Burning Up

her waist, hauling her back against his solid chest. Surrounded by the heat of his body, she tried not to stiffen.
    “No? Then I’ll hold on to you,” he said against her hair, and reached for the mooring line. Snapping a large carabiner over the cable, he gripped the bottom of the steel loop.
    Oh, blue. That was how they’d be going down? Spinning to face him, she flung her arms around his shoulders. Muscles bunched beneath her hands. Mad Machen swung them up and over the side, and then they were falling, bouncing and twisting, steel ripping along over the cable. Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open again, staring over his shoulder. They dropped away from the airship at terrifying . . . exhilarating speed.
    She laughed, suddenly loving this mad descent. His arm tightened around her back and Ivy abruptly became aware of how she clung to him, her legs wrapped around his thigh, her cheek against his warm neck—abruptly aware that she’d felt safe enough to let go of her fear, if only for a moment.
    Then they were slowing at the bottom of the long arc of cable, leveling out. Ivy lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Vesuvius ’s approaching decks. Tall and imposing, Vesuvius was enormous. Wide at the waterline, the ship’s black, rounded hull narrowed at the top, and the two rows of gallery windows built up the squared-off stern higher than the bow. Gunports lined the side, and more cannons took up space along the rails of the upper decks. From high above, the ship had appeared small and calm in the quiet waters, but closing in she could barely make sense of the crisscrossing ropes and furled sails, the timbers and spars—and twice as many crew members on the crowded upper deck alone than had served the entire airship, all moving about in chaotic activity.
    “Zounds!” she exclaimed, and turned her head as Mad Machen chuckled, a deep rumble that she felt against her chest. The wind scraped his ragged hair back from his forehead, and when his short laugh ended, either the ship or the descent left a wide grin on his face.
    Perhaps both.
    Without glancing down at her, he said, “Hold tight,” and let go of the carabiner, landing heavily on the poop deck. He stumbled, as if his right leg almost folded, but he wrenched upward and came to a halt, holding her against him. Breathing hard and still grinning, he pulled back to look into her face. His hair stuck up wildly in all directions. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening his dark gaze. She waited for her fear to return, but could only think that this was the man she’d asked for help from two years before, the man she’d met at the Blacksmith’s.
    But her impression then had been wrong. She couldn’t trust this impression, either.
    Ivy pulled away. To her relief, Mad Machen let her go, turning to scan the ship. At a word, two men rushed to unfasten the mooring line. A shout from another deck sent hands scurrying up the masts, out onto the yards. Eight men around a capstan began hauling up the heavy anchor chain.
    Watching them, Ivy took a few moments to find her breath—and her balance. The deck seemed to roll gently beneath her feet, a gentle rock from bow to stern. Gulls circled the topgallant masts, their raucous cries adding to the voices calling to one another up in the yards, to the orders shouted from below. Booted feet beat the decks as men hurried about, securing ropes. White sails unfurled with the rough scrape of canvas, and the timbers creaked when they filled with air.
    Chaos, but a perfectly ordered one. Eyes wide as she tried to take it in, she followed Mad Machen to a lower deck, where Barker stood at a carved balustrade, overlooking the crew.
    The quartermaster turned and spotted Ivy. His mouth fell open and his gaze darted to Mad Machen’s face before returning to hers. His astonishment warmed into a smile.
    “Well,” he drawled. “Look at you, Ivy Blacksmith. You’ve color in your cheeks now.”
    All freckles. “A bit,” she said.
    “More than a bit. The blue skies suit you. Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?”
    “Yes.” Mad Machen’s slow perusal felt as if he was stripping Ivy down to her skin. “But so did London.”
    “That’s true enough.” Barker laughed suddenly, shaking his head. He looked to Mad Machen. “And so this explains why Yasmeen wouldn’t tell us who the Blacksmith had named until after you’d fetched her. She knew you wouldn’t strangle her in front of Ivy.”
    A