She sighed, glancing down at the wooden figurehead’s carved curling hair, the upper sweep of her angelic wings and her bare and paint-freckled shoulder. It was an odd perspective a Conductor had.
They were not far from Philadelphia.
She chewed her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth until she thought it might pop. Releasing it, she blew between her lips. Only a Weather Witch understood her hesitancy about freeing her own kind.
Her kind brewed storms within themselves. They manifested lightning, gales, killing frosts, and tornadoes. To free people using such powers and give them equality—to let the secret out: that anyone had the same power inside them as she did—they were destruction waiting to happen. As much as she hated how far she’d fallen and the fact she’d taken her family with her … Still. Perhaps the rank system had its place.
Perhaps everyone did.
Like the country’s motto proclaimed: A place for all.
As a child, she thought it meant this was a land of opportunity—a place all immigrants were welcomed. But perhaps that wasn’t what the founding fathers meant. Perhaps it was more of an “a place for all and everyone in their place” sort of thing.
Perhaps it didn’t truly matter.
She swung her feet out and back, pumping her legs.
Not far from her, Maude sat petting Kit and Kaboodle while Meggie played with something the Wandering Wallace had given her. He occasionally brought her gifts he’d found while searching the rooms below for supplies that might benefit the rebel cause. He must do such things at night when they’d all retired to their cabins.
Perhaps, like she, he found sleep elusive.
Jordan puffed out a breath, her mind carrying the air away to drill a small hole in the clouds and afford her a distant view of the Grounded population’s world—a world she missed greatly.
The map pinned partly under her hip shivered in the tickling breeze and she waved her left hand, clearing the clouds away like she’d seen her schoolteacher wipe the chalkboard clean. She traced a fingertip along the map’s colorful features, reading labels softly as she went.
Below her, rolling hills spread between her feet, speckled with the bright but browning colors of autumn. She watched with wonder as they passed over the last bit of New York, keeping at a distance the city that bore the same name while they passed into the wilds of Pennsylvania.
The Susquehanna River rolled like a long and lazy snake through the world below them, a shimmer of silver winding from the middle of New York down through the rocky mountains and hills of Pennsylvania’s northern border.
“Coal Country,” she whispered, reading. “Wilkes-Barre, Mauchunk, Scranton …” She squinted. Coal Country didn’t seem to be much of a separate country to her at all, but coal was only used in a few things—a stove or furnace here and there, then to the west, the Colebrookdale forges made pig iron.
The Wandering Wallace had mentioned steam devices needed coal to heat water into steam, but in a world where such knowledge and devices were repressed and storm power fulfilled every need (and many whims) surely coal was only a minor fuel source. She frowned. How would things change if storm power ceased and steam took hold?
More coal would be needed, certainly. More men would enter the deep, dark heart of Pennsylvania to work the mines. More mines would be dug. More holes would dot the landscape and more steam and coal smoke would thicken the air.
But fewer Witches would be needed. Perhaps Making would truly cease and the secret she’d only let slip to a few—the secret she hoped pained the Maker most—would go unspoken and no one else would learn they all had the power inside them to change the weather.
And the world.
Meggie’s voice startling her, she straightened, smacking her head on the rail above her. She rubbed the crown of her head, giving Meggie a smile.
“Yes, most wee one,” she teased. “You called?”
“Would you teach me?”
“Teach you what?”
“How you do the things you do?”
Jordan felt she’d just sucked on a lemon. “No, pet,” she whispered. “I would rather not. It requires a great deal of emotion—and can be troubling.”
“I have a great deal of emotion inside me,” Meggie volunteered.
Jordan tugged herself away from the ship’s edge, swinging her feet back onto the deck and, with one hand on the railing, pulled herself back to her feet with a groan. “You have very pretty emotions inside you,” Jordan said. “Things like joy and the seeds of laughter. Your emotions are wildflower pink, sunshine yellow, and summer sky blue.”
