Isla dragged herself out of bed the next morning feeling her usual combination of exhaustion and death. The fresh water she’d requested from the galley ’ton the night before went a long way to helping her awaken. She sponge-bathed, managed to wash her hair, and looked with satisfaction at the set of clothing she’d washed the night before, still drying over the back of the chair and the wardrobe door.
She combed her hair and braided it, leaving it to hang down her back in a thick rope rather than pin it up. She remembered braiding Melody’s wet hair as a young girl, and how they would laugh the next day when they released the braids to reveal unruly, wavy curls.
She absently shook out her hands to remove the last tinges of blue from her skin, although she knew logically it didn’t speed the process. She needed to check in with her mother and Melody, but they were too far out of range. She and the other passengers could telescribe each other on the ship due to the portable, scaled-down Tesla Room near the engine room and cargo hold, and a few more days should see them within scribing distance of the Caribbean.
She had writing sheets in her journal, and even though handwritten letters couldn’t be sent home until they landed in Port Lucy, she’d left so hastily and in such a short temper with Melody that she felt an urge to express her affection.
She sat at the table and drafted a quick letter to her mother, explaining her “research holiday” in greater detail, creating a plausible scenario and enumerating several benefits to the excursion. Bella was busier with Castle’s than ever; the last thing she needed was to know that one daughter had cursed the other with a sleeping spell.
When she moved to Melody’s letter, she wasn’t certain where to begin. I love you, although you’ve ruined my life hardly seemed warm. I know we have been strained with each other lately, and I am sorry. It’s just that . . . you’ve ruined my life . . .
Isla sighed and sat back in her chair, tossing her fountain pen on the desk. This shouldn’t be so difficult. The fact was she was still angry, and beneath that, hurt. Melody had been innocent enough, her motives immature but not malignant, but the consequences had altered Isla’s life so drastically that her stifling fear occasionally took her breath away. If she was unable to find Malette, if she was unable to convince her to supply a cure . . .
Isla shook her head, sat up again, and retrieved the pen.
Melody, I had memories today of when you were small, and they made me smile. You meant the world to me then, and you do now. I’ve not said it much of late, but I do love you. You are my sister and my friend, and I miss you.
Isla’s eyes burned, which surprised her. She never cried. Feelings that produced tears were complicated, and she avoided them at all costs. She scowled.
As she finished drafting the letter, she noted the usually light sway of the airship giving way to broader and wider swings. Daniel had mentioned yesterday about flying into a storm but not to be concerned—the ship’s propellers were the most powerful available, and if they couldn’t fly above the storm safely, the propellers would still see them through.
She examined her hands, satisfied her skin had regained its normal hue, and left the cabin, locking the door. The sun usually shone brightly into the corridor from the stairs, and the absence of light bore testament of the coming storm. She climbed to the main deck, swaying and gripping the handrail, and looked up to see a sky that roiled and tumbled with dark clouds.
It was unsettling but strangely beautiful, and she stood at the top of the stairs, transfixed by the movement overhead. A shout from the bow drew her attention, and she spied Mr. Lewis, who had his hands cupped around his mouth. Having caught her attention, he jogged the length of the deck, admirably keeping his balance, and reached her side.
“Are you headed to the wardroom, then?” He bent close both to make himself heard and shield her from the wind.
“I had thought to, but perhaps I won’t have much of an appetite for long.”
“Captain Pickett suggested we take our meal in the library as it is situated near the center of the ship—although in this wind, that may not make much of a difference.”
She nodded.
“Crossing the deck is faster, or we can go down and around. Whichever you prefer.”
“I believe we should run across the deck, don’t you?”
He grinned, and she took his proffered arm, laughing as they ran from stern to bow, slipping and nearly falling twice. She had never been gladder to be wearing snug breeches instead of a skirt. When they reached the other side, she looked back at the wheelhouse to see Samson speaking to Daniel, who was examining something at the control panel.
She turned with Mr. Lewis and descended the stairs, wondering why she suddenly felt that something was different. Wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and she slowed her steps, brows knit in thought. What was it? Something sounded different.
“Do you hear that, Mr. Lewis?”
He tilted his head. “Hear what?”
“Something odd. The propeller cadence?”
They paused at the bottom of the stairs and remained still. She wondered if she was wrong. “Maybe it’s the wind. I could be hearing things that aren’t there.”
He frowned. “No, I believe you’re right.” They stayed still a moment longer when, alarmingly, the noise of the propeller ceased altogether.
