her position on the airship…or worse, if she was reported to anyone other than the captain.
In any case, as the years had passed, Annika had grown to value Elena’s friendship more. Love could wait until after she found Källa—if it ever came at all.
Elena turned away from the washstand and stopped abruptly, spotting Annika. “Oh!” Apology tugged her lips into a grimace. “I didn’t mean to wake you. They started bringing dinner into the wardroom, and with the jolting, I couldn’t bear the smell.”
Her friend did appear a bit bald around the beak. Annika hadn’t even noticed the airship’s rough rocking, or that the storm had come in. Yet another reason to stop herself from daydreaming. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“How could anyone in this? I hope we cast off soon. The cargo’s almost all up and most of the crew aboard; we’re just waiting for the mail, and of course the post delivery is late. Did you just come back from the city?”
“A little while ago.”
“Have you spoken with the chief yet?”
Chief Leroux, the head engineer. Annika hadn’t seen him since her return. “Why? Did he send for me while I was out?”
“And got Mary, instead. She was steaming mad, too, having to take García’s watch.”
The first engineer ought to have been on duty now, not Mary. “Why did she have to?”
“Because García’s off ship. His wife came to visit. Five minutes later, he turned in his papers and decided to stay in Castile.” Elena’s arched brows and gleeful tone told Annika that she wouldn’t like whatever her friend had to say next. “And that makes you the first engineer.”
Oh, blast. Annika hoped not. García had twice as many duties as she did.
Elena laughed at her expression. “Look at you. Anyone else would be happy to take another step closer to a chief’s ticket. I’d be dancing for joy if I was dumped into the first mate’s position like this—and wouldn’t stop pushing until I was master of a ship.”
Yes, but Annika wasn’t here to make a career out of it. “Leroux will bring someone else aboard as first. Neither Mary nor I know the electric generators well.”
“You could learn.”
That was Elena’s answer to everything. “I’d rather spend my time sewing than studying schematics.”
Elena cast a critical look at Annika’s voluminous crimson skirt. “You could use the practice.”
Annika gasped and narrowed her eyes at the other woman, but wasn’t the least bit upset. Elena often wore the less elaborate pieces that Annika had given her. Her skill with a needle wasn’t in question; her taste was. Annika loved her clothes, however—and considering that her mother had often said the same of Annika’s penchant for bright colors and ribbons, the teasing simply felt like home.
“Say that again the next time you rip out the seat of your trousers and come looking for me to fix it.”
“And be pricked in the derriere for my honesty? I’ll hold my tongue until you’re done.” With a grin, Elena climbed the short ladder to her bunk. “Was there any word from your sister?”
Annika shook her head. In four years, there hadn’t been a response, though she’d regularly placed personal advertisements in every newssheet from Sweden to Far Maghreb. She’d have to soon find a different ship, a different route. Phatéon traveled from the tip of the southern American continent to the Scandinavian kingdoms, England, and Ireland, but avoided the more dangerous waters near the Ivory Market in Africa and the smugglers’ havens of Australia. Annika didn’t think that Källa would have ventured so close to Horde territory, but her sister had been infected with nanoagents since she was young. Even if she’d managed to secure fake letters of origin, perhaps she hadn’t been able to find a place in the New World—and though Källa could have made a home in the countries around the North Sea, temper might have driven her as far from Iceland as she could go.
Annika didn’t want to leave Phatéon any more than she’d wanted to leave Hannasvik. Finding her sister was more important than those wants, however.
But until she left, her job needed to be done. With a sigh, she scooted to the edge of the bed. “I’d best find the chief, then.”
On the third deck, she pounded on Leroux’s door, but the old engineering chief wasn’t in his cabin. Perhaps the engine deck. As she turned toward the companionway, the ship’s physician came out of her quarters. Lucia Kentewess carried a bottle of wine and wore a bright smile—a lovely look for the woman, whose smiles were usually tinged with melancholy.
Annika liked Lucia very well, and preferred her company to everyone’s except Elena’s, but she suspected that the doctor sought her out for conversation in the wardroom because she viewed Annika as something of an amusing oddity. Which Annika supposed she was, and so didn’t mind the woman’s attention. The New Worlders were often amusing oddities, too.