Meggie wrinkled her nose, unsure.
Jordan pointed off the ship’s bow. “See that,” she asked, her finger crooked at the very darkest part of the clouds the ship nestled in.
“Yes,” Meggie said.
“How would you describe those colors?”
Meggie’s brow furrowed, and she concentrated on the roiling mess. “Gunmetal gray, starless night black, and the blue of a fresh bruise.” She looked up at Jordan, hope twinkling in her eyes.
“Those are the colors of the emotions inside me,” Jordan confided.
Meggie twisted back, staring hard into the darkness. “Oh,” she said so softly the word was nearly stolen by a whispering wind.
“If I were you, I would keep your colors. Hold them tight and love them well. If I were you I would not wish to be like me. What I do takes a different sort of emotion.”
Meggie’s words were soft and slow but her eyes were bright as her spirit. “You are not me. And I remember what Anil said.”
Jordan blinked. “And what was that?”
“That you needn’t call a storm with hate. That any emotion—any strong connection with the weather will do. Calling a storm should make your soul sing—or you should sing when calling….” She paused and smiled.
“Ah. I see.” Jordan’s gaze drifted over Meggie’s blond head, straying back to the clouds. “What if that is all the emotion I have?”
Meggie crossed her arms indignantly and stomped a foot. A wind whistled across the deck. “That is not all the emotion you have. Not at all. I’ve seen you play. I’ve heard you laugh,” she accused. “There are lots of pretty feelings inside you. I know it. I’ve seen the way you look at Rowen—all the pretty things shine in you then.” She popped a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide.
The clouds went darker.
Meggie shrank back, her eyes pinned to the spot where Jordan’s hand gripped the railing. Jordan followed her gaze, surprised to see her fingers had gone white. A faint trail of smoke drifted up from beneath her palm. Tiny sparks spattered in the space between her fingertips, crawling along the curved wooden rail.
With effort, Jordan peeled her fingers free of the singed wood and rubbed ash off her hand.
Shaken, she looked at Meggie. “I think perhaps you should not mention his name again.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to wipe the remaining black away.
The ash smeared, spreading to her other hand.
“Because he left?” Meggie asked, her voice clear as a pipe.
The words reached her late. Her head lifted slowly and she heard the question again, this time echoing in her ears. Her chest tightened.
Meggie’s hand slipped into hers but Jordan pulled back, the black staining her hand, but Meggie grabbed it, insistent. “He will be back. Both him and Jack,” she promised.
“How do you know that?” Jordan asked, her eyes steady on Meggie’s. “How do you know?”
Meggie blinked, her eyelashes fluttering rapidly. “Because they must,” she declared. “Because home is where the heart is and both Rowen’s and Jack’s hearts are here.” She shrugged as if it was the simplest thing to understand. “Our story will not end happily unless all our friends are home and safe. And this”—she dropped Jordan’s hand and spread her arms to take in the Artemesia—”is home.”
***
Aboard the Pod
They had been gliding at a
slow descent when Jack said, “Finally! One should be right there,” pointing to a spiral of birds slowly climbing into the sky.
“One what? A bird?”
“No, the thing we gliders learned from birds.”
“Something you learned by bird watching?”
Jack nodded. “There are plenty of things we can learn from birds. And other animals,” he added. “Flight takes a great deal of energy if you don’t do it right.”
“And they … ?”
“Do it right,” Jack said. He angled the pod’s nose toward the birds. “They are riding an eddy—a spot where air currents or different air temperatures meet and create an updraft. We’re going to ride it like an elevator—take it to a higher elevation.”
Rowen grunted.
They soared toward the promised updraft, descending by tiny increments all the way. Rowen pitched forward as the eddy caught them, tugging them higher in a slow spiral that Jack used and carefully controlled. Jack leaned back in the seat, setting his controls and watching as they drifted in a slow circle to the top of the eddy.
