Damselfly

This is set in almost-but-not-quite Europe, in a timeline almost-but-not-quite ours.

You'll find many of the locations on a map, maybe you'll enjoy that as much as I did.

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I pulled the mixture selector to cut-off and waited. The slow, lumpy idle of the Stokes V12 grew rougher, more asthmatic, and finally died away. The gleaming disc of the propeller resolved into its two polished spruce limbs, and silence fell over Winchester Aeroport for a moment or two.

I stretched my neck and removed my cap and goggles. Flying was relaxing, but taxiing three-hundred-odd horsepower of skittish steel, duralumin and doped fabric over the aeroport's rough, pitted Portland cement took it out of me every time I landed here.

I yawned, stretched again, and levered myself up onto the padded leather headrest of my cockpit. I listened to the distant sound of petroleum vehicles on the Great Western highway, and watched two birds gaming on the dying thermals of evening. The sun would soon set; and soon enough thereafter the dew would start to fall.

I flung a leg over the side of Damselfly's aft cockpit, felt for the spring-loaded catch, and eased my foot into the recess. I crabbed forward from foothold to foothold, stepped down onto the biplane's swept lower wing, careful to stick to the abrasive-lined walk strip, and removed the small tar-sealed metal box from beneath the retaining net that covered the forward cockpit seat. I tucked the parcel under an arm and dropped the two feet to the concrete of the apron.

The depot lights were still on, which meant that Nathaniel would be working. Good. I'd be glad to hand the consignment over so that its safety was no longer my responsibility. I had no idea what the box contained, nor did I wish to. All I cared about was the thousand Crowns that it was about to earn me for a lengthy but uneventful multi-leg flight across Italy, France, the Normandy channel and the Duchy of Wessex from my starting point just west of the Mediterranean port of Genoa.

I was very good at my job, and I was picky over the jobs I chose, and I was never, ever late. These three facts meant that for the large number of wealthy people who had items they wanted moved, for a consideration, from A to B without having to interact with the despised C of Customs... well, I was a very useful person to know.

And my reputation and usefulness meant that I could usually name my price.

A thousand Crowns... the client's broker hadn't even blinked. A hundred years ago, it would have been a Lord's ransom. Even in these diminished days it would still keep me in fuel and food for nearly nine months, provided nothing went seriously wrong with my baby's heart. Luckily, spares were still plentiful - the Edmont P22 had been a widely-built aircraft during the final years of the Great War and there were still many of Damselfly's sisters and cousins out there, both those that still soared and those sad others that were quietly rotting away...

Dusk descended. Distant thunderheads flashed, but I judged them to be safely downwind of Winchester and reckoned they would not be a threat tonight unless the wind shifted wildly away from the prevailing south-south-west.

So on I walked to the depot door, where I turned the rusted handle. The sheet-metal amplified the awful complaints of the ancient hinges as I forced it open.

I unclenched my jaw; mechanical sympathy was practically my religion.

"Seriously, Mr Butler, can't you find two minutes to grease this door?" I roared.

Booming laughter echoed from Big Mike the engineer, and a high-pitched "Juliette!" followed a squeal from Maggie, the field's histrionic and extremely affectionate Controller.

"It gives me warning that you're coming," retorted thin, wiry Nathaniel Butler from his workbench. "Miss French, welcome. I thought I heard Damselfly in the circuit. You weren't due until tomorrow."

"I was bored," I answered. "There's only so much of Southern Europe that I can take in one helping."

He laughed, then his eyes dropped to the box I clutched. He sobered immediately.

"The Marshall consignment, Miss French?" he said, quietly.

"Yes."

"Damn and blast. The town vault will be closed for the evening. Were you followed?"

"Not that I saw," I said, lowering my own voice. "I backtracked several times and extended upwind to Warminster. It's almost eerie out there - no aircraft to be seen other than postal freight and just a single passenger ferry. And no suspicious automobiles anywhere that I noticed on approach here. But then, I don't think anybody would stake out an aerodrome without knowing when a shipment was going to arrive - it's far too obvious, not to mention expensive."

"Here's hoping you're right, Miss French. In any case, I'll stick it somewhere safe for the night. You'll need a freight receipt, of course?"

"Yes please," I said. I perched myself primly on a small area of clear worktop and waited as he dug out his receipt book. A few seconds of scrawling, the thump of the brass Controller's stamp... and I had the proof I needed for my escrow agent. I blew on the ink to dry it, then folded the receipt and tucked it into my blouse pocket.

"Where would you recommend I stay in town this week?" I said. "I was going to go to Solomon's - would that be wise?"

"Solomon's would be my recommendation as usual, Miss French. The Dandy down by the river is a bit rowdy at the moment but Mr Quoyle's new brother in law is a major in the Royal Artillery and his regiment has taken to using it as their watering hole. It will be noisy but safe enough - if you wanted to slum it for some reason. Desdemona's out in St Cross would be a bit too exciting for you, by my reckoning. Not that I think anything would happen, you understand; nobody wants the King's Constables in their business, after all. Not when things are so..."

"Dicey?" I suggested, smiling.

"Precisely," he agreed. "But better safe than..."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. He and I shared a glance.

"Speaking of better safe than sorry..." I began.

"We'll get your girl under a roof and make sure she's snug," he said. "When will you need her, Miss French?"

"I might take a day or two before heading back across the channel. Call it... early morning, two days time? I might make use of the time to look for another client..."

"Please speak to me before you make any other plans," he said quietly, with a cautious glance at Mike and Maggie, neither of whom appeared to be watching us. "I may have something that will need quiet and skilled moving - likely at short notice."

I paused, then shrugged. "Right, I will wait for you then. May I borrow your telephone, Nathaniel? I need to arrange transport."

"With pleasure. But first - shall we give Damselfly a once-over since we have her here and the time to tinker? Mike's a dab hand with the older Stokes engines, and I can swing a spanner with the best of them. It's been a while since I got to work on a beauty like her."

I pondered for a moment, then agreed. One could never do too much maintenance, and it would be nice to have the help.

"Just watch out," I warned him. "She's a touchy cow and she has a nasty habit of biting the hand that feeds her. And don't you dare strip any bolts or I promise you I will feed you to her feet-first."

He laughed.

I used his battered, wall-housed telephone to summon a private vehicle from a firm I trusted - a small, tightly-knit cooperative of discreet men from diverse backgrounds who'd found that driving a plush, powerful, leather-upholstered limousine from A to B had better retirement prospects than whatever shady business they'd been accustomed to before. I paid a small monthly retainer and tipped well; they drove me where I needed to go in Mercia, Wessex and surrounds. It worked well for all concerned.

I retrieved my small duffel bag from Damselfly's cargo compartment and paused, one hand resting on the polished metal of her cowl.

"Behave yourself," I told the old warhorse. I patted her gently. "See you soon," I added, so she'd not miss me too much.

A streamlined burgundy automobile wafted slowly up the access lane and made a wide circle by the depot. The driver's door opened and I recognised Mr Black - he and I had a very agreeable understanding: he didn't talk and I didn't talk right back at him.

I untied the orange and white scarf that had restrained my hair. I tucked it into a small silk bag, and climbed Damselfly's side so that I could drop the bag onto my seat for my next flight. I took one more look, and dropped back to the apron.

Then I nodded to my driver as he opened the rear door for me. I slipped into the plush sanctum within and sighed again.

"Solomon's, please, Mr Black," I said.

"Yes, Miss French."

And that was all I needed to say until I gave him a demure little "Thank you," to his almost-invisible smile as he delivered me to the hotel of Mr Solomon Day.

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"Would you like another glass of the Chanterelle, Juliette?" asked Mr Day.

"No. Thank you. The chicken was excellent, as always. And much as I'd love another glass to round it off, I know I'll feel awful in the morning."

"Speaking of - will you be needing an automobile tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure as yet," I answered him. "I may indulge in a day off. Read a bit. Filch some desserts from your kitchen. The usual shenanigans."

Solomon grinned. "In that case, darling, there is a delightful new Boutique on the main strip, should your need to sow chaos extend beyond my modest hotel."

I laughed loudly.

"How long have you known me?" I demanded.

"Since you were three, love. You spilled strawberries and cream on my blazer. It was never the same again, alas."

"And in the intervening twenty one years have I ever once been caught dead in a Boutique?"

"I live in hope of better days, my dear," he said in his delightful, dry deadpan.

I grinned at him. "You old baggage," I added. "You know that's not who I am."

His smile faded slightly.

"I know, Juliette," he answered. "But... an uncle can dream, can he not?"

I listened to the clock minting fresh new seconds and counted out five of them.

"Don't waste your dreams on me. Dream of something that might actually happen," I said, gently. "I am... content with my lot."

"You sound like your father when you say that," he said, after a long pause. "Content, but never happy."

A pang, then - we stared at one another, united by that loss.

Then I sighed.

"I suppose that's to be expected," I answered him. "I am his daughter in almost every way, after all."

"You're certainly as stubborn as him," he agreed. Then he smiled, sadly. "But you're a far better pilot and navigator than he was."

"How are the girls?" I asked, changing the subject to something less maudlin. Solomon's nieces idolized me, and I loved being idolized.

"Very well, my dear. They will be furious that they missed you."

"I'll be back soon enough, I think. I'll bring something nice from France for them. Perhaps they'll be here when I get back."

"I hope so," he answered, solemnly. "On that note; Marcia's prepared your room, we've got the water just the way you like it. Shall I send up some brandy?"

"No. Not tonight, thank you. I'm trying to cut down on my... indulgences."

"A wise decision," he said. "I'll clear up for you, darling. Go on, I'm sure you need the bath."

"Do I really smell that awful?" I teased him.

"Light oil and aviation fuel," he sighed. "A heady bouquet, were you but a mechanic."

I laughed and stood from table. I closed on him, hugged him hard, and kissed his cheek.

"I love you, uncle Sol."

"Be off with you, you wilful child," he said, pleased as always. "Sleep well. Breakfast at nine?"

"Yes please."

He smiled again, and I took my leave.

I climbed the wide, old, lacquer-sealed stairs and made for my usual room, an eastwards-facing princess suite that Solomon always tried to force on me for free and that I always insisted on paying double rates for. He was practically a blood relative (he'd served with my father and saved Papa's life numerous times in the Siam campaigns), he'd been uncle Solomon since I could talk, and he remained the only living person I'd ever openly confessed to about the... real me.

I also knew that there wasn't much call for princess suites in Winchester these days, but that he was too proud to admit that Solomon's Hotel was hanging on by a thread that would, sooner rather than later, snap. When it did, I meant to see that he landed on his feet, when his pride would no longer be an impediment to my plans to give him the quiet, warm and gentle retirement he deserved for all the times he'd been there for Papa and, afterwards, for me.

I closed my suite's door and inhaled.

Lavender and thyme, as always. A comforting scent etched onto my soul by my childhood summers in the north of France. The scent of Saint-Mihiel; the scent of the place I most considered home.

I hadn't bothered to change out of my flying clothes. If there'd been any other guests tonight I'd have received an avalanche of snooty looks and snide comments.

I didn't care, but I knew that Solomon did. I should do better by him, I thought.

I shed my waxed tweed aviator's jacket and massaged my aching shoulders.

I whimpered deep in my throat as I stretched the slouch out of my back. Papa would have died of horror at my posture, I thought. But, then, the cold waters of the northern sea had got to him first. Funny how things went.

I kicked off my boots and shed my blouse and my flight trousers. I balanced on one leg at a time while I pulled off my stockings and my plain but serviceable underclothes. I wriggled my toes in pleasure as circulation returned to my cramping little toe. And then I stepped, daintily, into my piping hot bath.

"Oh... fuck, yes," I sighed.

Some day, I thought, I'd invent an aircraft where my cockpit was a bathtub heated by outflow from the engine's cooling system. It would be perfect. Eternal hot water - almost heaven.

I closed my eyes and let myself relax.

I'd earned this break, this coming day of doing nothing. Normally I'd fret - the roof of Papa's Châteaux near Saint-Mihiel had begun to leak the prior winter. The chimneys needed pointing, the orchards needed tending, the ivy needed trimming away from the walls. Another year, staving off the slow decay of time. A saner woman would have abandoned the place, or have sold it to some new person who could love it as it deserved...

But it was Papa's house, and I would not part with the few little bits of him that I had left to me - not for all the diamonds in the Mughal's crown.

So - soon I'd need to work. A thousand crowns was a hefty purse, but it would flow away soon enough.

But for now - for these few, precious hours - I could just be.

I lay in the water until my skin resembled a prune. I soaped myself thoroughly to remove all remaining traces of oil or grease from my body. I washed and rinsed and rinsed my hair again and then mournfully evacuated the bath as it cooled too much to be any further sanctuary for me.

A saffron flannel dressing gown had been laid out for me, as had some grey woollen socks and lilac carpet slippers. The fire was set but not lit; I left it alone as the smell of woodsmoke always gave me disturbed dreams. I towelled my hair as dry as I could, and wrapped a fresh towel around my head like some Persian Sultan's turban. I browsed the tiny bookshelf and found myself a dog-eared memoir of some dimly-remembered adventurer who'd explored Columbia in a prior century.

I liberated the comforter from the enormous bed, and enthroned myself in the battered but comfortable armchair near the electric lamp.

But the words eluded me as they often did when I was tired. So I closed the book, and drew my legs up where I was enthroned, and slept.

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I crouched beneath Damselfly's radiator and stared up into the engine bay.

"And?" I asked.

"She's old but she's golden," said Mike. "Nothing to worry about that I can see, Miss French. How many hours are there on that generator since it was last stripped down?"

"Three hundred and seventy-two," I answered. I noted the glance that Mike and Nathaniel Butler shared.

"Yes," Nathaniel said to some unspoken question. "Yes, she has the entire maintenance schedule in her head. And the electrical schematics. And the tolerances of all the fasteners, and the tension for the braces. She knows everything about this plane, Mike - and yes, it's all correct. We could build another plane from crated and unlabelled parts based only on the knowledge that Miss French carries around inside her head."

Big Mike whistled softly. "Well, in that case, miss, I'd say that in another three hundred hours or so you'd want it serviced. But it's fine for now, just a bit corroded here on the top. I'll slap some treatment and paint on it to keep it from getting any worse."

"Thanks. Any other problems you think I should keep in mind?"

"None, miss. She's old but mechanically it's like she just came off the line. She's got years left in her still. And she's a real beauty - I always did love blue and silver together like you've got her painted."

"Yes," I said, with pride. "I look after her; she means a lot to me."

Mike grinned and turned back to work. I watched him for a moment; I'd always liked his unflappable confidence and his simple love of aeroplanes.

"Miss French?" said Nathaniel. "There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you if you don't mind? Would you walk with me?"

"To where?"

"The office."

I glanced up at him. Nathaniel Butler almost never went to the office; he hated the stench of administration and far preferred to spend his time in the depot amongst the tools and grime.

"Please," he said, and even offered his hand to help me stand.

I frowned but followed him; he said nothing as he led me across the weathered asphalt to the old, brick building that served as a terminal. He opened a door, turned to face me as if he finally wanted break the silence, and then sighed. He stepped aside and gestured.

