“Well,” his quartermaster said. “Now you don’t have to return here to court her.”
Christ. Eben lowered the bottle, dropped into his chair. He’d have returned, and she’d have been gone. God knew where.
God knew what might have happened to her along the way.
Yasmeen came around, whacking her hand against Barker’s new leg. Obediently, he pulled his feet up, gave her a place on the sofa.
She leaned forward, her elbows braced on her knees. “Court her? For two hundred years, the Horde hasn’t allowed anyone in her caste to marry. They were only allowed to breed when the controlling towers put everyone in a mating frenzy, and the babies were taken and raised in a crèche. She grew up without family, without any concept of marriage. Eben, she won’t even know what courting is.”
“Families aren’t always blood. You make your own.” He knew that well; so did Yasmeen. “That’s what they’ve done here for two hundred years. She’ll understand that.”
Yasmeen sighed and sat back. “You can’t take her with you, regardless. Give her enough money to stay here. Tell her to wait.”
Eben shook his head. “She’ll run.”
He was certain of it. She’d been frightened out of her wits, desperate to leave London. Had someone hurt her? He looked toward the door, ready to charge down the hall and find out. Goddammit. Someone would pay.
And he’d probably terrify her again. Jesus, her sweet little smile drove him out of his mind.
“Did she kill someone?” Barker wondered.
Eben took another long drink, glancing toward the door again. Maybe she had. Obviously not a lover and not for money, but he could name a hundred other reasons why a woman in London might resort to killing. And if she expected a police inspector to come knocking—or someone seeking revenge—it explained her desperation to leave.
Someone the Blacksmith couldn’t protect her against? Eben couldn’t imagine it, but it didn’t matter. He would protect her.
Yasmeen yanked the bottle from his hand. “Eben. Think. You’re sailing out tomorrow on an Ivory Market run. Will you risk having her on the ship?”
Hell. Pushing his hands into his hair, he shook his head. Sailing south along the west coast of Africa guaranteed Vesuvius would be shot at, boarded, or forced to outrun an airship. The market itself seethed with men who’d eat Ivy alive—some literally. If Eben lost her there, he wouldn’t find her again. He couldn’t take that chance.
“I’ll change course,” he decided. “I’ll take her to Trahaearn’s estate in Anglesey.” The Iron Duke’s Welsh holdings weren’t as impregnable as those in London, but no matter what had frightened her, even Ivy would feel safe at such a place. No one crossed Trahaearn.
“You can’t change course.” Yasmeen’s disgust showed itself in a curl of her lip over sharp teeth. “If she must leave town, buy her a seat on a locomotive and tell her to wait for you in Wales.”
Eben shook his head. He wouldn’t be satisfied unless he saw her settled in a safe location and persuaded to remain there. If he simply gave her money, she’d be gone—too afraid of him to stay. He needed at least a few days for Ivy to learn she had nothing to fear from him. If he changed course and took her to Wales on Vesuvius, he’d gain the time he needed.
“I will only be delayed a few days,” he said.
Yasmeen’s snarl deepened. “Which could easily become a week—or longer. Trahaearn’s paid half up front. If you don’t pick up the cargo on time, it’ll go to another ship, and we’ll lose the rest of our money.”
“I care fuck all about the money—”
“Because you’re a mad fool.”
Eben stared at her. She didn’t back down. Yasmeen never would when gold was at stake. “I’ll cover the loss, pay you the same as Trahaearn would have,” he offered.
“And Trahaearn will never hire me again. Will you pay for every loss?”
He couldn’t. His pockets were deep, but not that deep. And there might be someone else he needed to pay off first. Mechanical flesh didn’t come cheap—and if Ivy still owed the Blacksmith, he’d send his collectors after her.
In this fog, it’d take Eben twice as long to reach the smithy in the Narrow. Leaving now, he could return before Ivy awoke . . . if she ever managed to sleep. So he’d return before she got it into her head to run.
Eben stood. “I won’t let her go, Yasmeen.”
“Softhearted Eben.” She sat back with a bitter hiss, her finger curled into claws. “You spitting idiot.”
So he was. Eben turned to Barker. “Watch the stairs and don’t let her leave. I’ll return before dawn.”
Somehow, he’d convince her to stay in Wales. And to wait for him.
Lying in the cloud-soft bed, Ivy was staring up at the darkened ceiling when she heard the tap at the window. An unmistakably feminine figure was silhouetted against the thick yellow mist.
Ivy sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Moving closer, she recognized the blue kerchief and the glint of gold hoops. Why would the woman who’d been in the parlor with Mad Machen be outside Ivy’s window? And why had she climbed a ladder instead of simply knocking on the bedroom door?
Curious, Ivy unlocked the window—and immediately saw that she’d been wrong. Not climbed up a ladder, but down. The woman stood on the bottom rung, her hands wrapped around the rope rails.
An airship? They weren’t allowed to fly this close to London. But as Ivy peered upward, she realized no one would see the ship. A few feet above the woman’s head, the ladder disappeared into the fog.
“I’ll take you as far as Port Fallow,” the woman said. “You won’t come to harm on my ship.”
Startled, Ivy studied her face. Judging by the hardness of her green eyes, the offer to take Ivy to the notorious port city built on Amsterdam’s ashes hadn’t come from the kindness of her heart. And although Ivy sensed that this woman didn’t often bother explaining herself, she had to ask, “Why?”
“It serves me and my crew.”
Ivy glanced upward again. “The crew of what?”
“Lady Corsair.”
Oh, blue. For a moment, Ivy felt faint. The woman hanging outside the window was Lady Corsair. She had another name, maybe, but everyone knew her by the airship she captained. This woman had a reputation for killing anyone who questioned her, was a mercenary who would do anything for money.
Ivy didn’t have any. “I can’t pay you. I can only work.”
“I don’t want your money or your labor. A debt is far more valuable than coin.”
And far more frightening when left unpaid. “What will I owe you?”
Lady Corsair grinned, flashing teeth that seemed too sharp. “I’ll decide when I need it.”
Ivy hesitated.
The airship captain shrugged and began climbing. “Mad Machen has returned. You can take his offer, instead.”
Ivy’s heart began to hammer. Turning her head, she strained to listen—and heard the heavy tread on the stairs. Oh, blue heavens. Mad Machen would take her if she remained here.
She glanced toward the bed, and the sight of the rumpled linens spurred her into action. He was too near to take the time and gather her things. Ivy scrambled through the window, grabbing on to the ladder. Exerting almost no effort at all, she let her arms carry her up the rope, and vanished into silence and the fog.
TWO
The jokes began as soon as Ivy ducked her head beneath the pianist’s lacy pink skirts. Rolling over onto her back, she lay on the musician’s raised wooden platform and looked up into the gears that formed the automaton’s guts. Luckily, this wouldn’t take long—just a broken tooth on the deadbeat escapement that timed the motion of the feet, and a worm gear out of alignment. She worked, trying to ignore the men doing their best to make the little town of Fool’s Cove earn its name. By the time she’d repaired the escapement, every Hans, Stefan, and Jozef with two brain cells and a drink in his hand had joined in, offering tips for oiling a woman up—including Klaas, the tavern’s owner.