Rowen leaned over the chair, mindful of Jack’s warning about a sudden and dramatic shift in his weight changing the pod’s path, and peered out the window at the birds, watching them nearly as much as the world far below.
Jack whistled a tune that Rowen picked up and sang.
“Ah,” Jack murmured. “We’ve reached the top.”
He tweaked the controls, adjusting the wings and rudder, and they broke free of the curling wind, launching out at the higher altitude.
They glided uneventfully for another few hours, when Jack said, “If we keep going like this we’ll make Philadelphia just after dark.”
“The city lights up like a bank full of stars—should be easy to find our way.”
“That brings me to an important question—just where are we landing?”
Rowen grinned. “There is a lovely estate with a long garden and a hedgerow maze at the very top of a hill I know right well,” Rowen said. “We will be welcome there—or at least not unwelcome,” he clarified.
“Ah. Your family’s estate.”
“No. Better. Jordan’s.”
The pod jolted suddenly to the side and Jack shouted, his hands darting for the controls.
“What the hell?” Rowen spread his feet wide and grabbed tight to the chair’s back again. He followed Jack’s example, squinting out the window. Something slipped past in the periphery of their view, large feathers stroking the top of the window.
“Brace yourself,” Jack commanded.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re—” The words were smacked out of him when the pod was rocked again.
“We’re under attack.”
“By what?”
“Ala!”
“Ala?!”
Jack steadied his grip on the pod’s controls, his eyes fixed. “Beast—demon, depends on who you ask or what you believe. From the Old Country. Wraiths have tried to wipe them out for decades.”
“Why have I never heard of them?”
“Heard of the Lik or the Musussu?”
“No …”
The ship bucked again and Jack fought to compensate. “Invasive species thought to be the stuff of legends—nightmares,” Jack clarified, “but we’re not that lucky. Lucky enough they aren’t quite as horrible or huge as legend states, but, dammit!” He fell into a long line of curses before sputtering, “They exist!” He released the controls long enough to dig into the bag he carried. “Here,” he blindly thrust a gun over his shoulder toward Rowen. “Lean out—”
“Lean out?!” Rowen shouted, gripping the homemade weapon. “Lean out of where?!”
“Pop the door, lean out, and shoot the damned thing,” Jack said like it was the only sensible option.
“You’re serious …”
“Deadly,” Jack clarified, gritting his teeth against the next jolt.
It came straight at them, talons bared and cruel beak open in a shriek that made Rowen’s hair stand on end. Pulling up at the last minute, its feet smashed against the windows’ edge.
The pod rocked onto its back.
Rowen tumbled into the back wall and they were falling, the pod’s wings failing with a scream of fabric. “You have to go now,” Jack shouted. “Now, Rowen. Cock the gun, pull the trigger, and blast that beast to nothing!”
Rowen pulled himself from the floor—no, from the back wall … The entire world had shifted. He staggered to the door. Head spinning almost as fast as the pod, he braced one foot on the wall, one on the actual floor and shoved the door open. The wind tore past him, pulling moisture from his eyes and stopping up his ears with a blast that filled them with a rumble.
Squinting against the howling wind, he searched for his adversary. A shadow roosted atop of their pod, feathers whipping wildly to make it seem a black and hateful harbinger. Lightning flickered in the clouds and he glimpsed the curving beak, battered and cracked, something metal glinting at its corner.
He pulled the gun’s hammer back, took aim, and fired. There was an awful noise as the bullet struck, throwing the Ala backwards and peeling its talons free of the ship with a squeal that set Rowen’s teeth on edge.
It plunged like a rock and Rowen fell back inside the pod, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Nice job, tree trunk,” Jack said. “Now act like ballast.”
“Huh?”
“Stand in front of me with that hulking mass of yours and just be.”
“Just be?”
“Yes,” Jack said, teeth gritted. “Stand. Be.”