"Please," he repeated, softly.

I stepped past him and into the warm, dim interior of the office's prior-century charm. It had always seemed more like some college Library than a place of business. I admired the wooden panels, the green-glass lamps, the gleaming brass...

And the tall, well-dressed woman who turned abruptly from the window to face me.

Her jet-black hair was immaculately coiffed and caught up under a flattering lace-garlanded hat. Her dress was a rich midnight-blue, over which she wore something that approximated a gentleman's blazer - if you ignored the pinstripes and the elegant, tapered cut. Her brown eyes were haughty, her cheeks pale, her entire demeanour combative...

She was easily the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

I came to an abrupt stop, gawped for a moment, then gave Nathaniel a pointed glare.

"What's this, Mr Butler?" I demanded.

"Is... this... her?" said the woman.

"Yes, Lady Evelyn," he said.

I paused, turned back to the interloper, and gave her a longer, cooler second evaluation.

Lady Evelyn, was it?

She raised her chin.

"She's quite rude, staring like that," she observed. "And dirty," she added, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, I am incredibly rude," I retorted in awful, rurally-accented French, "but not nearly as rude as a supplicant who insults the bishop before his altar."

Nathaniel grinned uneasily, but her reaction was much more telling - her eyes flickered; her cheeks paled and then pinked with a touch of suppressed fury.

I was glad to see I'd guessed right; she was educated enough to understand me and the insult I'd given her. Satisfied, I chalked one up for myself - it was always good to be on the front-foot with difficult clients.

And she had the air of being a very difficult client indeed.

She took an angry breath, then clenched her fists and sighed it out as she turned her gaze back to Nathaniel.

"Is she really the best you could do?"

"Yes," he said, simply. "Miss French is the best courier in Wessex. And Mercia. Probably in all of England and, possibly, France as well. And she's the only one I'd trust with the... cargo."

She pressed her lips together as she considered that.

"What's the job, then," I said, acting like the uncultured and boorish commoner this... lady... clearly saw me as.

"A quiet job. An off-the-books flight," he said softly. "Ferrying precious cargo from here to Luxembourg."

"Luxembourg?" I echoed.

"Yes."

I bit my lip. The Free Duchy was notoriously sketchy and what Customs officers the Grand Duke employed were generally corrupt, disreputable pricks; I wasn't happy about the idea of landing anywhere within the bounds of the Duchy. Extricating myself would almost certainly prove... difficult. And, probably, extortionate.

"What's the fee?"

"Ten thousand crowns," said the lady.

"... are you fucking with me? Is she fucking with me?" I demanded, when I'd recovered the ability to speak. "Nobody pays ten thousand crowns for a cargo run! Nobody pays ten thousand crowns for anything! Just what in Heaven's name are you transporting? Gold? Emeralds? The eastern Pope's missing leg?"

"Me," she answered softly.

She flinched under my shocked glare, then seemed to find some sort of inner strength. She clenched her jaw, lifted her chin, and stared directly back at me.

Her eyes were red, I suddenly realised. She'd been crying - and recently, I guessed - but they were still mesmerising enough for me to feel like I was falling into them...

I looked away first; unnerved by the blush that I felt crawling up my neck.

"Nathaniel Butler, I expected better of you," I pronounced, to cover my discomfort. "I fly freight, not... princesses," I added, darting a glance at her to see the effect my barb had.

She took a shuddering breath and paled.

Satisfied, I turned to go, but Nathaniel Butler caught my arm.

"Wait," he said softly. "Please, Miss French..."

"If you don't help me," said the woman, faintly, "then I'll be killed. They're going to kill me."

Again, I was shocked to silence. Again I turned back to her and stared.

Her words were soft and horribly matter-of-fact... and her lip trembled violently before she regained control of herself. She clenched her hands into fists. "Please," she whispered. "I don't want to die."

I glanced at Nathaniel and noted the solemnity of his expression. I knew that she wasn't lying - Nathaniel Butler did not tolerate liars.

I dug my nails into my palms so hard that they scored my skin.

"You bastard," I said. "You rotten fucking bastard. You knew. You knew that if you asked me out there in the hangars I'd say no and that would be the end of it. You knew I'd not be able to say no to her face to face. Not once I knew the odds and had seen the face of the one who would be harmed. Oh fuck you, Nate," I added in despair.

Nathaniel Butler's eyes were clear, and old, and sad.

"I'm sorry, Juliette. I truly am. But I owe a debt I cannot repay," he murmured. "I know your rules, and I know I'm breaking them, but I have no choice. I need to get Lady Evelyn away from here. She'll be safer in the Duchy, if any place can truly be counted as safe. Will you take her for me, Juliette? You're the only person I can entrust with her."

I scowled at him and ground my teeth.

I'd known Nathaniel for more than five years. He'd never once lied to me, never once screwed me over with money, never once let me down. And he'd never asked anything of me before.

He'd saved all the interest for this one great ask.

"Fine, fuck me, fine!" I sighed at last. "When?"

He relaxed; she let out a shaky whimper and turned away. I tried to ignore the quiet sniffs, the way her shoulders shook; both Nathaniel and I pretended we saw nothing while she recovered herself.

"Tonight. She'll stay here for now, we can't risk her being seen. They'll be tearing Wessex and the channel ports apart at the seams looking for her but I don't think they'll guess at first that she'd have chosen to fly. At sunset you need to be lined up to go; we'll drive her out in the utility truck and bundle her in. It may get..."

"Dicey?" I suggested, irony dripping like oil from my tongue.

"Yes."

He paused, sighed, and took a breath.

"Juliette - you know that I'd never dream of telling you how to do your business, but were it me out there tonight, girl - I'd fly low and fast, without lights. I wouldn't put it past the pursuers to attempt an... aerial interception."

"Amazing. I get to be shot at as well? Fine. Make sure she's warmly dressed and has a blanket or jacket of some sort. I won't be landing until we're well over the Channel, so if she freezes it's on you. Damselfly can take a hundred and thirty pounds of cargo stowed against the forward bulkhead - make sure it's secure or you'll kill and cremate us both before we've crossed the boundary fence. And if that happens I swear that I will haunt you and never let you sleep a peaceful night again."

"She'll be ready," he said softly. "As to baggage, well - she has almost nothing with her. I'll make sure there are provisions in case..."

"I'll be no trouble," the woman suddenly added. She turned back to face us. She scrubbed heedlessly at her nose, and part of me felt a deep pang of sympathy - both at her fear and at the newer, overriding relief at the lifeline she'd been thrown.

"You're already trouble, princess," I snapped, angry with myself for getting involved. For already being so... invested.

She pressed her lips tightly together but didn't deign to reply, electing merely to sniff once more instead.

And I had to grudgingly award her a point for that.

Beautiful and brave, I thought. What an unfair combination.

"Nathaniel, a word with you - outside," I said.

I stepped back out into the bright, mid-morning sun and waited until he'd shut the door behind us before I spun back, furious.

"What noose am I stepping into here?" I demanded of him. "And who in blazes is that... woman?"

"Lady Evelyn Villiers," he said.

He stared at me, clearly expecting... something.

"Who?" I demanded.

"The Duke of Epsom's youngest grand-daughter."

Fuck. Senior nobility, I thought.

"And she's... what? Running away from an arranged marriage to Lord Rancid the second or the Ninth Baron von Lederhosen?"

"No."

The way he said it killed any and all levity I might have felt at my own cleverness.

"This is real, Juliette," he continued. "This is intrigue of the most vile sort. She saw something, or read something, that could... embarrass... one or more of the Dukes - or possibly even the Crown. She didn't mention precisely what, and I didn't dare to ask. Suffice to say that someone else has already been..."

"Killed?" I said, filling his silence.

"Yes. And now suspicion is falling on that person's associates - like her. She fled and came here - as incognito as she could manage, which as you can likely imagine for a woman like her wasn't very. It won't be long before someone in the Duke's household hears something, remembers our connection and comes a'knocking. And when they do, others will surely follow."

"But... why Luxembourg, of all the places..."

"She's a citizen through her mother's family, and she'll have allies there. Most importantly, there she can barter herself... adequate insurance. That safety net is not available to her here. The English Court doesn't exactly play by the normal rules, does it?"

"They're infamous for it," I agreed.

I squinted up at the remote, pure clouds above us.

"Why me?" I grumbled. "Because I'm... easy?"

"Because you were here and I knew you'd do it, yes," he admitted. "You're not the sort to turn your back on someone who needs help. Especially not a pretty girl. Don't worry," he added with a wry grin as I took a breath to deny everything and scold him. "Nobody else suspects, and none of us here would breathe a word to anyone."

"Yea, well... I can't help being a fool..." I sighed, unnerved by how easily he'd seen through me.

"Maybe. But I'd rather all the world were fools like you," he said. "It would make for a nicer place all round."

And he managed a small, sad smile.

"You mentioned a connection..."

"She and my son were children together, for a time. During the evacuation," he added. "She's... well, she's always been a bit like a daughter. Jasper would have wanted..."

"Stop. I said I'd do it. Fuck me. No need to lay on the guilt," I added. "Just... make sure she's ready to go. Please. I'm not joking about this - make sure everything is packed and stowed before I climb into the cockpit, and make sure she knows how to strap herself in. Get her to practice in Damselfly - now while she's awake and not when she's exhausted and running on nothing but adrenaline. The moment she's seated I'm rolling, and If I'm lined up waiting and I even smell something that upsets me, I'm pinning the throttle to the firewall and bailing on all of you, fee be damned. Got it?"

"I wouldn't want or expect you to do anything else," he said.

"Fine. Sunset, then. Don't make me wait," I added.

I turned, yanked open the door to the office and stomped back in.

The girl glared up at me from a chair and scrubbed furtively at her eyes. She'd clearly been crying again. Poor thing, I found myself thinking. God knows I'd done that enough in my time...

"Come back to gloat? To laugh at the soft, stupid innocent?" she whispered, voice rough and quivering.

I took a breath and sighed it out. I'd deserved that one.

"No."

"No?" she repeated, puzzled. "Then what is it?"

"I'll get you to Luxembourg," I said. "I promise. You have my word."

She met my gaze for a moment, then she seemed to slump inwards on herself.

"Thank you," she whispered.

I turned and left her there, and didn't dare look back.

"Sunset," I repeated to Nathaniel in passing.

And then I walked off into the open air to pace the flight line, where the faint whiff of oil and aviation fuel always helped me to think.

But calm thought eluded me.

She was beautiful. She was absolutely stunning. She likely silenced entire rooms when she entered them.

It must be nice, I thought, to be so perfect - and not some roadside attraction like me.

But then, I thought, I could fly away whenever I wanted.

She might have looks, but I could fly away.

The thought cheered me up and I turned and walked, whistling, to the women's dormitory, where I planned to wash, change, and get some sleep.

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Her belongings - a small wicker suitcase - had been carefully lashed to the firewall as I'd instructed. There were several sets of redundant straps at play; I wondered if that was Nathaniel's little touch of sarcasm. Then my amusement was overridden by a moment of sadness on her behalf - that her whole, no doubt glittering existence had had to be shrunk down to this single small fugitive's load. But then, that was life, I supposed. Light on one side, darkness on the other.

A small metal crate of supplies had been strapped in behind her suitcase - mainly tinned goods and two screw-topped metal cans of water. It was enough for a few days, though to be honest it was a pantomime object given the entirely civilized countryside we'd be flying over. I estimated size and weight and nodded. It would be within Damselfly's pinch-penny limits; even with me in the aft cockpit tonight we'd remain within a safe margin. There'd be no risk of us stalling and spinning in if I lost concentration for a moment...

Just in case, I checked the straps and nodded again, happy with them. I always checked everything, even those things that didn't need it, and by my count my habit had saved my life at least twice so far.

Satisfied at last, I turned and eyed the sun, which was still a few fingers over the horizon. Then anxiety returned and drove me to perform yet another slow walk around my aircraft, just to be quadruply certain that I hadn't missed anything.

I was nervous. Extremely nervous. Call me a worry-wort, call me paranoid - but being responsible for someone else's life was an uncomfortable, undesirable weight for me. I had never piloted anyone but Papa, and even him seldom at best. I really didn't like the idea of flying another person, of having their life in my hands...

Especially if it was the life of a young woman.

A dashing young woman.

A gorgeous, educated, tall, slender, unfairly-beautiful young woman...

"Stop it," I instructed myself once more. I squinted at the sun, then placed my foot in the trailing edge stirrup and stood, peering into the forward cockpit where my "cargo" would have to cower down from the night-time chill...

Someone had fastened a wool cover to the canvas seat as insulation. I nodded; much better than a blanket and unlikely to snag any controls...

Another thought struck me, another hazard I could guard us against. I pulled the locking pins from the forward control yoke and removed the metal and leather column, stowing it in the clips I'd had brazed on behind the seat. Better safe than sorry, really, and this way she couldn't accidentally bump the stick if something happened.

Better all round for everyone, I thought.

I hoped she'd be dressed warmly; we'd be airborne for at least two hours and ideally I'd prefer to be across the Channel before we were forced to conduct an off-field landing.

I eyed the sun one more time.

Time to get the engine warmed up.

Damselfly's tanks were brimming with newly-tapped fuel that Nathaniel himself had obsessively checked for contamination. Her small backup electrical cell was fully charged thanks to her recent flight, her tyres were at the correct pressure, and Big Mike had checked the oil and coolant at least three times without me even asking. Damselfly gleamed from a fresh coat of polish; the men had clearly enjoyed themselves. I could sympathise - in a world of more modern, more functional high-performance monoplanes, Damselfly's wartime pedigree set her apart as a beautiful relic. Her claws might have been pulled, her twin gun-ports might be covered with metal sheeting; her engine might be de-rated for reliability, but she was still a formidable machine under her lipstick, stockings and rouge. A perfect foil for me, in almost every way, and by far the prettier half of our pairing.

I clambered into the rear cockpit and slid down into my seat. I captured my hair under my scarf, then pulled on my helmet and goggles. I set the mixture, primed the starter and pressed the worn red button behind its freshly-painted metal cage.

A cough, an explosion of grey smoke, and Damselfly's propeller jerked, swung and blurred as her Stokes V12 caught, complained, and settled into its normal grumpy idle. I checked the oil pressure, the fuel pressure, the coolant, electrical current and the instrument cluster lights. I cycled the controls, pulling and pulling on the yoke, rolling it gently left to right and tracking the motion of Damselfly's ailerons as I felt for any mechanical binding in the control lines and used the tiny streamlined mirrors I'd fitted either side of the windscreen to check the rudder and elevator's travel.

All good - we were ready to go.

I released the parking brake, blipped the throttle to get us moving, and eased us into a gentle arc before following a taxiway out towards the western end of the runway. If anyone did arrive with the intent to stop us, I'd be barrelling down the centreline with the sun behind me, charging directly into their faces.

Always the best place for it to be in a dogfight, after all - screaming down like a furious falcon, dropping directly out of the sun...

I snorted at the childish conceit. Teenage me had dreamed of being a fighter pilot; adult me had settled for being a pilot who fought more than she really should.

