Light pierced like a blade through Isla’s still-closed eyes all the way to the back of her skull. She groaned and turned her face into the bed, the familiar lethargy clinging to her as she clawed her way to the surface. This was perhaps the most disconcerting part of it all. Morning had always been her favorite, her most productive, time of day. As her career had demanded it, she’d adjusted to staying alert throughout the night, but her natural biological rhythms favored the sunrise. How she missed the feeling!
She cursed Melody with the same long litany of muttered insults that she did every morning; it had somehow become her routine, and she didn’t feel complete without it. “Die a thousand hideous deaths . . . I should stretch you out on a rack . . . Marry you off to a doddering old man . . .” She thrust the covers aside and rolled out of bed. The ship pitching beneath her feet made her more disoriented than usual. They must be flying through turbulent air, and she decided the blame for that could also be laid at Melody’s feet.
Isla closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, blowing out slowly as her heart picked up speed, and she felt the tingling of increased blood flow in her extremities. She shook out her hands and looked to be sure they’d regained their proper color. To her dismay initially, atop every other indignity that accompanied the curse, her skin was tinged a light blue when she awoke each morning. She’d sworn to kill Melody if word spread—even among family—that Dr. Isla Cooper was nearly dead every night, so she’d had a bear of a time explaining her appearance when her cousin Emmeline stopped by early one morning.
Emme routinely organized marches against the PSRC in protest of the registry and their harassment of the shifter community, and that morning, she had a handful of advertisements for Isla and Melody to distribute.
“You’re blue,” she had stated.
“I’m cold,” had been Isla’s response, and Emme had studied her, brows drawn. Isla was rarely cold.
She stomped her feet now, and, as the ship lifted in altitude, she stumbled against the bulkhead with a loud thud and winced. She added a bruised shoulder to her list of complaints against her sister. “Definitely marrying you off to a doddering old man, who has no teeth and foul breath.” She yanked open the wardrobe and was pulling out fresh clothing when a knock sounded on the connecting door.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Yes?” she called and looked down at her hands. She frowned and shook them again.
“I heard a noise—did you fall?” Captain Pickett’s deep voice sounded through the door.
“I am fine.”
There was a pause. “Not much of a morning person, then?”
She sighed silently. “No. Never have been.”
“I did mention breakfast is kept on warmers, so you needn’t be up so soon.”
There was no way in blazes Isla would sleep one moment longer than necessary. “I hate to waste the day.”
Another pause. “We are aboard a ship, and you’re a paying passenger.” She thought she heard a smirk in his voice. “You could lay abed all day if you chose.”
She closed her eyes and lightly thumped her head against the wardrobe. “Oh, you know, make hay while the sun shines and all that.”
The next pause was significantly longer. “Yes. Well, I shall be in the wheelhouse most of the morning. I trust you can entertain yourself.”
She ground her teeth together. “I can indeed. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
This time she definitely heard the smirk.
“Honestly,” she muttered and quickly readied herself for the day. The light pouring through the bank of angled windows was still painful to her, but she preferred it to the dark. She had come to hate the dark.
The wardroom had only one passenger for breakfast—Mr. Quince, who smiled warmly. “The oatmeal is delightful, as is the toast and jam.”
The thought of food turned Isla’s stomach, yet another side effect of the spell. She wouldn’t be hungry for at least another hour, but tea was a welcome start to the day. She poured herself a cup of Earl Grey and sat next to Mr. Quince.
“Did you sleep well, Dr. Cooper?”
She blew softly across the rim of her teacup. “Like the dead.” She took a sip and smiled. “And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.” Mr. Quince ate in silence and glanced at Isla a few times. She sensed he wanted to say something but was clearly reticent.
“Did you have a question for me, Mr. Quince? People are often curious about my work, but do not always know what to ask.” She felt her energy returning by degrees and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She smiled at the older man, seeking to put him at ease.
He nodded and relaxed the death grip he held on his spoon. “Do you know a shifter on sight? That is, can you differentiate someone who shifts from the normal population?”
“Ah, Mr. Quince, but what is normal, really? We all have differences, and every one of us has issues, challenges, traits.” She shrugged. “I see nothing abnormal about the shifter population at all. A shifter is a person. A human.”
He nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright.
“But yes, I can recognize full shifters on sight—not always, but usually.” She paused. “I would hope that any shifter who knows of my work also knows I never stand in judgment, that my first concern is always the well-being of that person and his or her family.” She lowered her voice. “It is certainly no secret that I have issues with current rules and regulations in play by certain committees. I believe some laws are meant to be broken.”
He cleared his throat, his eyes teary, and he blinked. “I imagine a shifter of any sort would be nervous to be on a flight, a long flight, with a member of the government who wielded certain power.”
“And I would imagine that such a person need not fear with an experienced shifter professional aboard. One skilled not only in hunting but also in defensive arts.” She smiled gently. “I shall protect you, Mr. Quince,” she whispered.
His expression tightened. “Although I am leaving the country without permission or having registered my name with the committee?” He paused. “It is illegal.”
“It is necessary.” She placed her hand on his arm and leaned close. “The committee is heinous and discriminatory. Positive changes are coming, but in the meantime, we must keep people—families—safe.” She sighed. “The queen is aging, and I fear there are elements in certain circles that have escaped her notice. But I firmly believe that there are more enlightened people than not, that there is more good in the world than bad.”