Rowen lurched forward, not able to keep his feet on one surface. He straddled the floor and the wall, one foot on the base of Jack’s chair.
“Lean toward the window,” Jack demanded, leaning as far forward as his chair would allow.
The pod shifted with Rowen’s weight, slowly pulling out of its backwards dive and straightening.
The wings caught with a bang as air filled the fabric and they were gliding again. Rowen dropped to his knees, his world righted.
“Well,” Jack said, relief clear in his voice, “I’d like to say that’s the worst of it, but …”
Rowen followed his gaze out the window. They skimmed the treetops—branches brushing the belly of the pod. They weren’t climbing. They were still descending.
“Pull up?” Rowen asked.
Jack laughed, but the sound was hollow and tight as a freshly finished drum. “I’m bringing us down.”
In the distance the trees thinned and parted, fields spreading out below them, dotted with grazing sheep.
A large pasture sprawled beneath them. And at its far edge? More trees. Pine trees soared up, daggers spearing the sky.
“This is us,” Jack said, pulling the wings in.
They moved like a pebble skipped across a pond—a very large pebble across a very solid pond. Words fell out of Rowen’s brain and he flew up, his feet clipping Jack’s head as the pod dug a furrow in the soft earth, screaming its way to a stop, sheep scattering.
Rowen’s head cracked into the back wall. He collapsed on the floor. His world went black.
***
Aboard the Artemesia
After the new headlines were read, and the Wandering Wallace had sung another song, Jordan wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, gathered a dozen pierced paper stormlanterns she had been given, and left her room to do what she had recently become accustomed to doing—wandering the halls of the Artemesia at night, after the ship’s course and controls were set. Wandering in the silence and solitude and trying to make peace with the things that haunted her, trying to erase the captain’s touch, trying to truly make the Artemesia her own.
Past the shuttered storefronts in the promenade she went, knowing they’d been shuttered against her crew as much as against disagreeable shopkeeps now spending their time in newly assigned rooms instead of behind counters at mercantiles, confectionaries, bookstores, bakeries, and apothecaries. It was better n
ot to allow the temptation of open shops and better to give merchants assurance that their stock, at least, was safe.
She continued past the store window where ribbons, hair combs, and mirrors were displayed, and beyond the tailor’s place where a dress form stood abandoned in the dark display window, strips of half-stitched cloth hanging from shiny steel pins. As the captain’s Conductor she had never been allowed to visit the stores and the shops or explore the place where the daily puppet shows had been performed for children. She had not been allowed to stop in the ship’s chapel to bend her knees in prayer or take communion.
They had kept her apart from everything good or gentle. They left her unloved. Unblessed.
In each shadowy corner she set a stormlantern to dispel the darkness, adding to the glow of each crystal with a single touch of her finger and a thought.
She paused outside a door with a cross on it and set her hand on its cool metal handle. She tried the door. It opened on silent hinges. The hall deserted, she slipped inside. Pausing in the chapel’s nave, she closed her eyes and summoned the stormlights lining the sanctuary’s walls.
A glow rose in the room, growing brighter and brighter until it seemed daylight climbed across the walls. On the still-dressed altar a silver cross and matching candlesticks shone as if freshly polished. The room echoed with her every hesitant step.
Empty.
She shuddered.
Was a chapel ever truly empty? She hugged herself, her eyes roaming up the walls and across the vaulted ceiling. This was the one room on this deck that soared so high. The beams from the regular ceiling had been interrupted to provide more room for God. Or, at least, voices raised in praise of God.
She itched, standing in a holy place. At home they attended church every Sunday as was proper for a young lady of her standing. At home she studied the word of God, learned the popular hymns, and memorized the appropriate scriptures, though her mother commented once that she lingered too long on the Psalms.
And what had it mattered? Had God been here, listening to prayers when the captain pinned her beneath him two floors below? Had God’s ears been too full of songs to hear her muffled screams? Or had God never been here at all?