I settled into my routine - looking left and right over the sides of the cockpit to keep me centred on the taxiway; Damselfly's nose sat high in the air as she waddled and shuffled across the face of her less-favoured element.

We ghosted past the hangars and I stared hard towards them in passing; I saw my co-conspirators assembling around the utility truck; Maggie saluted at me and I waved in return.

I eased in more throttle, picked up a bit of speed. The end of the runway crept closer; I planned to position myself and wait at the ready just behind the threshold so that I'd not have someone land over me as I initiated my run.

And wait I did. The sun dropped and kissed the horizon, and I watched the shadows lengthen on the gentle rolling hills to the north of us. I checked over my right shoulder frequently, and at last I saw movement - the truck, puttering along gently as if it were en route to a fair. They tootled along the apron, obviously trying not to tip off any watchers that anything odd was happening.

Three hundred yards. Two hundred. A hundred. And then Nathaniel gunned the engine and the truck shot forwards towards me. Something had spooked him.

I scanned around us; and suddenly saw a dark-hued automobile flash into view, screaming around the perimeter fence towards the gate.

There were tiny flags on the front wings of the vehicle - even from here I could see them fluttering frantically in the wind.

Official visitors, then, and probably important to boot. I guessed they probably weren't coming to wish my passenger bon voyage.

The truck screeched to a halt; Big Mike leaped out of the cab and dashed to the back. He was shouting something; I couldn't hear the words, but I saw the girl leap from the load-bed, wrapped up in an encumbering flight jacket. The truck jerked into motion and drove for the distant tower in an attempt to confuse the pursuers; Big Mike lifted the girl and held her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes as he lumbered to the plane. He turned her and lifted her higher; she scrabbled at the edge of the fuselage...

The automobile had reached the gate and pointed its long, sleek nose at us.

"Come on!" I screamed.

The girl threw her leg over the side and shot me a terrified look. Big Mike gave her remaining foot a heave.

"Go, go, go!" she screamed back at me as she dropped into her seat.

"Clear off!" I shouted. Big Mike dropped to the floor, immediately covering his head with his hands. I eased in the throttle to avoid choking the engine; Damselfly roared to life. I jockeyed her out onto the runway, lined up and opened her to full song. We passed thirty knots in a heartbeat or two and the nose began to drop while my passenger was still fighting desperately with her shoulder straps. She'd have to make do; she'd never hear me over the roar of the engine and there was no time to instruct her... we'd crept off to the right. I dabbed the rudder to bring us back towards the centreline. Fifty knots. The horizon came into view over Damselfly's long, glinting metal nose, the controls were starting to bite; she'd be rising up on her suspension, straining to break free from her earthly shackles and soar...

The automobile had crossed the flight line and was already halfway down the runway.

Sixty.

I eased the yoke back a hair or two and felt the vibrations drop away. A dab of rudder, a slight angle off to port, and I knew I'd just made it significantly harder for anyone in the vehicle to hit us with a lucky revolver shot - even if they understood deflection. Damselfly was light and still rather overpowered even in her civilian guise; I eased her nose upwards and let her carry us up into evening like a homesick angel. I glanced backwards over my shoulder at the automobile we'd left behind; men had spilled from it but I saw no gunfire.

I sighed in relief. We'd escaped - for now.

I dipped our starboard wing; I heard a faint shriek from in front of me and I instinctively eased off on the turn and reduced it to a five-degree standard-rater to the right. We described a slow arc from east to south-east before I straightened us out and set course for Normandy.

I wondered what my passenger was thinking, what she was feeling. I tried to imagine whether she was giddy with relief or sick with apprehension of whatever future awaited her... or merely stunned and stultified by shock and fear.

I stared at her in the fading half-light, she was turning her head from side to side, staring out at the world around us through the flight goggles she'd been provided. Not stunned, then. Good.

She'd tied a scarf over her hair to keep it under control, the tails flapped madly in the turbulence from the wind shield's overspill, and strands of her hair were beginning to do the same.

A braid like mine would be far more sensible, I thought. I'd suggest it if we found time for idle chatter during an overnight stop.

High above us, faint pink clouds scurried past, lit by the last light of day, and higher still a few of the evening stars were already glimmering. Jupiter leered yellowly down at us from beyond the zenith.

Full night would be on us soon enough, and with night would come stealth and safety.

I'd try for Rouen first, I thought, instead of any of the larger fields near Paris. Rouen's aerodrome was small but had fitted electric landing lights a few years prior. I'd dropped in and out often enough to know that Damselfly would be safe there, and we'd be able to lose ourselves in the permanent Traveler camp near Alizay. Space to sleep would be easy to find and we'd almost certainly be offered place at a fire - and food.

Papa's shadow was long, after all.

The last of daylight faded, outside references disappeared, and I began my scanning by the dim instrument lights. Gyroscopic horizon, Altimeter, compass, speed, engine instruments, like a metronome. I'd have to fly by instruments and dead reckoning until we saw the lights of our destination. At least France was well-lit, unlike some parts of England. And at least it was clear tonight...

The girl was struggling with something - probably the fastenings of her jacket. I imagined she was starting to really feel the cold. I'd try to find her some gloves when we landed. She was an incredible inconvenience, she was definitely an unwanted burden, but neither of those two facts meant that I needed to be cruel. And it was bitterly cold in the springtime air. She'd be frozen by the time we landed.

Ahead of us appeared the faint line of the interface between land and sea, and beyond that the cold waters of "la Manche", as my countrymen always referred to the Channel. My passenger had noticed, she stared over the side as the sea crept nearer, then turned back to give me a wide, fierce grin that was only just visible in the starlit gloom and the glow of Damselfly's exhausts.

Brave girl, I thought, approvingly. No sign of histrionics, no tears. Just glorious defiance as she thumbed her nose at Fate.

My kind of woman, added the little voice within me.

I ground my teeth for a moment as I dwelled on that thought. Sometimes I truly hated being me.

I kept us at five thousand feet; there was no need to climb higher tonight. I forced my desires and unfulfillable fantasies aside and found my calm, collected self once more as my eyes flicked from instrument to instrument. We soared out over the pewter sea; the moon raised a limb over the horizon and cast her dusty gold radiance everywhere.

I watched the coast of France emerge from the gloom and slip slowly towards us. The great curve of Le Havre appeared; we'd drifted more south than was ideal so I turned us further west to offset whatever crosswind we were catching. The moonlight was a blessing, highlighting and backlighting the topology of the landscape that I knew so well from my thousands of hours above this part of the world.

Lights of towns and farmsteads drifted in and out of view under Damselfly's shadowed wings, and soon enough the glow of Rouen appeared roughly where I'd wanted it to. Ten minutes, and another ten, and I was easing us into the pattern for landing at the carnival lighting of Vallee de Seine. I turned on our own lights at last, and the dim red and green lit the undersides of the wings.

We descended slowly, describing graceful ovals over the dark vineyards below, before dropping in over the perimeter for an almost perfect three-point landing a minute or so behind a lumbering, brightly-lit twin-engined Air Brittany ferry.

My passenger sat up in the cockpit as we taxied in to the private berths; she craned her head and stared at all the aircraft around us as I looped us around so that Damselfly's nose was facing the taxiway. I let the engine idle to cool for thirty seconds before shutting her down.

A cough, a metallic wheeze... and silence.

I sighed. I removed my helmet and goggles and stretched the tension out of my shoulders, then stood and flung a leg over the cockpit's side and scrambled down from foothold to foothold before finally dropping to the apron. My passenger tried to copy me but couldn't quite manage. Cold had clearly lamed her, she'd hopefully do better tomorrow during the daylight leg. But for now, I was not above helping her.

"Here, like this," I said, and took her probing right foot in my hands and guided it to the recessed step. She tried to slide over the cockpit's sill but cold and clumsiness rendered her unable; suddenly her foot slipped and she fell with a shriek. I caught her, clenched my arms around her and locked her between me and the fuselage, preventing her from falling the remaining distance down to the concrete.

We stared at one another for a heartbeat... then both of us realised at the same moment that my hand had ended up somewhere it most definitely shouldn't be, with the soft swell of her bosom cupped by my fingers.

I tried to stammer an apology, she fumbled frantically, found a handhold, and pulled away. She was blushing, my cheeks were flaming, and we both backed hurriedly away from one another.

"Sorry. Um. Welcome to France," I said, to cover my mortified shame. "Sorry... um... for that."

"It's of no matter. Thank you for getting me here safely," she said softly after a pause, with not a hint of outrage. Then she winced and glanced downwards. "Feels like that's it for my ankle, though. Um... so what happens now?"

I stared at her a moment longer, deeply puzzled by her calm - then focused my attention on her question.

"Customs, then we find somewhere to sleep. Tomorrow early we refuel and fly east to our next overnight."

"Another overnight stop? Why are we taking our time? This is Rouen. The Duchy is at most a hundred and fifty miles away. Even I know that's nothing for a plane like yours..."

I bridled at the questions.

"As I said, tomorrow we fly east," I repeated. "I won't tell you what to wear or how to speak, you shouldn't tell me how to plan a route or fly it. That way, neither of us will get upset."

She glared at me but didn't respond. I felt a pang of conscience as my better nature kicked me.

"Fine," she sighed at last. Her shoulders slumped. "So... I ask again, what happens now?"

"Customs," I repeated, gentler this time. "It should be quick, we can use the freight terminal; Monsieur Marechel should be on duty and he likes me. After that I'll find us some transport. There's a place I know where we can be... unnoticed."

"And your plane?"

"Damselfly will be safe here," I said. "Rouen's not a problem like some of the Parisian aerodromes would be."

"Very well. Lead on, then," she said, and irritation prickled me again.

"Yes, your highness," I retorted, with a dramatic bow. She stiffened and drew breath to respond, then sighed it out, clearly judging it not worth the effort to take the bait.

I felt more than a little shitty, but couldn't bring myself to apologise. But then, being a bitch came naturally to me. I'd nearly been raised by one, after all.

I spun and set off towards the ornate ironwork trellising of the customs office and the inevitable gas lamps. France was still very traditional in many ways; I grinned at the memory of the hair-pulling and cursing the new electric runway lights had caused amongst the local pilots...

My passenger limped after me in her scuffed, ill-fitting work boots. Her right ankle was clearly in pain, and in sympathy and out of recognition of my earlier unpleasantness I slowed my own pace until I was alongside her. I even offered her a hand to help her up the short flight of stairs; she gave me a bemused look and seemed inclined to refuse before she finally accepted it.

"Thank you," she murmured again. I nodded, feeling even more ashamed of myself, and opened the door for her.

A man looked up from his position behind a desk, and then erupted from his seat. His grin lit the room.

"Mademoiselle Juliette!"

"Henri!" I cried, piling on the drama in the way I knew Monsieur Marechel loved. He accosted me, kissed my cheeks, and swung me around once as we trod a few steps of a beer-hall dance as we always did.

"Oh, it is marvellous to see you again, my darling," he cried. "I was bereft and heart-broken when you left me last time."

"Henri, please, you are too bold," I laughed. "It is lovely to see you. But alas, I am only here for a night."

"A night! Oh cruel woman, to taunt poor Henri so. Ah well - I shall have to pine for you again, my darling, as is my lot..."

He smiled at me as I placed the customs fee before him - enough for myself, Damselfly, any standard cargo and the very non-standard cargo who stood to one side, eyebrow arching up well into her hairline at our theatrics.

Henri evaluated her for a long moment, then stage-whispered to me.

"And who is this most gorgeous young follower? Juliette, are you toying with poor Henri? Is poor Henri to be lucky enough to hear the angel speak, or is she one of those lamentable creatures from Albion who cannot understand the divine tongue of la France?"

"I am no angel, alas, merely her passenger" my passenger answered in flawless Salon-grade French.

Henri didn't have to pretend to be shocked - the English had a poor reputation for their foreign language skills, yet here she was, putting most natives to shame.

"My dear Juliette; you found a Lady of culture in distant Albion? Mademoiselle, please, I am Henri Marechel, your most devoted servant."

He bowed low and doffed an imaginary hat.

Lady Evelyn's lip twitched and she tried not to smile. "A pleasure, I am... Mademoiselle de la Mer."

Henri paused, then grinned at the shared sense of subterfuge. "Of course. Of course. Welcome to France, Mademoiselle. I hope your stay will be... enjoyable."

I didn't miss the little sideways glance he gave me, or the cheeky, knowing grin. I rolled my eyes at him and pulled a face. "Stop it," I mouthed. He grinned even more widely.

"Where can I find a chaise, Henri?" I said, to distract him. I could feel myself blushing. I hated this newfound transparency that I seemed to be exhibiting in her presence.

"Oh, there are one or two of the travellers outside the gates of the airport. If you're intending to go cavort in your usual haunt they'll take you. It's probably better, now that I think about it," he added, jocularity fading away as if snuffed. "There have been some incidents in Rouen. Nothing scandalous, you understand, no... indignities. But still - best you were somewhere safer, my dear," he added, more softly still. "Especially with your... passenger," he added. "Less for the Gendarmerie to get upset about, yes? Less to tempt the... temptable. The Abbot will look after you."

"Thanks, Henri," I said. "One last question - how is the fuel here?"

"Sweet as angel's tears and twice as expensive," he said with a grimace. "Those flea-ridden dogs in the Depot down in Le Havre are nothing but opportunists who would sell their own mothers' arses for a franc. Still - we will fill your Demoiselle... pardon, your "Damselfly"... and she will be ready for you when you saunter in at your convenience some time tomorrow... or the day after," he added, smirking once more. "Come. Let us go and raise hell amongst les Galérienes..."

"What?" exclaimed Lady Evelyn. "Miss French, what on earth is this man talking about?"

Henri smiled uncertainly at her; I touched his arm to reassure him.

"Don't worry," I told him. "I'll explain. It's a local joke," I added, turning to her. "The people we're going to stay with are... frowned upon by the authorities. In prior years they'd have been arrested and sentenced to row the Galleys down in the Mediterranean. Hence..."

"I see," she said. She seemed primed to ask more, but bit her tongue instead.

I felt cheated; I would have enjoyed tweaking her nose for a little longer.

═????═

Henri Marechel drove us to the front gates of the aerodrome in his little three-wheeled motor cart, and there we engaged in a spirited three-way negotiation with Pierre and Jacques, two "honest men of the countryside" who eventually agreed that Pierre would get us to the Abbot's camp. I paid half the agreed fee to each man, clambered into the back of their donkey cart, and helped my passenger scramble up beside me. Pierre climbed up in front, and off we set.

I found a comfortable spot in a pile of canvas sacks and lay back. I stared up at the distant stars above us, listening as she fussed with her dress. Eventually she settled into a spot near - but not too near - me.

"Who is this man everyone calls the "Abbot"?" she asked after a while. "Is there a monastery nearby?"

I laughed. "The "Abbot" is a local entrepreneur named Céline Blanchard. She stole a shipment of sacramental wine intended for the Abbey of Cluny, and got all her followers so drunk on it that none of them could stand for a week. As a result she's now known as the Abbot of Cluny, in certain circles."

Lady Evelyn's horrified expression made me laugh again, and Pierre cackled in front of us.

"We're going to be staying with thieves?" she exclaimed in English.