“Annika! Is the chief in?”
“No. I’m looking for him myself.”
“Ah, well. I shall give this to him after dinner, then.” The doctor glanced at Annika’s skirts, then swayed as a gust of wind jerked the ship around by the mooring tether. “You aren’t on duty?”
“I’m on the eight to twelve today.” Unless García’s leaving would change that, as well.
“Oh, that is perfect. My nephew, David, is aboard. If we can get away from the captain’s supper, I’d love to introduce you.”
So that explained the bright smile. His aunt had spoken of her nephew before, and had once shown Annika a ferrotype photograph of a grinning boy sitting in a small steam-powered cart, wearing a hook on his arm and his trousers tucked around missing knees. A tall native man and Lucia had stood on either side of him. If Lucia hadn’t told her what had happened to the boy’s mother and her own husband, Annika would have assumed that it was a portrait of a happy family, not one torn apart by a disaster.
Annika vaguely recalled that he had traveled since then, but she better remembered Lucia’s pride when she’d spoken of him than any specific stories. David Kentewess likely wouldn’t find Annika as interesting as his aunt seemed to, but she didn’t mind meeting him, especially if it added to the new joy in Lucia’s smile.
“I should be in the wardroom unless there is a change to my watch schedule. García left Phatéon, so I’m on my way to discover that now.”
“Oh, of course. Go on, then.”
Annika did, gathering her skirts at her knees to descend the ladder. The distant thud of the closing cargo doors echoed up the companionway. They were done with the loading, then, and might soon be under way. Phatéon couldn’t carry as much weight as a sailing ship, but was often stuffed to the deckheads with perishables and mail. On this run, they carried laborers to Smoke Cove; crates of dry goods and foodstuffs bound for the island of Heimaey filled the rest of the cargo hold, and mail drops would be made at a few coastal communities in between.
Annika didn’t participate in any of the loading or unloading. Her job was simply to make certain that Phatéon arrived at her destination by tending the furnace and engines at the heart of the ship.
She caught sight of the chief outside the engine room, his white hair easy to spot even in the dim passageway. Almost seventy, his face deeply lined and tall, bony frame stiff, he had difficulty going up and down the ladders to this deck. He usually sent instructions and messages from his quarters, relaying them through García.
“Fridasdottor! There you are, girl!” His voice boomed down the corridor. Leroux always shouted—as one had to do in this part of the ship when the engines were engaged. They were silent now, but he still yelled. Too many years in an engine room had destroyed his hearing.
“Chief Leroux!” she shouted back. “I’ve heard that García turned in his papers!”
“That boy did, and ran off.” Leroux didn’t care that García was a forty-year-old man, just as it didn’t matter that Annika wasn’t a girl any longer. “You’ll be acting as my first on this run.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Eh?”
“Yes, monsieur!”
Thin lips pursing, he gave her a considering look. “I’ve never had a girl as first.”
Annika smiled in response. Before Leroux, she’d never taken orders from a man, either.
His eyes narrowed. “Always smiling, you are. We’ll look over that generator together tomorrow. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve avoided learning about it.”
That erased her smile. “Yes, monsieur.”
“The captain doesn’t want to take on any new men until we’re back to Port-au-Prince. Until then, you’ll be a two-section watch and splitting the third’s duties with Chandler. As first, you’ll decide how to split them. Don’t take the worst jobs for yourself.”
Maintaining the privy pipes and flushing systems. “I won’t, monsieur.”
“All right. You know what you ought to be doing now?”
What would García typically be working on before they left port? “I need to perform the engine checks before we fire her up again, and make certain the balloon warmers are in order.”
Leroux nodded. “We don’t want that envelope deflating the moment we fly into arctic weather.”
And didn’t want a spark from a badly maintained warmer igniting the hydrogen. “Yes, monsieur.”
“Then get to it, girl.” With that, he was off, his walking stick thudding against the boards.