She gave his arm a light squeeze, and he patted her hand while blinking rapidly. Motion at the doorway drew her attention as Mr. Lewis and Nigel Crowe entered and perused the sideboard. Her nostrils flared of their own accord, and she had barely smoothed her face into a polite mask when Crowe gave her what he probably thought was a pleasant smile.
“Ah, Miss Cooper. You grace this meal with your feminine charm.”
She glanced at Mr. Quince with a smile. “And with that, I am off.” She stood and took a perverse satisfaction at Crowe’s clear distaste of her ensemble. She wore breeches and custom Hessian boots. She knew her blouse and corset emphasized her “feminine charm” to perfection, but she would also wager Nigel Crowe was a man who disapproved of any woman in breeches.
“I leave you in the capable company of Mr. Lewis,” she murmured to Mr. Quince, who smiled tightly at the newcomers. “Perhaps later you will meet me in the library? I would love to discuss your work. I imagine it is fascinating.”
“Dr. Cooper.” Mr. Lewis tipped his head as he made his way to the table with a plate of food. “A beautiful morning, is it not? We seem to have moved above much of the stormy air. Captain believes we’ll see smooth sailing for the rest of the day.”
“Excellent.” She returned his smile, wondering how many hearts he had broken with his.
“I am not certain I trust these modern scientific instruments.” Mr. Quince frowned. “The older materials seemed more accurate.”
Lewis placed a napkin in his lap and turned his attention to his food as he answered. “The world has come to accept the aneroid barometer as a legitimate tool.” He added under his breath, “For nearly fifty years, now.”
“But there’s no liquid in it. In my day, barometers used mercury. And they were stationary. Very reliable.”
“These are portable. Therein lies the benefit . . .”
Nigel Crowe watched the exchange with a smirk, and Isla made her exit, blaming Melody for the fact that she was obliged to spend three weeks with him. Isla had heaped so many sins at her sister’s feet that absolution was a guaranteed impossibility.
She made her way onto the deck and shielded her eyes as she looked up at the wheelhouse situated at the stern, atop the quarterdeck. It was large, entirely enclosed in iron-framed glass that gave it the look of an ornate greenhouse or solarium. She imagined the view from inside would be spectacular.
There were two men in the wheelhouse; one was the captain, but she’d not met the other. She just turned away when she heard the door to the wheelhouse open.
“Dr. Cooper.” The captain stood at the top of the stairs and motioned her forward.
She raised a brow and slowly climbed the steps. “I’m neither a senior officer nor quartermaster, Captain. I should not be climbing these hallowed stairs.”
“You imply an awe for shipboard protocol—then this shall be a treat. We do not stand on ceremony on my personal flights, especially with so few passengers aboard.”
She wouldn’t label it “awe,” precisely, but she wasn’t about to argue, so she merely nodded.
He bowed lightly. “You seem much refreshed.”
She smiled, determined to show her gratitude for allowing her aboard. “I am, and I wish to truly express my thanks to you for so graciously—”
“—capitulating to your threats of blackmail and ruination?”
She cleared her throat. He would not make it easy. And why should he, really? He was correct. She had extorted his weakness to gain something she needed. Did he need to forgive her? Was it unreasonable of her to ask it of him? If she possessed any remaining decency, she would make herself scarce and keep out of his way for the rest of the trip. “I am—Captain, I am genuinely sorry. I was . . .” She glanced away. His scrutiny was overpowering. “I was desperate. I am desperate.”
He studied her for a moment. “Come in here.”
She entered the wheelhouse, feeling awkward. What must the other man think of her? Surely the captain would have explained her presence to him. The gentleman nodded to her and returned his attention to a large instrument panel.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something about him that felt slightly off. Not negatively so, but different.
Captain Pickett motioned with his head, and she joined him at the instrument panel. “Samson, our esteemed passenger, Dr. Cooper.”
She extended her hand, and the gentleman smiled at her. When she looked at his eyes, she caught her breath. “A pleasure, Mr. Samson,” she said, stunned. He was the most lifelike ’ton she’d ever seen.
“Just Samson, Dr. Cooper. And the pleasure is mine. Are you enjoying the voyage thus far?”
She glanced at Captain Pickett, who quirked a half smile. “I . . . Yes. Very much, thank you.”
“Samson is my valet and personal assistant whenever we operate commercial flights. He’s my right-hand man and virtually half of my brain. Don’t know how to function without him.”
“You are too modest, sir.” He turned to Isla. “He gives me far too much credit.”
“Check the coordinates in ten minutes.” Pickett looked at a large chart near the control panel. “I’d also like a forecast for the next twelve hours.”
“Very good, sir.”
Captain Pickett took Isla’s elbow and guided her to a row of cushioned benches at the other end of the room.
“How on earth?” She tried to keep her voice down. “How did you come upon that kind of programming? I’ve never seen the likes of it anywhere!”
He smiled. “I know some talented people. And it also doesn’t hurt to donate large sums of money to the brightest minds in science and technological advancement industries.”
She tried to keep her mouth from dropping open, but as she watched Samson, she was flabbergasted. “I have seen lifelike ’tons before, but there is usually something, some movement that gives them away.” She looked at the captain, eyes wide.
“He was two years in the making, and he’s very much a companion.” He lifted a shoulder. “Helpful when one doesn’t have much time for the human variety. Now, then, Dr. Isla Cooper. Suppose you tell me why you bullied your way onto my ship.”