I lowered my voice and returned to English as well to prevent Pierre from eavesdropping.

"And ruffians, and confidence-tricksters, and poachers, and probably one or two murderers. But they have a peculiar sort of honour, and they remember my father, and they will hide us and look after us as if we were their own. Oh, and they really, really do not like the nobility."

"But I'm..."

"You're different," I interrupted her. "You're not poncing around on a horse, or dressed in a ball gown while ordering them around. You'll be fine, they'll largely ignore you. And anyway, Lady Evelyn - you're with me. They liked my father. They liked him... very much."

She was silent for some time.

"Who was your father, Miss French?" she said, softly.

I stared upwards at the stars and considered that question.

"Miss French?" she prompted again, after a while.

"Papa was... a man who had the strange conceit that men were made, not born," I began, softly. "He had a nasty habit of finding good men wherever he looked for them. He raised them up, taught them, helped them, and... well, let's just say, he remains enormously popular in parts of England and France, especially amongst the poorest of the poor. He was a furious champion of them and their causes, and they remember that."

"He sounds... interesting," she said, after some more time had passed. I could clearly hear the unvoiced question in her tone and knew it would not be long in coming.

I sighed. I supposed it would come out eventually.

"He was... Colonel Bradshaw of the King's Dragoon guards."

"Lionel Bradshaw was your father?" she said, stunned.

I felt a moment's surprise and gratification that someone as young as her knew of him.

"In all the ways that counted... yes."

"So why on earth do you go by the surname French? My God, even I've heard of him! His exploits are legendary, there are books about him! Father used to read to us about all his... about everything he did!"

"Because it makes things... simpler. I grew up here, in Papa's house, amongst his papers and tools and planes," I finished, softly. "I spent little enough time in England - as did he, when you get right down to it. France suits me, and France is my home, and therefore I am simply Miss French to almost everyone I know. It is... fitting. I like being anonymous."

"But..." she began to protest again.

"I am... a different creature. I am no lady like you, no wallflower like so many others. I was always going to be different. I was raised by soldiers, amongst men and women who earned what they had through their blood and sweat. I don't believe in fate, Lady Evelyn, but to some degree I do think my course was inevitable, despite Papa's protests and his half-hearted attempts to make a lady of me. Truthfully, I think a part of him was always glad that he failed to "domesticate" me - but I never felt a moment's doubt that he was proud of me. Or that he loved me..."

My tongue had run away from me; I'd admitted far more than I'd ever told anyone other than Uncle Solomon. I clamped my mouth shut, angry with myself for spilling my secrets out in public.

She sighed after the silence had lengthened. She settled down into the padding, and for a while there was no sound but the creak of the wheels and the monotonous humming that Pierre seemed to consider a necessary part of the trip.

"You must think me quite pathetic," she said.

I thought about that for a few moments.

"No," I said, softly.

"No?"

"No, you're not pathetic. You took action; many others would have cowered away and prayed or cried or pissed themselves... or all of the above. I think you're stronger than you perhaps believe you are."

"That almost sounds like a compliment," she said.

"Lets not get ahead of ourselves," I replied, amused.

She snorted.

Another silence.

"So... am I allowed to ask where we are flying tomorrow, since it's clearly not going to be the Duchy of Luxembourg?"

"I'm going home," I answered, after a moment. "I need to check on the place, it's been a few weeks since I was last there. It also takes us off the map for a day which is not the worst idea, to my mind. Your pursuers will expect us to make a bee-line for a large city like Paris - or Geneva or even Rome. A day or two of confusion and silence may be quite useful."

"And where is home for you?"

"My father's house is near Saint-Mihiel. It's... seen better days," I added.

I could hear distant music; we were closing on our destination.

"A country house in France sounds terribly romantic," she sighed. "I always dreamed... well, I dreamed many things. I suppose most of them won't happen now. Not now that I'm so... inconvenient."

I stared up at her shadowy form.

"What was it?" I said, softly. "I don't usually care, and I'm not one to pry, but..."

"The same old game, Miss French. It was blackmail," she answered. "It's always blackmail in the end. Two people were... stupid and indiscreet. A third caught them... um... indisposed. He threatened to expose them both; he was foolish enough to demand immediate wealth and advancement instead of applying any thought of subtlety or restraint or... the long game. He was killed, of course - but before they got him he'd already subjected me and others to the grimy details, whether we wished to hear or no. We were supposed to be his insurance, I suppose; he did not imagine that they would come for us as well - especially not me. But one of the exposed people is... superior in rank - even to my Grandfather the Duke. So - best I disappear for a while, at least until things blow over."

"A while could be forever, you know."

"So long as it's a living forever," she retorted, grimly. "So long as I'm alive to live it. I don't need much, really - just to be left alone. Food, water, maybe a book or two... and some paint and paper." She laughed, the sound jaded and bitter in the darkness. "I, too, have never conformed with expectations of me. Grandfather approved of my spirit when I was younger. Mother... not so much."

"And now?"

"She's dead, long ago."

The words were cold, the tone flat. I rolled over towards her and stared up at her.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered as she turned away. "I don't need your sympathy."

I sighed, but said nothing further. We all had our ghosts.

The cart turned off the road and bumped into a field; she sat up again and stared around, mouth open in what I guessed was surprise. I remembered the first time I'd seen a Traveller camp; it had seemed utterly magical. It still did, to a degree - oil lamps and lanterns hanging from trees, bright cloth bunting, canvas tents, wagons, fires, the smell of a hundred different foods, the music...

"We have arrived, ladies," Pierre announced. He slid down off the driver's seat and abandoned us and the donkey as he wandered off - likely in search of a meal or more likely, judging by his complexion, strong drink.

"Come on," I said. "Time to find somewhere warm for us to sleep tonight."

I clambered down from the cart, and turned to help her down after me. I tried to drop her hand but she clung tightly to my arm and wouldn't let go at first; I resigned myself to acting as a chaperone for a few moments more.

"Good evening, Miss Juliette," sang voices from the darkness around us. Others laughed softly.

"Hello, hello, good to see you all," I answered, smiling and waving to those dimly-lit figures I could see. I recognised none of them. "Where can we sleep tonight, my friends?"

"Madame Allard has an empty tent, miss," said a little boy who emerged from the darkness and stood there, squinting up at me. "I will show you!"

"Lead on and I will give you a franc," I said. I had a few coins and some French banknotes in my pocket; they would buy us a comfortable night.

"This way, miss!" he said, delighted by my offer.

We walked on through the flame-lit shadows; Evelyn stuck tight beside me, clutching me, bumping frequently into me as she limped and recoiled from this or that strange sight or scent or sound.

I glanced her way; her eyes were wide and she seemed extremely unwilling to relax her death-grip on my arm. No doubt her entire upbringing had been filled with graphic tales of what would happen to her were she ever to end up somewhere like this...

"You are among friends here, Lady Evelyn," I murmured. "Everyone here is an outsider, everyone here is running from something. There's a shared sense of community here you won't find elsewhere... except maybe in the Army, in certain regiments like my father's."

"The stories I will have to tell," she murmured. She took a deep breath and sighed it out. "Very well. I... trust you."

And I felt annoyed with myself by how much those words pleased me.

She took another breath, and seemed to find some inner strength from saying them. But she didn't relinquish her grip on me; if anything, she pressed even closer; a dark and furtive little bit of me thoroughly enjoyed the way her hip pressed against mine.

We negotiated for sleeping space and some hot stew with a shrew-faced grandmother who only smiled when I handed her the agreed fee and some extra. "I will bring your stew, and some bread," the old lady announced, generously. I thanked her, and held the tent-flap open for Lady Evelyn to squeeze by me.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. I peered in after her, noting with approval the rough square of carpet that softened the rough crate-wood floor, and more importantly the two, neatly-placed sleeping rolls. It all seemed quite agreeable to me, and the oil lamp on a small, rustic table added a lovely little eastern ambiance.

"Not what you were expecting, is it?" I asked, innocently.

"No," she admitted, with a candid glance my way. She shifted further under the canvas to make space, and I ducked in behind her.

I inspected the blankets; both had been recently boiled, so vermin wouldn't be a problem. I unrolled the first for her, and shook out the other for myself. Good cloth, I noted. There were also a few small worn but serviceable sheepskin throws in case it got too cold.

It was practically a hotel compared to some places I'd been forced to sleep.

Lady Evelyn lowered herself to a sleeping mat. She ran her fingers over the blankets, and sighed. "It's... quite charming, actually," she said. "It's... almost like a far eastern temple, in some ways. Or a scene from the Thousand and one Nights. All it needs is incense."

"It will keep us warm and dry; that's what matters most to me. You should try to get some sleep tonight; tomorrow will come soon enough."

"Sleep! It's funny. I haven't slept in days," she said. "Not really, anyway - not more than a few minutes at a time when I simply couldn't keep going. It's probably why everything feels so... jagged. I think I was nearly numb by the end of it. Perhaps I still am."

She gave me a long, direct stare.

"Miss French - are we truly safe here?" she asked. "Be honest. Don't lie. I've been lied to enough."

"You and I are safe here for now," I repeated. "I am not spinning stories; the Abbot will already know we're here, and we'll hear long in advance if any outsider comes nosing around the camp. Céline Blanchard guarantees the safety of anyone in this camp and the others like it - and she lacks any sense of humour whatsoever when it comes to those who want to make a liar of her. Now - take your boots off and wrap a throw around yourself, you are shivering. Nobody will find you, and if they do, well... I feel sorry for them is all I'll say."

The old woman returned with a small iron pot brimming with stew, two bowls, two spoons and a fresh loaf of white bread. She wished us a good night and limped off again.

"Aren't any of them even remotely curious about me?"

Lady Evelyn sounded almost plaintive.

I grinned at her. "Ah - but here you're just a pretty girl. There are lots of pretty girls in this part of France."

She blushed and tucked a waft of hair back behind an ear. I spent a moment enjoying the unconscious grace of her movement, and then I dished her some stew and tore her a heel of bread.

"Eat," I suggested. "It's rabbit and root vegetables, and it's..."

I stumbled to a stop and stared - sobered and more than a bit horrified by the way she seemed to inhale it all.

"It's... nice," she answered, after she'd murdered her bowl and bread.

"When last did you eat?" I asked, careful to keep my voice gently curious and nothing more.

She yawned widely.

"Oh. Excuse me. When did I last eat? I can't... remember. Longer ago than when I last slept," she said. She let out a strange little giggle. "Neither seemed... important. And I was superstitious. Didn't want my last meal. To be something. Um..."

She yawned again. Her eyelids drooped, and she put out a hand to steady herself.

"Sorry, " she said, to the world in general. "Everything's going so strange and syrupy..."

I knew the signs of exhaustion, of a body and mind pushed far beyond where their limit should have long ago halted them. She'd lost the ability to reason, soon she'd collapse.

I shifted quickly to her side and put my arm around her shoulders.

"Evelyn?"

"Yes," she mumbled.

"You should lie down. Here. Let me help you."

"Yes."

I supported her as she lay back, and then I quickly covered her with her blanket and tucked it in around her to trap the heat. I felt a renewed pang over my day's waspish nastiness and sighed, resolving to treat her better going forward.

I brushed the locks of her fringe back from her face and then, heart aching, I dared to stroke her perfect cheek.

"Sleep well, princess," I said, softly.

"Thank... you..." she slurred, not even rising to the bait I offered.

She fumbled for and caught my hand, then clung to it for a moment. She moved only once more to snuggle in further under her blankets. Her fingers twitched... and relaxed, falling free of mine.

I shifted her bowl clear of her sleeping mat; she was snoring softly before I'd turned back.

So I slowly savoured the rest of the stew, and pulled off my own boots, and sat on my bedroll as I went through my usual routine of stretches.

Then I simply sat cross-legged and stared at her until my own fatigue caught up with me. I tried to work through the complex and intense mix of feelings that her presence was stoking up within me.

She was tall, and elegant, and made even the worn utility frock she'd donned for camouflage into something... pleasing. She was achingly lovely. Her voice was smooth and rich as honey. Her hair had a gentle wave to it that I longed to touch, to toy with, to run my fingers through over and over as I daydreamed.

She seemed so much younger than I'd first presumed her to be. Early twenties, maybe. Barely not a child... and barely younger than me.

And that realisation both warmed and wounded me.

My dreams that night were not restful. They were, instead, filled with her.

═????═

I woke in the early morning as I usually did, and slipped out quietly to avoid disturbing her. I wandered the camp, watching the fellow dawn-chorus as they stoked fires, baked bread or simply sat and talked - or contemplated. I found an old, wizened man who was making crepes and glutted myself on three. I bought two more, wrapped in grease-proof paper, and carried these back to our tent for Evelyn when she finally woke.

Evelyn slept until mid-morning, and woke grotty and ill-tempered, but her mood improved after I'd offered her her breakfast. She sat, mussed and confused, chewing slowly on the first of them - and a fit of kindness, consideration and no small amount of lunacy drove me to lower myself behind her, cross my legs, and begin the process of putting a plain but functional plait into her hair. She paused as if paralysed as she felt my fingers on her but didn't protest bar a brief soft gasp... soon enough she starting nibbling at her breakfast once more. She had a gentle smile for me when I was done; a quiet little "Thank you," followed it.

"It's to keep it under control in the slipstream," I said, flustered and embarrassed. It was, partly - but it had also been an illicit opportunity to pander to her - and to myself.

She sighed, yawned and stretched, then ran her fingers absently over the braiding as she watched me.

"Is it time to go?" she asked.

"Yes, soon."

"It's a shame. I like it here. It's quiet. It's nice. Oh well", she added. "Tempus est."

She reached for her boots and got the first on, then paused and gritted her teeth. Her foot was clearly still in severe pain, judging by the way she whimpered as she forced it back into her boot. I felt sorry for her, but we had no time to search for an alternative.

"I'm sorry we can't do anything for your foot," I said. "I will try to find something to help when we are at my father's house. We might also find shoes that hurt... less."

"I will live," she whispered. She levered herself to her feet and put her weight on it. "Probably," she added, ruefully, after a whimper she tried but failed to suppress.

I negotiated with a tinker for a ride on the back of his cart as he made for the low market in Rouen; I hopped up onto the load bed and helped her scramble up beside me. We sat there, side-by-side like two young country maids, watching the world drift by as we bumped and groaned slowly back along the path we'd travelled the night before.

She stared out pensively at the fields and hedgerows of Normandy.

"It's very rural," she observed. "I'd never been to France, strangely enough. I always envisioned it as more... civilised. That's probably the fault of all the adventure novels, I suppose."

"It's a vast land. The cities are very different to all this. But I prefer it out here," I said. "I like the open sky, the space. The ability to breathe."

"You don't like people much, do you?"

I glanced at her, surprised by how insightful her comment had been. "Not most of them, no. Call it a... learned reaction. Even though I grew up here, I don't exactly fit in, do I? Not like you would... and anyway, enough about me. What about you? Haven't these escapades of yours taught you about all the flaws that people have?"

"Mm. I like people too much," she responded. "It makes me an easy target, I suppose. I always go into new relationships with hope. And I'm always disappointed in the end. Actually, a correction," she said. She glanced at me. "Make that - almost always."