Even though Mary had opened the portholes, the engine room was stifling. Humid air continually rose through the open hatch in the deck floor that allowed for easy access to the furnace and boilers on the deck below, the vapors condensing on the pipes and propeller shafts overhead. A rhythmic rasp from the boiler room told her that Mary was stoking the furnace, which was never allowed to go out. The copper pipes carried heated water through the ship, warming the cabins; another bank of brass pipes carried sound from the quarterdeck, for commands shouted throughout the ship. Usually the engine was too loud for the stokers to hear those orders, so they relied upon the telegraph dial instead. The setting on its face matched the dial on the captain’s bridge, allowing Vashon to order them back or ahead under partial or full steam. Currently, the indicator arrow pointed to STOP.
The great steam engine filled most of the room, a hulking beast fabricated from iron and ingenuity. She lay sleeping now, her oiled pistons that drove the propellers at rest, the turbines quiet rather than screaming. Beautiful, but Annika liked her best when she woke and worked.
The scraping from below ceased. Mary climbed up out of the furnace room a moment later, the freckles of her hands and face concealed by a light dusting of coal. A blue paisley scarf covered vibrant red hair, the same shade that Annika remembered her mother’s had been before gray had dulled it. Since her mother had been stolen as a young girl from a Horde crèche in England, however, no relation likely existed between her mother and the third engineer despite that resemblance. Annika had a better chance of being a blood relation to the woman. Only a few years older than Annika, Mary had also been born in Manhattan City; unlike Annika, however, she hadn’t been living alone on the streets and taken by a woman from Iceland.
Mary also spoke English—not the sort that Annika had grown up hearing, or the sort that she’d heard on her visits to England, but she enjoyed speaking with someone without having to first think of every word.
Annika still had to watch everything she said, however, or find that Mary spread it to everyone aboard.
With a damp cotton rag, Mary wiped her face, scrubbed her bare arms. “So you’ve heard about García turning in his papers?”
Annika nodded, moving to the engineer’s station, where the repair dockets and manuals were neatly stacked. García would have left the engine checklist here. He’d been so familiar with the process that he wouldn’t need to use it, but Annika did.
“I’m wagering that his wife didn’t like him going from port to port.” Mary hooked the rag into the waist of her trousers. “She’d rather keep him at home.”
“Perhaps,” Annika said, but thought that Mary was only telling her own truth, not García’s. Annika had never seen evidence that the first engineer took any lovers, but Mary had lain with many other m
en than her husband. Considering how devoted García had been to his wife, and how the rioting in Castile worried him, Annika thought he’d left because he couldn’t bear to leave her alone any longer.
But Mary wouldn’t have assumed that. People never believed of others what they couldn’t imagine of themselves.
The other woman sniffed, as if disappointed that Annika didn’t have any more to add. “Well, that’s it for him, then. Did you receive word from your sister?”
“No.”
Mary pursed her lips—probably to stop herself from saying, “Of course.”
Annika had to stop her own laugh in response to that expression. She knew what Mary suspected: that Annika wasn’t really looking for her sister, anyway. Mary believed that she was Liberé, a descendant of the Africans who’d fled across the ocean to escape the Horde. According to the other woman, Annika disguised her accent and pretended to hail from Scandinavia so that Captain Vashon wouldn’t discover that an enemy of the French worked in her engine room.
Mary wasn’t completely wrong; her papers were faked. But Annika wasn’t Liberé.
Perhaps she had been, once. Annika didn’t know who her blood parents were. A warm, dim memory of a woman’s soft voice and tight arms made her think that she’d been orphaned rather than abandoned, but she couldn’t be certain. She only knew that at two or three years of age, she’d been found wandering the streets of Manhattan City, hungry and dressed in rags. Now she was one of the Huldrene, the hidden women of Hannasvik. That mattered more to Annika than blood ever could.
She found the checklist at the bottom of the stack. All menial tasks, but they would take her at least forty-five minutes. Do them now or later?
Probably best to do them now. Mary wasn’t supposed to have been on duty, and a little more than two hours still remained until first watch. They both needed to eat—and as acting first, Annika decided who would go now.
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