They stared at each other, mute, and suddenly the ship pivoted sharply, careening in a circle. She fell against the wall, cracking her head. Mr. Lewis held tight to the railing and lunged for her, pulling her upward by the arm when she would have fallen to the floor. The haphazard movement of the ship slowed, but Isla still felt as though she stood in a spinning top.
“The propeller stopped,” she murmured and put a hand to her aching head.
“Are you hurt?” He turned her face toward him and studied her eyes. “You hit your head.”
“A bit, but it will pass.” She managed a smile. “I do believe I’ve quite lost my appetite, though.”
He didn’t return her smile, but continued to look from one eye to the other. “I’d like to see your eyes in better light,” he said. It was then she realized that both Tesla lamps in the corridor had gone dark.
Multiple footsteps sounded in the hall, and the other three passengers joined them, wide-eyed.
“Everybody in one piece?” Mr. Lewis asked.
“What on earth has happened?” Mr. Quince stammered. “The storm?”
Mr. Lewis frowned. “I’ll speak with Captain Pickett. He’s in the wheelhouse.”
“I’ll come with you,” Isla said.
“We’ll all go,” Nigel Crowe added.
The entire group trooped back up the stairs and stepped out onto the main deck, crossing in fits and starts. Isla could only imagine how comical they might have appeared from the helm, like terrified mice scurrying together after a lightning strike.
Samson opened the wheelhouse door, and they filed in. Isla crossed the room to Pickett, where he made quick notations on a chart and checked the instrument panel.
“Well, Pickett? I thought you said this ship could handle any storm.” Nigel Crowe didn’t shout, but somehow his quiet anger was worse.
Daniel clenched his jaw. “There has been a problem with the port side propeller. I am going down to the engine room now to assess.”
“But that shouldn’t have caused such a violent spin,” Mr. Bonadea noted.
Pickett grimaced. The ship rocked with a stiff burst of wind, and Isla realized that with one propeller stopped, they were less likely to pass through the storm with ease. The balloon held them aloft, but they were at the mercy of the airstream. The ship dipped and danced again, and Isla envisioned a feather blowing willy-nilly without direction.
“Your ’ton has no idea how to handle the wheel, Pickett!” Crowe glared at Samson, who stood at the ship’s double wheel, but his efforts seemed ineffectual. There was no purpose in the ship’s direction.
“Crowe, I have yet to ascertain the extent of the damage. It might possibly go beyond the propeller.” Pickett’s delivery was even and measured, but Isla noted a clenched fist and wondered if he would maintain hold on his temper.
Mr. Lewis moved close to Isla’s side. “Let me see your pupils,” he murmured. He placed both hands on her face, tipped her chin, and looked at her eyes again.
She heard Pickett approach, and he appeared in her periphery. “What happened?” he barked.
“She cracked her head against the wall when we spun. Her pupils are larger than I’d like. Does it hurt, Dr. Cooper?”
“Not at all,” she lied.
Pickett’s expression matched the thunderclouds outside, and she didn’t know if it was a result of anger or concern.
Mr. Lewis ran a hand along the side of her head, and she winced involuntarily when he probed what she assumed would be a rather large goose egg before long.
“You are hurt,” Pickett accused.
“Truly, I am fine.” She moved back, and Mr. Lewis dropped his hands. “What can we do to help you?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Quince added, although he looked decidedly pale. “We are at your service, sir.”
Pickett regarded Isla for a moment longer and then turned his attention to the rest of the group. “Samson and I will determine the nature of the problem and have it fixed straightaway. He is working on diagnostics.”
Crowe refrained from comment but went to the lookout windows at the back of the room.
Mr. Bonadea watched him and rolled his eyes. “Shall we retire to our cabins, then?” he asked the captain.
“That would be fine, or you may want to pass the time together in the lounge or library.”
“Can we climb above the storm?” Mr. Lewis asked Daniel.
Pickett shook his head. “I was reviewing the chart. It’s too high.”
Silence met his pronouncement, and he held up his hand. “Rest assured, we will weather the storm, as it were, and repair the faulty propeller. Breakfast has been prepared, and the ’ton, Robert, can deliver it wherever you prefer. As I mentioned earlier, you may be more comfortable in one of the rooms on the middle deck.”
The ship’s continual bobbing and sudden, harsh movements combined with the bump on Isla’s head left her feeling nauseated. She rarely suffered from motion sickness, but often found that if she had a clear view of the terrain ahead, such as atop a carriage or in the front seat of an automated Traveler, the illness abated.