"What do you mean by relationships?"

"Friendships. Acquaintances. You know... the day to day business of meeting people and being nice to them - no matter what."

"And romances?" I said, curious.

"Romance? What's romance?" she answered, bitterly. "I'm just a trained lapdog, Miss French. I've been impeccably schooled in the skills that were intended to net me a splendidly-pedigreed husband - and little else. Romance would be unlikely for me at best. Especially not the sort that I dream of," she added softly.

I eyed her.

"Where am I in your process then?" I asked, touched by her candour. "Still holding out hope for me?"

"Oh, you're entirely different. I started out disappointed," she said

I mimed a wound to the heart and she smiled.

"But things have improved a bit since then," she added.

"Really?"

I found myself strangely unsure whether to be amused or insulted.

"You've been quite kind, in your own strange way. You clearly don't want or need anything from my Grandfather, and you're not part of the English Court, so you're not doing your best to ingratiate yourself with me for gain or influence. I don't have to mine your words for... double meanings and hidden motives. Everything you say or do is direct and has value - if I chip away at the sarcasm or insult it comes gift-wrapped in. And you've... looked after me," she added, flushing. "You're gentle, and sweet, however much you pretend not to be. You're... interesting."

She risked another smile.

"You know - this whole sorry sequence of events is very different to how I imagined it would be. I dreamed death-defying feats, pursuit, darkness, terror... but with you, bar perhaps five minutes at the very beginning, it feels almost like a long, slow holiday somewhere nice with someone who is... sometimes... rather nice to me. It's nice, when you're nice. I like it when you're nice," she added, more softly still.

My heart panged at that and my cheeks flamed with shame. I'd been a complete bitch to her, and she had deftly held up a mirror to show me that... and that I didn't need to be who I was pretending to be.

The cart bumped onwards, insects buzzed and birds sang.

"You're even more resilient than I gave you credit for," I answered, after I'd thought about her observations for a while. "Many women - and men, too, to be honest - would be in pieces right now. You're just sitting there, on a rickety cart, in a strange country, and you almost completely comfortable with it all. Just kicking your legs, watching the landscape... why, you're even smiling again."

"Oh, I'm masking well," she said. "I'm still exhausted and terrified. But the sunshine and company are helping."

And she smiled again, and for a moment my cynicism fell away and I could just sit there and bask in her reflected joy and be nothing but a young woman sitting beside another young woman as we watched the world go by.

We slid off the load-bed at the gates to the aerodrome; I slowed my normal brisk walk to accommodate her moderate limp, and after a few steps I ended up linking arms with her to help her.

It felt nice to hold her and help her on this bright, blue morning. It felt nice to be needed for something other than Damselfly for once. It felt nice to be able to... help someone.

We checked in on Monsieur Marechel, I did my little drama-filled scene with him and assured him that we'd both slept like babies. He escorted us out to Damselfly, and stamped my logbook for me to verify I'd paid customs on arrival.

"All full and ready to go?" I asked him.

"Yes, yes, all is perfect - my men finished a few minutes ago. Everything is perfect, just as you would wish it to be."

"And the bill?"

"What is a few francs between friends?" he exclaimed. Then he laughed. "I have added it to your account. Do not forget, it is due in three weeks! Do not disappoint poor Henri!"

"I will instruct my banker when next I speak with him. And I'd never disappoint you," I added, smiling up at him.

Henri Marechel smiled back at me, and the world around us reflected his simple joy. He took my hand and kissed the back of it.

"It has been a delight as always, Miss Juliette. Adieu - until next time."

"Adieu, Henri."

He turned to Evelyn and bowed. "And you, Mademoiselle - enjoy your time in France. I hope that you will enjoy your journey."

She smiled and inclined her head; he skipped off, singing some old provincial ballad.

"Miss French?" she said, softly, once we were alone.

"Yes?"

"I don't think I can climb up. My foot is..."

And she shrugged.

I glanced at her, then down at her ankle, then up at the sheer wall of the fuselage. It posed a problem; I pursed my lips and whistled softly as I thought.

"I can help, but I'll need to put my hands on you."

"So long as it's not a repeat..."

"I'm sorry, okay," I stammered. "I didn't mean to touch you... there... I was just trying to catch..."

"I was teasing you," she said. She grinned. "That's one for me, finally. So..."

Her eyebrow shifted upwards.

"Where would you need to touch me... Miss French?"

I closed my mouth. She was teasing me again! I bit down the retort and took a slow, measured breath.

"Um... if you climb up onto the wing, I can hold your hip and... thigh... while you get your other leg over and into the cockpit."

"You're blushing," she said. "Does touching me bother you so much? You've seemed perfectly content to do it when I didn't offer..."

I growled and took another deep breath.

"Do you want my help or not?" I snapped at her.

"Yes, please," she said, eyes dancing with suppressed mirth.

"Well, then, stop being difficult and come here."

I helped her up onto the wing and braced her as she struggled into Damselfly's forward cockpit. Once she was settled I started a walk-around.

She stared down at me for a moment, puzzled.

"What are you doing?" she called.

"Pre-start-up checks."

"But wasn't the plane fine last night?"

"That was last night. This is today. Do you really want to be three thousand feet up and have something potentially mortal but entirely preventable go wrong?"

"No," she admitted, after a moment. "That would be unfortunate."

"Exactly. The graveyards are full of pilots who cut corners. I'm not one of them."

That said, I found nothing untoward, and clambered eventually up into my own station. "Get your helmet on," I told her, before I began to run through my checklist. I watched her catch her fringe and the braid I'd inflicted on her under her scarf, and did the same with my own hair. I waited until she'd donned her helmet and fastened her straps, then started the engine. It complained and smoked, then swung into grumbling life; I let it burble and growl for a minute while I watched the temperatures climb to where they needed to be. Finally, I eased the throttle in, released the brake, and we slipped into motion.

We bounced our way down the taxiway to the north-eastern end of the runway, describing slow arcs to the left and right so that I could ensure we weren't going to run into anyone or anything else on the way there. We reached the threshold; I lined us up and ran one last set of checks. A quick glance up the approach line, nobody was landing or going to be landing in the near future.

"Ready?" I shouted.

"Yes!" she shouted back, grinning.

The grin was infectious.

"Here we go!"

I eased in the throttle to the front stop and dabbed on the rudder pedal to keep us in line as Damselfly's nose dropped and her tail came up. Speed built, the wind whistled between the braces, and Damselfly began to skitter on her undercarriage as she lifted her skirts and prepared to step up off the encumbering land.

A whim took me and I caught her as she rose free of the Earth. I held her low, sent us barrelling down the runway a scant few feet over the tarmac as the engine sang and the speed built. We flashed over the south-western end of the runway and shot out over the slow grassy slope that ran down to the Seine, scattering a herd of cows and causing a man to shake his fist in fury at us.

I banked us hard to the left, laughing in delight as Evelyn screamed and gripped the sides of the cockpit. The Seine glittered below us, small boats flashed into and out of view, and we eased up and over the Viaduc d'Orival and dropped back down on the far side. We roared along low over the water, and I laughed and laughed at the sheer joy of the moment.

I followed the river as it described its great arc around Saint-Aubin, then eased Damselfly into a gentle climb out to the east. We would route north of Paris, I'd decided, and do the same to Riems before we ducked south-east to Saint-Mihiel and home.

As the ground dropped away from us, Evelyn relaxed and sat up again. She turned, glared at me, but couldn't quite suppress the laughter, the bright smile. I throttled down to set us up for a gentle climb, set our course, and found myself rueing the lack of any way to speak to her while we were in flight.

Her voice was lovely, soft and rich like velvet - and I'd found myself thoroughly enjoying listening to it.

So I made do with watching her, when I could.

She'd taken to idly staring at the land below as it drifted by, but as we flitted our way to the east little puffs of cumulus began to gather around and above us and she began to stare upwards at them. I remembered how enchanting I'd found clouds the first time I'd flown among them. I put us into a gentle climb and let us kiss the edge of one; I could clearly hear her squeals of delight as the wing-tip flashed in and out of view. She reached out her hand, mutely begging, and I eased us into the cold white mist and out again as she shrieked and laughed.

Catching clouds in our hands, I thought. Only to see them fade away like mist - or dreams.

We circled a towering stack of building cumulus, ducked through a gap between two others... and I suddenly sobered as I scanned the sky.

A spot in the distance... no, two. Planes, flying in formation. Probably military - too far to make them out even with my eyesight, but it was a safe bet that they were modern low-wing monoplanes and thus Damselfly's natural predator. Civilian pilots avoided formation flying because of the risks...

Some sixth sense prickled.

I dropped our nose and throttled back, letting us sink back down below cloud base. Damselfly's paint was a high-gloss Royal blue, her wings were bright silver, and that and her polished duralumin cowl would glint like gemstones on the green velvet of France below us. Fortunately the sun's angle meant that they'd be unlikely to see any tell-tale flashes off me. I tracked the other aircraft as they crossed the distant sector of sky until I was convinced that they were moving further north and fading into the haze.

I let out a sigh of relief and eased us further south. Likely just a training flight for the Armée de l'air... but I didn't need some talkative pilots taking the tale of a Royal-blue biplane they'd seen encountered back with them...

A puff of black smoke belched from the exhausts. I froze for an instant, then swore loudly as a second became a third, which built swiftly into a stream of dark soot that spread out like a banner behind us. Damselfly's engine began to stutter and complained; Evelyn twisted around in her seat to stare at me; I could see the fear in her eyes.

Grime had fouled the windscreen, swiftly obscuring my view forward. I hunched down to keep my goggles clear.

"Miss French!" she screamed.

"Fuel!" I shouted in return. "Those fucking..."

Damselfly coughed, spluttered, and went horribly, horribly still.

"Fuck!" I screamed in fury as I instinctively lowered Damselfly's nose to keep her at best glide speed. Henri's contemptible gang of drunken rogues had filled my tanks with tainted fuel - likely merely diesel or water, but neither of them the high-octane nectar that Damselfly needed.

I stared down over both sides of the cockpit, worked out where we were, and realised we might, perhaps, be within gliding distance of the small aerodrome at Pontoise which was visible to the south-east of us. I'd never been there, but...

"What now?" she shouted.

"Forced landing at Pontoise aerodrome!" I shouted back. "Make sure your straps are tight!"

I cursed myself again and again for not checking the fuel. It wasn't something I usually needed to, but Papa had hammered it into me that a pilot always checked if she didn't know the source of her fuel. I'd grown complacent due to my habit of stopping only at the bigger aerodromes - atypically so, in hindsight. I should have known better, I should have checked... instead, I was so distracted by... by her! And her drama! A distracted pilot was a dead pilot; I should know better, I did know better!

I ground my teeth and eased us slowly around to the south-east, careful to maintain Damselfly at the speed that would give us the greatest possible range. It was eerily quiet, with only the high-pitched whistle of the wind through the struts and bracing wires and the creak of the canvas beneath me when I moved.

I watched the altitude unwind and realised we'd be a mile or two short - if not more.

"Lady Evelyn!"

"Yes!"

"We're going to be landing in a field!"

"Are you joking?" she screeched.

"No! Get ready!"

"Oh God, oh God," I heard her wail as she turned away. A stab of irritation struck and passed just as quickly - Damselfly had a sturdy undercarriage, but I could understand the girl's terror. I wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of landing in random farmland myself.

Well... we'd be landing, one way or another. Best I get busy about picking a field that wouldn't kill us, or worse.

Two thousand feet. One thousand five hundred. One thousand...

I picked a likely landing spot - a long, narrow stretch between two lines of trees with no obstructions that I could see on either side for when we eventually took off again. The fields on either side were ploughed; this was not, I hoped that meant it had been left fallow...

Seven hundred feet. We were a bit high. I side-slipped us gently, corrected, and lifted the nose ever so slightly to bleed off some of our speed and give us space for a gentler run-out.

Three hundred feet.

I prayed there were no ditches or runnels or hidden watercourses.

Two hundred.

"Get ready!" I shouted; she braced her arms against the cockpit frame.

I caught us, lifted us over a small undulating hummock, and dropped us gently into the long grass on the far side. The wheels rumbled loudly - far louder than I was used to, and I wondered if I could hear a bearing...

Concentrate, Jules!

Papa's voice, cautioning me, snapping me back to the here and now. I slowly eased in the brakes and brought us to a creaking halt a hundred yards from a low wooden fence that bounded the field.

"Fuck," I announced, for lack of anything more profound to say.

Evelyn started to laugh.

"Shut up!" I cursed her, and slammed my fist against the buckles of my restraints to release them. I clambered out of the cockpit and dropped to the mud below.

She was still giggling, softer now, but it still grated.

It was my fault... partly... but she'd caused it. Her and her... her infuriating distractions. I didn't want her, I hadn't wanted her, I hadn't wanted this fucking job that I'd been bullied and tricked and lured into. And now I was parked in a muddy field with my unserviceable plane and this... this... woman...

I screamed in wordless rage, then stood there, glaring at my feet, breathing hard.

She'd stopped laughing, thank God.

"Miss French?" she said, hesitantly, as she craned her head over the side of the cockpit.

"What?"

"Are you... alright?"

"No."

"Oh," she said, softly. I heard her sigh, and then I heard the sounds of her undoing her own harness.

I shook my head. I was paying too much attention to her, letting her consume too much of my time and thoughts. My plane needed me right now. To hell with her, she could wait.

I fumbled at the latches of the cargo compartment and opened the lid of the small metal toolkit I'd had bolted to one of the internal braces. I found the small glass vial and the necessary screwdriver, and clambered back up onto the lower wing.

"Sit still and don't move. I don't want to spray fuel everywhere."

"What are you doing?" she said, keeping herself carefully still so she wouldn't get in my way as I contorted myself into the tight space between the wings and bracing wires.

"What I should have done back in Rouen, if I'd been paying any attention," I snapped.

I removed the two locking screws and carefully pocketed each, then folded the access hatch down. I reached under the fuel tank to the testing spigot and its nozzle, and positioned the vial. I let fuel run into the vial, then closed the tap quickly. I eased my way out from beneath the wings, turned, and held the vial up to the light.

"Those motherless connards!"

I glared at the vial and its three gently-undulating layers - pale yellow fuel on the top, a thin layer of red-dyed agricultural diesolene in the middle, and at the bottom, another thin, clear layer of what could only be water.

"What is it?" she said, softly. "What's wrong with it?"

"Look!" I exclaimed, incensed. "Those... those sons of whores at Rouen filled us up with contaminated fuel! I will have Henri's balls for this!"

She flushed and bit her lip. "That seems... extreme," she said. I could see she was desperately trying not to laugh.

I glared down at her. "And if we'd been over the Channel?"

"Oh," she said, as she realised the implications. "Oh, I see. Yes. Now I understand..."

"You understand nothing! And you... you keep distracting me, and the next mistake I make could kill us both! Just stop being so fucking distracting all the time!"

I stopped, horrified, as I realised how much my words had stung her. She took a deep breath and turned away from me, holding herself awfully, awfully still.

"I'm... sorry," I said, softly. "That was unfair and you didn't deserve that. It's not your fault. It's mine and mine alone. I apologise, Lady Evelyn. I'm sorry."

