Burning Up

them all this time?
    And her elbow, too—but she understood that better. The flange had saved his life. Why keep these?
    She fingered the satin ribbons, and hope filled her chest. He’d kept her stockings aboard Vesuvius for two years. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’d want her to stay, too.
    But what would she do ? Ivy didn’t want to be part of his crew. And though she’d gladly cover the blacksmith’s duties, she knew the work would occupy her only for a few hours a week—at the most—and provide no challenge at all. Within three months, she could outfit every crew member who needed one with a new and better prosthetic . . . but what then?
    The room’s door clicked shut. Eben. Facing the wardrobe, Ivy composed herself. She would ask him if she could stay, but . . .
    A shiver ran over her skin as realization set in: she hadn’t heard the door unlock and open—and she didn’t hear his distinctive tread.
    Oh, blue. The revolver lay on a chair across the room. Ivy carefully kept her gaze from touching the weapon as she turned, hoping that the intruder wouldn’t look that way, too. Her heart racing, she glanced toward the door.
    Lady Corsair stood with her back against the wall, frowning as she took in the blue gown. Her green eyes met Ivy’s. “Barker was right,” she said. “Mad Machen plans to openly court you.”
    Ivy’s mouth dropped open. That was what this evening was about? Eben didn’t need to do that.
    “You didn’t know.” The other woman’s lips pursed. “It must be a last resort. All else has failed, so he tries the old-fashioned method. And the softhearted fool will ruin himself and destroy his crew in the process. God damm it, Eben.”
    Though Ivy bristled at the insult tossed at him, she couldn’t mistake the emotion behind Lady Corsair’s speech. The woman cared.
    So did Ivy. “What would ruin him?”
    “You would, Ivy Blacksmith.” A hard smile curved Lady Corsair’s lips. “On the sea, you can never show your belly or your throat, because someone will rip them out. And you are the soft spot that Mad Machen is about to show the world.”
    “I see,” Ivy whispered. And she did. Too well.
    Lady Corsair studied her face before swearing again. She turned for the door.
    “Captain Corsair,” Ivy said, and waited until the woman glanced at her. “You sent four men from your airship to my shop in Fool’s Cove, and failed to pay for my work. I expect to be paid now.”
    Black eyebrows arched in disbelief. She laughed. “You’re a cheeky one, blacksmith. But you’re not funny.”
    She opened the door. Ivy said, “If you don’t pay me, I’ll head down to the tavern, and spin a story about how you generously offered to pay for your aviators’ prosthetics, and were so pleased with my work that you gave me double. But if you pay me now, I’ll only say that you fooled me, and that I haven’t been able to coax a single denier from your purse.”
    Green eyes narrowing, Lady Corsair snapped the door closed and stalked across the room, fingering the handle of the knife sheathed at her thigh. Ivy’s heart careened against her chest with the woman’s every step, but she held her ground, lifting her chin to meet the woman’s gaze.
    “I know it’d be easier to kill me,” Ivy said. “Except that Eben’s your soft spot, isn’t he?”
    Lady Corsair’s sudden grin should have terrified her—but Ivy knew she was right. She held out her hand.
    “Pay me.”
    The woman’s grin became something more like a smile. She reached beneath her belt, withdrew a small leather purse, and dropped it into Ivy’s palm.
    “It’s all I have with me,” she said. “But it should be enough.”
    Ivy couldn’t respond. Her nanoagents had automatically measured the weight in her hand, and she knew exactly how much Lady Corsair had given.
    The woman’s sharp smile widened. While Ivy stood dumb-struck, Lady Corsair cupped her hand between Ivy’s legs.
    “Funny. I thought for certain the Blacksmith must have added a pair of balls.” She backed toward the door, saluting Ivy as she went. “You’ll do well to keep using those, blacksmith.”
    Perhaps Lady Corsair got by using her balls. Ivy preferred her brains.
    Her fingers closed over the purse. How strange, to have enough money to buy anything she wanted—and to realize what she wanted most, no amount of money could buy. Mad Machen’s reputation could only be built through stories, though action . . . and it took years.
    But there must be