Burning Up

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.
     
    L ying 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
    Two Years Later . . .
     
    T he 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,