She didn't answer at first. Then she reached up and brushed at her eyes.

"I'm sorry that you were forced to carry me," she said, softly. "I can leave you here and... find some other way..."

"No!"

I reached out, touched her shoulder, felt her tremble.

"No," I added, softer. "I promised. I was out of line. I was lashing out, and you were the easiest target."

"That does rather seem to be my fate," she said. She took a breath and sighed it out, but still refused to look at me. "So... what now?"

"I'll need to drain the tank and the header tank and turn the engine over until the tainted fuel is clear. It will be at least two hours. We might as well get you down so you can be comfortable while you wait."

"I will clean the grime off the... windscreens, is it?" she said. "It will help, and it's something that I am qualified to do."

"You don't have to..."

"It is something to do," she repeated. "Do you have a rag somewhere?"

"No."

"Very well. I'll find something."

"Shall I help you down?" I offered.

She smiled tightly. "I'll be fine, thank you."

I retreated, and retrieved a length of rubber tubing from my toolbox, and began the frustrating process of trying to clear the contamination. I tried to ignore her, tried to give her the space I owed her, tried not to turn back to her as I heard her struggle, whimpering, down to the mud. But she'd made her desire clear; I'd hurt her and now she quite rightly wanted nothing to do with me any more.

And I felt the shame far more deeply than I'd expected to. She'd been opening up to me, exposing herself to me... and I'd opened up to her... and then in my usual, stupid way I'd lashed out and killed any potential familiarity that might have been possible given the differences between us.

I sighed and checked the tank's constituents again. I'd drained some of it, but there was still some taint. I opened the tap again and let more of my money drain into the bare earth. The farmer would be furious, I supposed, but there was little I could do about it. I'd find out where he lived and send him something to apologise...

The diesel and water were gone when I checked again. There might be a little bit left in the pipes, but I could drain that remnant through the engine. I closed the tank drain and shut off the main fuel feed. Then I straightened and stretched my back, and turned...

"Evelyn! No!" I cried, horrified.

She glanced up at me.

"What?" she demanded. "What is it about my very existence that offends you now?"

"Your jacket! Oh my God, no, why!"

She stared down at the ruined garment in her hands, then back up at me. She frowned, puzzled.

"We needed something to clean the glass," she said, as if it were entirely logical.

"But... but..."

"What use is a jacket to me here?" she went on, eyebrow arching upwards. "I don't want to sleep in this field. It seemed... a worthwhile sacrifice. It's working well, actually - the weave clears the grime without streaking. You'll be able to see again once I'm done."

"But... we could have used something of mine! Something... cheap and ugly of mine!" I added, unable to comprehend the waste...

"I chose this. You had other things to worry about."

I stared up at her. Then I gave up, and shook my head in despair.

"You're..."

"Vexing? Frustrating? I'm glad you noticed," she said. "I'm often called those by far angrier people than you. Fix your aircraft's engine, Miss French, and leave me to my drudgery."

But for a heartbeat the smile was back, if only just.

Perhaps I'd be forgiven my earlier tantrum given enough time. I resolved to make it up to her... somehow.

It took us another hour, and the sun had passed the zenith before I declared us ready to attempt an engine start. I turned the propeller through three full rotations to ensure any remaining taint had been cleared, then I clambered up onto the lower wing, noting that she'd even cleaned the fuselage of the soot that had sprayed there.

"Thank you," I said to her, my words soft and my tone well-mannered and docile. "I wish you hadn't done that, but - thank you."

"You're welcome," she said, as softly. She seemed to want to say something more, but let the moment pass in silence. I clambered up past her and dropped into my seat.

"Are you ready? It may be a bit ropey at first."

"I'm ready," she answered as she lowered her goggles and wriggled down into her seat.

I primed the engine and, praying, pressed the starter. A whine, a clunk, a coughing belch of black smoke that quickly faded to grey before clearing, and after a few moments of complaining the engine settled into its familiar grumpy cadence. I let the temperature climb, listening for the faintest sound of damage... and heard none.

"It looks like we survived without doing anything serious to her. The take-off is is going to be a bit bumpy," I shouted to her. "Make sure you're snug!"

She raised a thumb in answer and hunkered down. I eased in some throttle and guided us as close to the far boundary as I could before pirouetting us around to face the long, straight field and the narrow exit channel over the distant hedges. I stood on the brakes and applied power until Damselfly was straining and shaking at her restraints, then unleashed her.

We gathered speed swiftly, with one or two tooth-shaking jolts as we bumped and jolted over the fallow earth. The speed built swiftly and I lifted us as soon as was safe, not wishing to risk our undercarriage for even a moment longer than I needed to. We climbed up and I eased us back into the north-east course that had been so rudely interrupted.

I watched her through the windscreen, watched as she quietly contemplated the countryside below us as it dropped away.

I wondered what she was thinking. I wondered why she angered me so...

No. Not angered. It wasn't anger she triggered, it was something... stranger. Something deeper. Some aching yearning that raked its nails down my back and made me want to lash out to protect myself from the building need I felt to have her think well of me.

I hated depending on people. People left, people let you grow to depend on them and then disappeared without trace from your life. Other people were not safe for me; I'd learned that so many times over the years.

And... she was temporary. A day or two and she'd be gone from my life like a pleasant dream.

I could not afford to become ensnared by her. I could not afford this path that I knew I was taking the first steps down. She was beautiful, and graceful, and so very grand, even in her second-hand flight jacket and battered goggles and ill-fitting cap.

Whereas I... was not.

We'd never be friends. We'd never be... companions. It wasn't possible; our worlds were simply too different. I'd always merely be the adventuress who'd flown her to safety, and she'd always be the gorgeous, out-of-reach heiress I'd been lucky enough to spend a few days... around.

But she certainly didn't deserve my ire, that was for sure. She could not help who she was. Or what had been done to her. Or the unfairness of the world that had flung us together like this... and would soon enough force us apart once more.

Truthfully, I was forced to admit, it was Nathaniel who'd entrapped me - Nathaniel Butler and my own soft-hearted nature. She'd merely been the slender, decorative bait that he'd known I could not refuse.

It wasn't her fault that she was so easy to... dream of.

I sighed and tried to put her from my mind.

But it was impossible to do so with her centred in my windscreen, only some three feet and a lifetime removed from me.

═????═

We skirted the sprawl of Paris and, some forty minutes of sedate and sensible flying later, Riems appeared.

An idea struck me, a way of making amends, and I let us sink lower again. Evelyn turned to stare at me, clearly puzzled by my actions. I smiled at her, and pointed at the golden stone mass of the Cathedral in the distance. Then I banked us, and took us on a line to intercept it.

Soon enough she realised what I intended and turned to give me a delighted thumbs-up. We described a low, slow orbit of the building, close enough to see even the tracery of the great rose window of the south western wall. I orbited again, then took us out in a gentle climb to the south-east.

Sightseeing, I thought to myself. I'd fallen to new lows. But from the expression I'd seen on her face... oh, it had been absolutely worth it. She'd never forget the day that I showed her this. Never.

And you will never forget that smile, part of me thought. Never, ever.

My mood was eclipsed once more. I'd never wanted to fly passengers, I needed my solitude in the air, in my domain. Yet it was different, somehow, when I was sharing this airy world with her. She was so child-like in all her interactions with this new place; so innocent in all her little ways. It was impossible not to desire to show off, impossible not to want to share...

I knew that I would miss this brief little interlude of brightness in my otherwise solitary existence. And I didn't enjoy that feeling at all.

It was mid-afternoon when Lac de Madine resolved out of the haze. I took us on a low approach and then overflew Papa's old landing field to check that it was clear of cows and debris. A slow circuit over the orchard and the grand old house in its semi-circle of Sycamore trees, and then I took us back out, turned, and lined up for our landing.

Damselfly settled into the dry grass and grumbled and bumped her way up the gentle slope to the shabby old barn that doubled as her hangar and maintenance shed. I let her groan to a stop just outside the doors, pivoted her around with judicious use of brake and throttle, and gave her a minute to cool down before I cut the mixture and allowed her to sleep.

I took a deep breath, and sighed it out in bliss.

"I'm home, Papa," I breathed.

Dust, grass, lavender and aviation fuel. Truly, there was no place like it.

I doffed my helmet and goggles and swung myself out over the side. I helped Evelyn clamber out of the forward cockpit, supporting her with a careful and solicitous arms as she gingerly lowered herself onto the wing. I dropped to the dust, turned, and in a sudden fit of madness I set my hands to her ribs and swung her down after me. She gave a muffled shriek and clasped her arms tightly around me; we spent a moment in breathless proximity before I reluctantly released her and stepped back.

She stared at me for a long moment, eyes flitting over my face. Then she seemed to come back to herself and took a pained backwards step as well.

She took another deep breath and sighed it out, then turned away to survey the countryside. I tried to recover my attitude of quiet competence and failed, miserably. Her expression had... disturbed me.

"So... this is your home?" she asked, still not looking at me.

"Well, this is the hangar. Home is the house we saw back in the trees. It will be a bit of a walk, sorry."

"I'll manage it... I think."

"I just need to get Damselfly under cover; there are sometimes powerful storms here in the evening..."

"What can I do to help?"

I eyed her; she gave me a determined little smile. "I can help. I can! I just don't know how to. Or what to do, truthfully."

"There's a winch and some rope inside. I will get the rope attached to Damselfly's tail and winch her in, If you could just... watch her wing-tips and make sure she's not going to collide with the doors. Is that okay?"

"I can do that. Even with this foot," she added with a sigh.

We went to work; I hooked the rope into the hardened steel eye that father had fitted to Damselfly to make this job possible for me. A few turns of the winch to get the tension on, and I started to slowly pull my girl into her dusty boudoir.

Evelyn stepped gingerly along beside her, hand unconsciously stroking Damselfly's lower starboard wing-tip. I watched her as I winched, watched the way she stared up at the plane, watched the way she caressed the curved fabric of the leading edge with her fingers. She was learning the simple love of aircraft, I realised, and had likely come perilously close to being seized by the complex and all-consuming ardour for flight.

It was clear that the freedom offered by both of these ideas was beginning to sing loudly to her.

I wished I had a camera so that could capture this moment - the damsel and Damselfly, both backlit by the afternoon French sunshine. It would have been a lovely keepsake for... later.

I watched a series of complex expressions flit across her face and wondered why she was frowning. Maybe she was hoping her well-named eventual husband would be a pilot.

I thought about that for a moment.

Unlikely, I decided. And even if he were, well, flight was mostly a man's world. I was only in it due to a mix of luck and stubbornness.

Well... that and a certain fuck-you attitude, I had to admit.

I watched her, watched the way she moved, the way she even made her limp seem... glamorous and beautiful. I enjoyed flying with her. I'd enjoyed showing Damselfly off for her. It had felt good to make her smile. It felt good to make someone smile the way she smiled at me.

It was a shame it would end, as everything always did...

The winch locked; I straightened and wiped the sweat off my forehead.

"Could you please grab the right hand door?" I asked. She did, and we slowly shut the gateway to the outside world. I dropped the rusty steel pins into their worn slots and lowered the bar to prevent any banging in what night-time gusts might come.

"Do you need your suitcase?" I asked. "There are some clothes in the house that may fit, if you don't mind a random selection..."

"I only have a formal dress and some underclothes now," she said softly. "I'm pretty much wearing what I own. Leave it, there's no point."

"We'll find something," I decided. "Come on. How's your foot?"

"Aching, unless I think about it, in which case it's... quite awful."

I glanced up at her. "Lean on me," I said, and after a moment, she did. She stiffened and let out a soft gasp as I put my arm around her, but we soon managed to find a gait that worked for us both, and slowly she relaxed in against me. She was taller by half a head, and in the end I simply and unceremoniously put her own arm over my shoulder and acted as a crutch of sorts for her.

It was not far to the house, not by country standards anyway, but her face was pinched with discomfort by the time we reached the old stone wall and its rotting wooden gate. I opened it for her and held it out of her way as she limped through, then inserted myself under her arm again.

"Madame Gilly would have been here today or yesterday," I panted. "She comes every few days and cleans and makes sure everything is good in case I stop by. Winter is different; I decamp here and hide from the cold, and she looks after me. There will be fresh preserves and I will go and find some morels and there is always Papa's wine cellar..."

"Morels... oh. Do you mean mushrooms?" she managed.

"Yes. There's a good patch a short way from the house that I can usually find some in."

We rounded the stand of dusty hawthorns and she stumbled to an abrupt stop.

"Welcome to my house, Lady Evelyn," I said.

"Please don't call me that," she answered reflexively. She was too busy staring at the high tile roof, the climbing roses, the fruit trees. "My God, it's an actual French Châteaux. You live in an actual Châteaux." she said.

I felt the heat of the blush take me.

"It looks bigger than it is," I said, "and some of the rooms are shut up. But it is technically a Châteaux, yes. One of Papa's many... rewards."

"It's so lovely! I'm impressed!"

I winced as I thought of the state of the interior. "Don't be. It's... rustic inside. Papa was a better caretaker than I am, and I have let things go a bit."

"I'm sure it will be wonderful," she said. Then she sighed. "I always dreamed of living somewhere like this. Somewhere quietly removed from all the politics and intrigue back in England."

"Maybe your wish will come true," I said, and then wondered what had possessed me to say it.

But she just smiled sadly and didn't deign to answer.

═????═

"Here," I said. "Here's the bathtub - it's the only one that works so let me know when you're using it - otherwise I'll barge in on you and scare us both, knowing my luck."

"Yes. I can see why that would be a problem for you."

I eyed her; she stared innocently back at me. I shook my head, resumed my train of thought.

"The water comes from a cistern. Once the furnace is hot there will be more than enough hot water for your heart's desire."

"My heart can desire a lot of hot water," she said. I grinned.

"As can mine, but we will both be well-served. Is this room... suitable?"

"It is perfect," she said. "I'm already in love with the view over the orchard."

"It was my room," I said. "When I was younger," I added, as she turned back to me. "I also used to love the view of the orchard. Anyway - in the cupboard are some clothes. They will be a bit out of date and may do with airing, but they will keep you warm. I will fetch you some towels."

"Thank you for this," she said. "Thank you for inviting me into your sactuary."

"It is... nice to have someone here," I answered her, surprised by how nice it actually was. "I don't entertain at all. It's nice to be able to share this space with someone who... appreciates it."

"I imagine it must be quite lonely."

"Sometimes," I admitted. I tried not to let the way such a simple word could wound me show, and blessed my natural poker face.

She considered me for a moment more, then turned away to stare out at the orchard again. I paused at the door, watching her and wondering if there was something else I could do for her; something that would extend this moment even just a moment longer. Then I sighed and made my way down the tatty staircase and slowly traversed my way across the scuffed parquet floor of the salon and through the door to my father's study, the only place in the house that was still in good repair.

I was unsettled and upset. And that awful word - lonely - that she'd so innocently uttered... oh, how that word had seared me.

Because I was utterly alone, and had been since that day I'd received the telegram from the Foreign office listing my father's aircraft as overdue at Reykjavik.

