Iron Seas 03 - Riveted

seconds. Flying, they could hurry to Vik without worrying about crevasses and dogs. With a few hours’ head start, a two-seater could reach the town before the airship.
    She quickly forced her gaze away from it. No need to alert di Fiore to her interest in the machine. She and David would need to figure out a way past the guards, first.
    Di Fiore must already expect that someone might want to escape. Four guards stood at the corners of the snowy clearing. Dogs wouldn’t attack them here, and no one could approach the camp without being noticed, so those guards must have been appointed to protect di Fiore and the equipment from people who were working here.
    David must have been thinking the same. “The guards,” he said quietly, and she nodded.
    “We’ll have to wait.” But at least there was hope.
    The ferry cruiser’s engine quieted. Momentum carried them over the camp, where the guards below secured the tether line.
    Di Fiore met them at the cargo lift. “Mr. Kentewess, I know that I have acted in a high-handed manner. Please understand, this is for my father. What the world took away from a brilliant man, I will give back. My father spent years in that insanitarium, with his hands restrained—but his mind wasn’t. His dreams were the only freedom he had. Now I will be his hands, and I will fulfill those dreams at any cost. Do you understand?”
    “We understand. We’ve already seen the cost that people pay for it,” David said.
    Di Fiore nodded, and continued on as if David’s only response had been agreement. “My father has suffered from doubt. You will not doubt him, no matter how outlandish you believe his ideas might be. I will not see him hurt in any way. You will never say a word of your injuries, or the loss of your mother, except in how you are grateful for what happened to her, and how the pain you suffered after her death made you a better man.”
    David’s jaw turned to stone, the edges of his lips white. She’d never seen him truly angry before. He was now. Her hand tightened on his. Annika couldn’t hold him back, but she could remind him that he wasn’t alone in this.
    “Then I’ll say nothing at all.” It emerged through gritted teeth.
    “That is acceptable, too. He can see for himself that you’re healthy, strong. The scars can’t be helped, but you have a woman with you, so not everyone is repulsed by them. He’ll believe that you live a full life.”
    Annika would kill him herself. This time, David’s hand tightened on hers. The cargo lift jolted into motion.
    His voice rising over the clattering chains, Di Fiore continued, “And if any of those topics arise, whether you’ve said anything ornot, the primary message will be: You’ve forgiven him. In that, I will tolerate no deviation.”
    “I can forgive Inoka Mountain,” David said. “That was an accident. But I can’t forgive Heimaey or the whale. Those women and sailors were deliberately murdered.”
    The other man nodded. “And my father isn’t responsible. As I said, I am his hands—and he doesn’t have to know how I’ve procured everything he needs. Nor will you tell him. Such knowledge would place a great burden on him, and he already carries enough.”
    But di Fiore obviously bore them well. He spoke of murder as if discussing the weather, with barely a change in his mild expressions. No doubt he would kill them as easily if they upset his father.
    The platform reached the clearing. They stepped off onto well-packed snow. A small dark-haired boy raced away from one of the houses, laughing and with his arms extended. Di Fiore’s face changed, lit by sudden delight and a warm smile. He swept the boy up, swung him in a quick circle. Wild giggles followed.
    Di Fiore set the boy on his feet again, crouched. “Well, now. Did you miss me? I see that you’ve escaped without your coat again.”
    He tugged on the hem of the boy’s small wool pullover. Annika narrowed her eyes, looked closer. His blue pullover had been woven in a familiar pattern, much like the ganseys that the women in Hannasvik wore on their fishing boats. The pullovers were common among fishermen, but she wouldn’t expect to see one here—and every pattern was distinctive. Perhaps this one had been made by someone who hailed from the same location as one of the original Englishwomen.
    Perhaps. But she doubted it.
    Dread filled her again. She’d managed to convince herself that di Fiore hadn’t found her people, but obviously