She stumbled to the bank of windows at the front of the helm and looked out over the length of the ship, taking long, deep breaths. She had no fixed point of reference, however, and wondered if she would lose whatever remained in her stomach from last night’s dinner. She registered Pickett shooing the others from the wheelhouse, and Mr. Lewis appeared at her side.
“Where would you like to go, Dr. Cooper? Can I accompany you somewhere?”
She didn’t dare look at him to express thanks for his concern, as she figured any additional movement might push her over the proverbial edge.
“She can stay here,” Pickett said, and she heard him approach from behind. “Are you sick?” He put a hand on her shoulder, and she nodded, regretting the movement, and still looking out the window at sails that bobbed up and down. The thick, gray fog grew darker with each passing moment. They were flying into an abyss.
“The others have gone now,” Mr. Lewis said, and Isla saw them crossing the deck below, Mr. Bonadea helping Mr. Quince. Crowe paused to look out into the storm before glancing up at the wheelhouse and leaving the deck. “This is more than the propeller, Pickett.”
Pickett exhaled quietly. “It appears the cable attached to the rudder has snapped, and coding instructions from the Stirling Engine to the port side propeller are incorrect. Most likely an aged programming tin.” He closed his eyes. “I had ordered repairs to this ship a month ago, and I’ve inspected it since, but there were a few items still outstanding that I had deemed low on the list of potential problems.”
“The cable to the rudder?” Lewis’s eyebrows went up. “Very high on a prioritized list of improvements, I should think.”
“I checked the cable myself! I cannot imagine where it has severed.”
Isla chanced a look at Pickett. “Could it have been deliberate?”
He shook his head. “I suppose anything is possible, but I fear these problems stem from the usual ship being out of commission. I was forced to make alternate plans with limited options and time.” He sighed. “The rest of the fleet is unavailable—out on flights or leaving soon for other destinations. There were not many choices.”
The ship dipped again, crazily, throwing them all off-balance. Isla fell against the window, her hands smacking the glass. Daniel and Mr. Lewis both fought to remain upright, and both cursed quite fluently.
“Sir,” Samson called from the wheel, “preliminary reports on each ’ton aboard show no malfunction, no unusual or rogue activity.”
“Good.”
Mr. Lewis nodded. “We do not need to concern ourselves with ’ton reprogramming at this point. It can be tedious to search for one coding error.”
“And I did not sabotage anything, technical or otherwise.” Isla tried for a playful tone but sounded sickly, even to her own ears.
Mr. Lewis chuckled. “You were my first suspect. Assumed you were the most likely among us to commit nefarious deeds.”
“You have no idea,” Pickett muttered close to Isla’s ear, and she scowled. “Come.” He braced a hand under her elbow and put his arm around her shoulders. “At least sit back here on the window seat. You can still see outside but won’t fall over. I know nausea when I see it, and you’re better off up here than below deck.” He then made his way to Samson, who still examined the ship’s big wheel.
Mr. Lewis bent at the waist and studied Isla’s eyes, this time looking back and forth repeatedly. “One pupil is dilating more than the other.” His mouth tightened fractionally. “Try to remain alert, Dr. Cooper. You knocked your head quite impressively.”
Isla had seen enough injury and medical emergency in her work that she understood the problem her dilated pupil suggested. “I’ll not nap.” She managed a smile. “I shall stay in this spot, perfectly awake.”
“Lewis,” Pickett called. “Have you maintained your programming skills?”
“Of course.”
Pickett returned from the wheel, running his hand absently through his hair. “Samson will remain here while I check the cable. I believe I know where it snapped. It’s the only place I didn’t inspect beyond the cursory.” He shook his head, grim. “And this is diagnostic data from the engine room. These codes here, and here”—he pointed on the page, and Mr. Lewis nodded—“are missing a couple digits.”
Mr. Lewis nodded. “I’ve seen it happen before. Some tins are thinner than regulation dictates.”
The captain fumed silently. “I pay for the best quality materials. Someone will hear of this.”
Isla decided she would not like to be on the receiving end of that conversation, but losing power mid-flight because of cheap coding materials could result in death. She sighed, thinking of the delay they might now be facing, and wondered how long the repairs would take. She felt cold, suddenly, and closed her eyes as a horrifying thought struck. “This could postpone our arrival in Port Lucy.”
She opened her eyes and met Pickett’s gaze.
“If we are delayed and somewhere over the Atlantic when the full moon is upon us, we will have three predatory shifters aboard this ship with no containment cages.”