I'd begged him not to go, of course - as other daughters had done to other fathers for countless generations. And the fathers had always smiled down at the daughters, and told the gentle lie that they would be home soon.

And then they never came back, and the daughters had to learn the harsh reality that even fathers were not forever...

I bit back the sudden sob, stiffened my spine against the sudden tremor.

This place was still filled with him, even now, even after all these sundered years.

My upright piano stood in its nook, preserved against dust and damp under its cover. I trailed my fingers along the worn Calico fabric... then yanked the cover free and let it fall aside. A sudden urge to play had taken me, a need to express myself, a need to chase this dark mood that had seized me away.

A need to calm my ghosts.

So I pulled out my stool and opened the lid and sat, staring at the faded yellow ivory of the keys.

A moment of reflection before I began to play from memory, as was my habit. Softly, tentatively at first, but swiftly shaking off the rust of time as I ran through the easy, melodic pieces I'd always fancied and excelled at.

I closed my eyes, and remembered the times when Papa had sat at his desk, the scent of pipe-smoke filling the room as he wrote and read his letters or the next chapter of his book. He'd always loved to hear me playing, he said, it made the house feel lived-in and he could tell my mood from my choice of music and...

I was crying, I realised. I paused, keys still depressed, a discordant clash, a fading echo of noise.

"Papa," I whimpered. I hunched forward, belly and chest aching, fighting the urge to scream...

I sniffed, then jerked as gentle fingers touched my shoulder.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" she stammered.

I spun away, furious at myself, hiding my face and my pathetic weakness from her, trying to cower away, trying to disappear...

A moment later her cautious fingers touched me again, then the palm of her hand, warm and comforting, unwanted and yet so desperately wanted on my shoulder...

The seat creaked as she perched behind me.

I froze for a moment as she wrapped her arms around me and leaned in against me, resting her cheek against the skin of my neck and offering silent comfort.

Her simple act of sympathy broke me.

I started to shake, and then to sob. She didn't try to intrude, she simply clasped me to her, silently supporting me through the brief, unending few minutes of loss I'd so unthinkingly summoned.

At last, the despair ebbed as it always did. I sniffed again and tried to dry my face on my sleeve.

"I'm okay," I managed. "May not look it though."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I just... I heard you playing. It was beautiful. So I came to see. Why the tears, though?"

"I miss my father. I'm alone now. He was always there... until he wasn't."

"What were you remembering?"

She ran her hand slowly up and down my back; I leaned back into the warmth of her gentle comfort.

"The smell of his pipe smoke. The way he'd always come and listen to me, with his eyes closed and this little private smile..."

"Tell me about him. Something that's not in all the books."

I smiled through my tears.

"Oh - he loved boats but was mortally afraid of dark water. I think that's why he learned to fly, in the end. It must have felt like something similar to sailing - an enormously technical discipline with rules and rituals that made no sense to laypeople. He made sure I could swim, even though he couldn't. But he feared deep water so."

"What happened to him?"

"He wanted to be the first man to fly to the North Pole. He made it somewhere between the Hebrides and Iceland. Bad weather, a bad compass, bad luck... who knows, who cares, the end was the same. The ocean took him from me."

She sighed and drew nearer.

"My mother died when I was fourteen," she said. "I find that the pain never really goes away... for me, anyway. I hated her, and now I hate that she's gone."

"Hated her?" I breathed. "Why?"

"She was... uncompromising. She wouldn't bend on anything. She was hard. She was implacable. But it's only now that I think I understand her. And now that I'm a woman, living in a man's world... well, I miss her almost more than I can bear."

"She was trying to protect you," I guessed.

"Yes."

We sat in silence, then she shifted away from me.

"May I ask a favour?" she said.

"Yes."

"Would you play some more? I... it's... it's just that how you play so closely matches my mood right now. I cannot explain it, but I just..."

She paused, and took a slow breath.

"I would just like to hear more of your playing," she said, softly.

"I don't know if..."

"You can. Of course you can; don't lie to yourself. Your soul is full of music, that much is obvious from how you play. Play some more for him. And for me," she said, softer, "if you'd like. Your playing... it's beautiful. It soothes me."

I dried my eyes, and not knowing why, turned back to the keys. And still not knowing why, I started to play, moving from piece to flowing piece with no break in between, as my fingers cramped and my wrists burned and my heart ached fit to burst.

She moved to the floor next to the stool, not even bothering to find a chair, simply sitting, simply leaning against the leg and listening to me as I poured my anger and rage and loss into the music...

I'd stopped, but I didn't know how or when. My hands were folded in my lap, so it had been deliberate. I just couldn't remember doing it, I'd been too lost...

Evelyn shifted.

She wiped her eyes, and wouldn't meet my gaze.

"Thank you," was all she said at first, in a voice that was choked with sadness. She stood and limped slowly to the door.

"You should play more often," she added, still without looking back at me. "You do it so very well."

I listened to her halting footsteps as she climbed the stairs.

And I found myself missing the simple peace of playing, with her there beside me.

I closed my piano and covered it carefully. My mood, always changeable in this place, had changed again. The world was dimming slowly to early evening outside, and I thought about invading the kitchen and trying to prepare something from the sparse selection of root vegetables and canned goods in the pantry. Evelyn needed to eat, even if I could think of nothing enticing about food right now.

Then I thought of the supplies that had been stored in Damselfly. A walk would settle me, I thought. So I set off at a brisk lope back to the barn with a string bag at the ready, and relieved a paper-wrapped ham, a tin of butter, a still-fresh farm loaf and some onions. I hefted the bag over a shoulder and stepped off back to the house, where I set the supplies down on the worn kitchen worktop and scrounged some wood from the waning wood-pile. And then I busied myself making a fire in the old garden fire-pit that Papa had preferred in all weather except actual flooding.

The scent of woodsmoke evoked other memories; of sitting by Papa's knee as he and the men and women of the found family he'd surrounded himself with talked and laughed quietly into the late night over wine or, more frequently, Papa's brandy and cigars.

The quiet crackling of the dry wood calmed me, but did nothing to smooth away the heartache of ancient loss... or the newfound, inexpressible pang of this strange... thing... that I could sense thrumming between her and I.

She'd held me as I cried. Nobody had done that for me since I was a child. I'd... forgotten what the simple comfort of touch had meant to me. To feel the warmth of someone else's fingers on my back, the warmth of the knowledge that, for that moment at least, somebody cared that I hurt.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to be held with no ulterior motive, with no need to take or be taken.

I sat and watched the flames, feeding the fire as the sun slowly set beyond the trees.

She emerged when the sun had long-since-set, with damp hair and clad in a loose-fitting shirt and skirt. She seemed very self-conscious and inclined to hang back at first, but I smiled gently up at her and indicated a spot for her that I'd made up next to mine. I built up the fire and watched the way that she avoided looking at me, all the while delighting in the way the flickering light lit and shadowed her.

She'd felt so good against me. Better than anyone else I'd ever let so close... probably because of the innocence of the gesture, I was forced to admit. I'd been hurting, she'd offered comfort and demanded nothing in return. As if I'd... mattered to her.

I sighed.

It would all pass, like thunder turned to rain turned to sunshine and left nothing but fading puddles to mark the passing.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, at last.

"A bit... "

Her stomach growled.

"Fine, yes, I'm ravenous," she admitted. "I suppose my body is screaming that I need to do something about that."

I put an old iron skillet into the coals and began to heat it.

"We have ham and onions," I said. "And bread. There's not much else worth using, and I honestly can't face the effort of making and cooking a stew tonight."

"I don't mind," she said. "I'm sure it will be lovely. You're talented, I doubt you'll accidentally poison us."

"That almost sounded like another compliment," I said.

"Perhaps it was," she said. She sighed and stared up at the darkening sky above us.

"You are so lucky," she added.

"What do you mean?"

"All this is yours, and you owe nobody anything for it. You have my dream. You live it every day. It's... unfair."

"Unfair?"

"Yes. It seems so idyllic, this life. So different to what I'm used to. You go where you want, when you want, and when you're done doing whatever you want to, you get to come back to this. My life is... not like this. Constant attention to rank, constant attention to the eggshells I tread on..."

She'd artlessly lanced a boil I hadn't even noticed was there. Sarcasm and bile welled out. The day, the tears, the weird emotional space, the warring feelings deep within me - all conspired to make me angry. And, as usual, I lashed out - and she was the unfortunate recipient.

"Because of course, being wealthy is such a struggle. Oh, the stress of choosing a dress to entertain the Dowager. Hah! The biggest battle most of you gentry need to fight is to get your corset done up tightly enough. And of course, it's such a curse to be pretty," I added, acerbically.

"Whatever do you mean?" she demanded.

"Take you, for instance," I ranted. "You probably get whatever you want simply by smiling and canting that immaculate head and turning slightly into profile. You want unfair? That's unfair - you show up, the rest of us..."

"You're one to talk, little miss... perfect!" she snapped.

I paused, blinked...

"What are you..."

"'Must be nice to be pretty', you say, as if you aren't probably one of the most sublime women to grace this sorry world. Thin, poised, stunning - and you have your own plane and know how to fly it? Cry me a fucking river," she snarled. "'Must be nice,' you say? Well, I say fuck you."

She turned away and seized a stick. She stabbed the coals with it in fury. I hadn't even noticed she'd cursed until the second expletive.

"I'm not... sublime," I protested, after a moment's stunned silence. "And it's..."

"I wish I was as 'not sublime' as you are. I wish I was as... different... as you are. I wish I were as free as you are. I'd give anything to be someone like you. Someone as capable as you."

"You have... absolutely no idea what you're talking about..."

"Don't I? Don't you see how men look at you? How they interact with you? You traipse through people's lives and they fall into your orbit and you don't even fucking see it. You could have anyone you wanted. And you somehow dare to throw stones at me? Take the log out of your own eye, you hypocrite."

She flung her stick down and glared furiously into the flames.

"They stare at me because I'm different. Because I'm... ugly..."

"Ugly? Ugly? Hah. As if. No," she continued, softer now. "They stare at you because you are flawless and unique."

Her words bit deep. I snatched a jagged breath, tried to marshal my thoughts, and failed hopelessly at both.

I stared down at my hands then held them up to show her.

"I have this... brown skin and... and these weird eyes and..."

"I've met women in the Orient," she said, interrupting me yet again. "Many of them, in fact - when I was much younger and travelling with my family to Siam and Burma and Brunei and... other places I can't even remember the names of any more. Many were pretty. Some were lovely. None were even remotely comparable to you - even if you insist on trying to disguise your divinity under grease, obscenity and... those awful men's trousers," she added. "So shut up, 'princess'," she added, almost under her breath.

I stared at her, at the rigid way she held herself, at the flush of anger on cheek and in eye...

I'd guessed her far too prim to use her claws - but her passion and profanity had shaken me, it had freed something in me; some need to defend and explain myself. It had also snuffed out my own anger like a candle, and I felt the hot flush of shame once more.

"I was abandoned as a child," I said, suddenly. "As a newborn. Papa said I couldn't have been much more than a few days old at most when he found me."

She glanced at me, her anger fading as curiosity somewhat supplanted it.

"Where?"

"In the dust at the side of the road, somewhere where the Army was back then - near Kluang in Malaysia, he always said. He told me that he saw a dog acting suspiciously, guarding a patch of grass from vultures. He suspected it had an injured pup so he went to look - and found me instead. He kept us both."

"Lucky girl," she said.

"Lucky dog," I echoed. I sighed and stared upwards at the moon and those few visible stars above us.

"The dog was named Spot, as all dogs with spots are fated to be," I continued. "She was with us until I was eight. She was my friend, my sister, my cuddle toy, my endless fountain of unquestioning love and loyalty. I didn't eat for a week after she died. And after that I just had Papa and his regiment and what servants came and went here and elsewhere over the years. It wasn't always easy being a girl in that world. Better than the alternative, though."

She shifted but said nothing.

"You say I'm free," I added. "I'm not. I'm... an outcast. Nobody wants me. People stare at me when I enter a room, talk about me behind my back when they think I won't understand. I speak three languages fluently and am conversant in four more, I play the piano as you saw, I can dance, I can sing, I can navigate by sun, stars and sextant and I can fly. What I can't do is make my face into something that a... another person... would want to see every day. This 'freedom' is all I have. I have nothing..."

"I like your face," she said. She watched me for a moment, then turned away again. "Even when you're scowling at me like that. And you've not lied to me once - that I've detected anyway, not even to spare my feelings. That's... new, for me. To be treated as a person rather than a prize. It's... nice. Even with the insults. Even with your driving need to try to... hurt me."

I winced, regrouped.

"You insulted me the first time we met..." I began.

"I called you rude. That's different. And that awful Breton farmer's accent you put when you ranted at me rather proved my point."

"Yes, well..."

"So - to summarize then: you're a very attractive, absolutely unique woman, Miss French," she said. She sighed. "You actually don't realise just how attractive that makes you, which vexes me almost to the edge of reason. Five minutes with a mirror and I'd show you just who you could be. Nobody would give me a second glance once I was done with you."

"But... you're beautiful..." I stammered.

She met my gaze for long, thrilling moment.

"I may be. But that doesn't change what you are. I may be a rose of sorts but roses are plentiful here, as you pointed out. Lotus blossoms are not."

My heart lurched again and I looked away.

"Do you really... mean that?" I whispered.

"Pardon?"

"What you said... those words... about me."

She took a deep breath and sighed it out.

"Yes. I'd never exaggerate or finesse something like that; it's too personal and, anyway, I hate to lie - even if it is meant well. This is the truth - there are many pretty girls at court. But if you were there, the whole world would have eyes only for you."

"You should call me Juliette," I said, after a silence.

She snorted.

"It would be nice if you'd call me by my name, then. Princess and all the other inventive nicknames are getting extremely... tiresome."

"I apologise... Lady Evelyn."

"Just Evelyn, please," she said. She risked a smile. "I never liked the title. I accept..."

A howl rang out faintly in the distance; she gasped and spun, staring out into the darkness.

"Was that..."

"Wolf," I said. "They're harmless."

"Harmless?" she exclaimed. "They're carnivores! They eat people!"

"That's an old wives' tale," I said. "Besides, the fire will keep them away. They're wise and skittish creatures, they want deer or rabbit. I have a flare gun if they get too bold and come into the grounds to harass us."

She stood and shifted nearer to me, sitting down beside me on my cushion without even asking permission.

"You're my decoy," she said to my raised eyebrow. "If you're right, then you get to be smug tomorrow morning. If you're wrong, well, they'll eat you first and I'll have time to climb a tree."

I stared dramatically around at the dim circle of overgrown garden that our fire just managed to illuminate.

"There are no nearby trees," I observed, deadpan. Her thigh was warm against mine and I was enjoying the sensation of her against me like this, at this intimate distance.

"Then you'd better be right about the wolves," she said with a strange little smile.

And I caught myself grinning at her, because we'd both ignored the obvious but fantasy-ruining option of simply going back indoors and closing the door behind us.

═????═

She'd ceded me the bathroom so that I could bathe; I'd closed the door almost all the way, shut enough that she wouldn't see me, nor I her, but open enough that I'd hear her should she deign to talk to me. I'd run myself a satisfying amount of hot water, but I was too conscious of her presence to relax enough that I'd spend an hour or more soaking. So I made do with something far... lesser... than I'd have loved.

