Iron Seas 03 - Riveted

closest he’d come to hearing Inga Helgasdottor’s voice since she’d lain beneath a burning pile of rubble and whispered a final, agonized plea.
    David would be damned before he failed her. But for years, he’d despaired of being able to keep his promise.
    Until he’d heard this woman’s desperate words—first in French, then English, then Norse. Norse, for Christ’s sake. Who spoke that anymore? Only scholars—and few of them at that.
    Certainly no one in Bergen. David had been to that Norwegian port several times, and he’d never heard anyone with an accent like hers. Perhaps the language was still spoken in some remote village—but not in any of the villages he’d visited. He’d almost given up hope of ever knowing his mother’s origins.
    Perhaps this woman didn’t hold the answer. Perhaps he imaginedthe similarities to his mother’s voice. Perhaps he was mistaken.
    David didn’t think so. And—
    Hell. He’d forgotten to ask her name.
    With a sudden grin, he watched her climb. The shock of hearing her peculiar accent near the gates had stolen his brains. Before he realized that they would be traveling on the same airship, he’d been so determined to keep her in his sight that he hadn’t even thought to ask that simple question. He’d find out soon, though—and everything else he wanted to know.
    What incredible luck. If he’d left the inn a few minutes later, or if she’d been on any other vessel but Phatéon …
    But she wasn’t on another ship—and instead of a bird shitting in his eye at the port gates, an answer to an old prayer had landed in his lap in the form of a vibrant woman. Such mad luck. Wild elation lifted through him, rising with every step he watched her take, but he quelled the shout of laughter swelling within his chest. Perhaps she wouldn’t hear his laugh over the noise of the docks, but he wouldn’t give her reason to look down and see him cackling like a drunken rotbrain.
    His grin would likely scare her, anyway.
    That thought erased his smile. He’d have to be careful about how he approached her. She hadn’t seemed disturbed by his mechanical hand or mangled face, but he hadn’t given her the opportunity to take a close look yet. While walking with her, he’d deliberately positioned himself so that only his unscarred profile was on display.
    When was the last time he’d made such an effort to present his good side to a woman? Hell, when was the last time he’d thought about having a good side? Too long. He’d have to be certain not to forget, and try not to scare her away…again.
    Though she’d been polite about it, he had no doubt that she’d run from him. Only crew members climbed the rope ladders; passengerswaited for the cargo platform, particularly if they wore skirts. And she must be a passenger—no aviator dressed in silk from head to toe.
    So he’d unsettled her…but not because of his scars or his nanoagent infection. She hadn’t fled until he began asking questions. Why?
    He’d soon figure it out.
    She’d almost reached Phatéon ’s deck. From his angle on the ground, her voluminous skirts swallowed her figure, aside from a flash of yellow now and again when the crimson material parted to show the trouser legs beneath. Odd, wasn’t that? David had been too focused on her lively features and her voice to take note of her dress, but now it was all he could see. He recalled the purple scarf warming her neck and covering her corkscrew hair, the number of ribbons adorning her sleeves and hem. He’d passed frippery shops with fewer bows displayed in the windows than the woman had worn, and though he knew nothing of women’s fashions, he couldn’t remember seeing such a combination of colors and shapes at any of the numerous ports he’d visited in the past ten years. A glance along the docks and a scan of the other ladies’ dresses confirmed it: Her clothing was odd.
    Good. Odd fit the sort of woman he was looking for.
    When his family had lived in the mountain-builders’ city at the confluence of the Inoka and the Great Muddy rivers, both the white settlers and his father’s people had said Inga Helgasdottor was odd, too—not because she’d worn silk and ribbons, but because she’d possessed an unusual manner and lacked any proper sensibilities. His mother had laughed loudly, and at strange moments. She’d made shocking observations, suggested things no polite woman would have. She’d swaggered, even when David’s aunt had