She did not speak. I heard her moving around the room occasionally, but apart from that she behaved as if she were not there.

I emerged at last, clean but unsatisfied, and wrapped myself in a thin robe once I'd towelled myself dry with one of my ancient towels. I felt even more self-conscious when I realised how little my robe hid, then I shrugged. We'd just have to make do; it wasn't like I was interested in her or anything, after all. I felt no urge to touch her, to cup her cheek, to taste the warm skin of her lips...

None, whatsoever.

I nodded to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Lying to myself was just another thing I did, after all.

I'd be strong tonight and behave myself, and by tomorrow all would be back to normal.

"Evelyn?" I said, softly.

"Yes?"

"I'm coming out."

"Very well, if you must."

I pulled the door open and peered into the dim, lamp-lit darkness. She was perched on a chair by the window, with her knees up under her chin and her hair flowing loose in midnight-black falls over her shoulders. She was staring out at the moonlit orchard. I stepped closer, noting the thin linen shift she'd changed into and the way it had been pulled to follow the perfect line of her thighs.

"You're cold," I said, as I watched her shiver.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Why don't you get into bed then?"

"Because I don't want this day to end, and if I sleep, it will."

I perched on the rustic table's corner and stared down at her from a range of maybe a foot or two. She refused to meet my gaze; she set her jaw. I paused as the tear tracked down over her cheek, then I sighed.

"Evelyn? Why are you so sad? "

I reached out and gently brushed the teardrop away. "You will be safe after tomorrow."

"I am safe now," she answered, her voice creaking. "I don't have to pretend to be what I'm not, here. I don't have to keep my walls up. Smile, bow, grovel every hour of every day simply to earn a scrap of a sliver of a life. That's what I'll be returned to in the end. A wayward but otherwise reputable girl from my Grandfather's house cannot be left unattached... especially not now. If I... survive... then they'll marry me off and that will be my life over."

"Is that so bad? To have a life of some ease? A secure future?"

She gave me a haunted look.

"I don't want that life," she said.

I reached out again to touch her knee.

"Then what sort of life do you want then?"

"Freedom to be myself. Freedom to... fall in love," she said, soft and slow. "Freedom to... to navigate my own course, by sun or stars or sextant," she added at a whisper.

"I don't understand..."

"I..."

And she sighed.

"No, never mind. It's not fair to burden you with that. It's just... I'm different, Juliette. I'm too different to be... able to hide who I really am. I will be married off, and then I will embarrass my husband because I need more, and then I will be shut away in some country house far from anyone I hold dear, there to watch the winters come one after another until I simply... give up and die, one way... or the other."

I shivered at the flat, hopeless tone of her words.

"You are a fighter," I protested. "I don't think that will be your fate..."

She laughed, a mirthless little snort.

"I will be nothing," she continued. "Better they'd caught me and cut my throat..."

"No!" I gasped.

She jerked in surprise at my exclamation.

I shoved myself forward, forced myself in closer to her.

"Do you know what death is?" I demanded, staring down at her. She drew breath; I pressed my finger to her lips. "No. Shush. I'll tell you. Death is being... three days old in the grass as the sun slowly bakes you dry. Death is being in a spiral dive, on fire, with no parachute and no escape and no way to save yourself. Death is the absence of choice and agency to act. You have choices. You can act. You are young, you are strong, you are brave. You will make good of any situation that you find yourself in."

"That almost sounds like a compliment," she whispered. I removed my finger from her lips.

"It was meant to be one," I answered her. "You are strong and intelligent. You will never be caged."

She stared up at me.

Then she took my hand in hers and put it to her cheek. I shuddered, took a shaky breath.

"You shiver when I touch you," she whispered. "Why is that?"

"It's... cold..." I managed, faintly,

"I don't think it's that at all. Not all of it. No... I think it's something else entirely. I... hope... it's something else entirely."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned in closer to me. Her fingers curled behind my jaw, caressing me with an unbearable tenderness. Her eyes flicked from mine down to my lips, and back up again. She swallowed and shifted ever so slightly forward on her seat.

Madness compelled me. I, too, leaned in - hesitating, in starts and stops, terrified, falling in towards her...

A short distance more, just the width of a wish separating us now, my heart hammering like mad in my chest as I tried to understand what was going on, whether this was... was actually happening or whether I was simply misinterpreting... as I always...

"Don't be scared of me," she breathed. "Don't push me away."

Her flinger teased slowly around my neck to the back of my head and curled into my hair. We stared at one another for a moment longer.

I thought my heart would burst.

She swallowed hard.

"Oh, I could drown in your eyes," she moaned.

Then she closed her own eyes, and leaned in to close the final distance between us, and, with a second, almost inaudible moan, kissed me.

Time ceased to matter. My own breath stilled. Her lips were hot on mine, her skin smooth, vital... alive.

I sobbed a breath, kissed her back, kissed her again, and again, and again...

It had never been like this. None of the short list of sordid, squalid dalliances with women - and the occasional man - had ever moved me this way.

I reached out, flailing, catching her elbow and clinging briefly to it, before following it back along arm to shoulder and then around her back. She shifted closer still, broke the kiss once more, and wrapped her arms around me as she pulled herself to me.

"And now you know," she panted. "Now you know my deepest secret. Now you know my heart's desire. The question is what you plan to do with that knowledge."

"What.. what do you..."

"You could ruin me," she said. She shifted, pressed her face to my burning cheek. "You could blackmail my family... hopefully with greater success than poor Jonathan..."

"Why would I ever do that to you?" I gasped. "Why would I hurt you? How could I hurt you? I couldn't bear it!"

"Everyone has their price. And you do so seem to love to claw at me. It would be easy, you know. A simple telephone call. A letter. An anonymous meeting..."

"I have a price for... work. Not for... not over something this..."

"This... what?"

"This.... precious."

Her hands spasmed behind my neck, then eased again as she shifted closer still.

"This is not wise," she said. "You'll be gone in a day. I will never see you again."

"Yes," I gabbled. "But... but even with that, even knowing that... I still want... this. I still need this. I... need you."

She took a breath; I felt her chest shudder against me before she sighed it out. She pulled back slightly, stared up at me on my perch, and smiled a wistful little smile. She came in again, and this time I was ready, and I couldn't tell if it was she who moaned... or I. I slid forward off the table, twisted, and lowered myself onto her lap, legs slung sideways over her as I arched in against her and bracketed her cheeks with my hands so that I could kiss her properly, as she deserved. A moment, two moments... and I pulled away so that I could try to fix this perfect moment for later, when I would be alone again.

Her own eyes were dark in the dim lamplight, her loose-flowing hair black as shadows under the full moon. She shuddered, once, and tightened her arms around me again as she pressed her cheek against my meagre bosom.

"I'm glad I met you," she breathed. "I'm glad that... in all the horror of the past few weeks..."

And she sighed again.

"If I were wise I'd do the right thing, you know," she added. "I'd... pull back. Pretend this was a momentary lapse of reason. Blame your beauty and say you bewitched me."

Her hands moved on my back, teasing outwards; I shivered as they rounded under my ribs and slowly, agonizingly, unfairly teased around and over the swell of my breasts and my hard, aching nipples.

I moaned, deep and raw, as her fingers found the fold of my robe and slid beneath it. She let out a soft, breathy "aah," as she found my nipples with her fingertips, as she gently took them and squeezed them. A shudder rippled through me, I fumbled for her, caught her chin, lifted it and kissed her hard, groaning, as my need climbed precipitously into a mad, hazy region I'd never felt before.

I was familiar with desire, with physical lust, with the urge to have someone - anyone - push me down and please me. I could not, however, ever remember this... this cramping, aching need to be wanted for something other than the neat little hole between my legs.

She'd folded my robe off my shoulders, let it fall away, her nails were gentle but unbearable on my bare skin. I panted a breath, panted a second, dug my fingers into her hair and held her as I ground and writhed on her for a moment.. for two. Eventually I somehow pulled back and stared down at her.

"I must look a fright," I managed. "All out of order. You touch me perfectly."

"Many stolen moments with... someone who showed me who I was," she said, softly. "But it was nothing like this. Nothing has ever been like this. You... enrage me. You infuriate me. You... awe me. And I cannot help but want you; I've wanted you since that first moment, when you sauntered into the office in Winchester and... and scolded me. You!"

I raised a finger and traced the line of her cheek.

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," I said. "You intimidate me. I don't handle that well. I'm... sorry. For all of it. Every last bit of it."

"Me? I intimidate you?" she said, amused.

"Yes."

I let my finger drop slowly downwards; she tried not to react as I teased it down and nudged the seam line of her shift away from her skin. The small round globes of her breasts were faintly visible through the translucent fabric, each marked by the nub of a hard nipple. I stared down at them, then back up at her.

I thought of asking. But she hadn't, so I simply dropped a hand to cup her, to hold her, feel the warmth of her through the cool, rough fabric.

She arched her back but kept her gaze locked on mine. A haughty gaze, a challenging gaze, crowning those lips that kissed so well...

I kissed her again, and again, and by the third kiss she was desperately pawing at her shift as she tried to free herself from it. I stood up from her lap, pulled her to her feet, and helped her pull it up and over her body. A moment of speechless admiration of her body before she attacked me, kissing me, pushing her firm young self against me, stooping over me and crushing me to her as her hands reached down to cup me and pull me up against her.

And then she was forcing me backwards towards the bed, and my mind was spinning as I tried to decide if I was ready to leap, to cede control like this - I was the hunter, I was the one who chased, I was the one who... who...

I fell back onto the blankets, and she was on me, her leg butting up between mine as she spread me and crushed me beneath her, as she kissed me desperately, her need plain in her panting gasps, her quivering moan as I dug my nails into her shoulder and arched back up against her.

I felt her finger finding me, parting me, entering me... and then I stopped caring about anything but the woman in my arms and the way she seemed to know me as if she'd known me all my life.

Her teeth and lips on my throat, on my breasts, hot and attentive, teasing, biting, causing the perfect amount of pain without becoming unbearable, and all the while a finger, or two, in me, thrusting into me, stretching me, claiming me as hers, possessing my soul one panting breath at a time.

"Evelyn, Eve, Evie..." I panted, and she moaned in my ear as she began to grind herself along my thigh with desperate little grunting gasps.

I could feel myself building. It was so quick, so easy, so... right... with her.

"I'm.... I'm close..." I whimpered. "Don't... don't stop... don't..."

And then rictus. My body, locked rigid, my lungs clasped in a steel vise as pleasure overrode everything else. Three seconds, maybe four, her face fading... before convulsion after convulsion shook me, unsettling her, making her squawk and me scream and both of us, eventually, laugh as she clasped me to her.

"Oh... oh my God, oh my God," I panted at last, when words returned.

Her eyes tracked mine intently, her cheeks were flushed rose-pink in the dim lantern light. I groaned - long, low and wordless, and forced her over onto her back. She lay there, staring up at me, her lower lip trapped behind two perfect white teeth. She blinked once, then took a breath.

"Juliette?" she said.

"Yes."

"Will you make love to me?"

"Yes."

I caught her knee and opened her, and spent a moment just staring down at the sparse black patch that crowned her sublime lips and mons. I glanced up at her, then shifted down between her knees. I asked no permission, I simply put my finger to her; she let out a a soft, shaking groan as I teased my fingertip along her soaked lips.

"I've never had someone like you," I whispered.

"Someone... like me?" she whimpered.

"Someone I like in the way I like you," I said. I glanced up shyly, saw the answering smile that I so needed to see.

"So you like me?" she said, softly.

"It seems so."

I found the firm little nub above her lips and teased my fingertip around it; her eyes narrowed and she shifted her hips slowly in a circle.

"What is it you like about me?" she whispered.

"Your height. Your voice. The... way you smile, when you have something to smile about..."

She closed her eyes, dropped her hands down to open herself more. I watched, fascinated; I'd seldom explored myself, mainly just making do with a quick little frisking to sate the immediate need. She was comfortable with herself in ways I could only imagine.

"What... mm... else?" she moaned.

"Your... breasts," I whispered, blushing. "They're... beautiful."

"Kiss them," she begged. "Come here and... and..."

And she cried out as I did just that, bending forward to capture her left nipple between my lips and tease it with my tongue.

"You... you're so good at that, and at this," she hissed. "The other one. Kiss it... too..."

Her legs spasmed against me as I complied. I moved her left knee and stretched out beside her; she hooked her leg over me to pull me in. She rolled her head to my side and opened her eyes again, frowning at me. I watched, fascinated, as she bit her lip hard and arched again.

"Kiss me," she whispered. "Kiss me, please. Oh, please, kiss..."

I leaned in to do just that, and as my lips met hers I began to draw tiny circles on the base of her little nub with my slick fingertip. She made a raw, bestial noise and flailed for me, tangling her fingers in my hair as she bucked and ground against my thigh. She broke away, turned away, gasping hard as she tried to rub herself along me. I touched her entrance, she cried out, and locked back against me as I slipped my finger into her.

A pause, for a moment... then she humped upwards, driving me into her, then released, then repeated, quickly building in tempo as she moaned a low, continuous, plaintive wordless sound that raised goosebumps on my back and shoulders. I forced my free arm under her, found a breast, pinched the nipple hard and was rewarded with two seconds of silence, frenzied bucking and grinding against my hand, and a guttural grunt that hunched her forward away from me.

I felt her body clench on me. A slow, second by second pulse of seven hard constrictions... and she slumped down, boneless.

I kept my fingers where they were - buried in her - and eased in closer. I kissed the nape of her neck, and gently along her collar bone; she moaned softly. Then she shifted, pulled herself off me, and rolled away.

I could hear her ragged breathing. I watched as she wrapped her arms around herself.

I reached out, tentative and hesitant, to touch her shoulder blade with my finger... and she rolled back, throwing her arm over me and clenching me tight to her.

She was shaking. I kissed her cheek, her forehead, her cheek again, then she forced her face in under my chin and refused to budge.

So I amused myself by simply running my fingers over her scalp and down her neck and back.

It grew colder.

"Evelyn," I whispered at last.

"Yes."

"My bed is large enough for two."

She rolled away without a word and swung her legs off the bed. She ghosted towards the door, glancing back once over her shoulder in invitation. I followed her, caught her hand in mine, let her lead me to my room. She folded back the covers and slipped, whimpering, under the cold cotton. I slid in behind her and covered us.

"I'm frozen. Will you hold me?" she begged.

"Yes."

I kissed her shoulder and wrapped my arm over her, just below the chilled skin of her breasts. I moved in against her, and inhaled her scent, and held her until her gentle breaths became the slower rhythm of exhausted sleep. And then I simply lay there, heart aching unbearably at the thought that I was soon to lose her.

She woke me twice that night - once with her hot lips on my throat and her finger fumbling at my soaked slit, the other with the soft whimpers of a nightmare that failed to wake her.

Each time I wrapped myself around her like a cloak, and let the scent of her take me back down into dream.

═????═

I stirred, opened an eye, and realised that I was alone in my bed. I sat up and stared around my room. I brushed my hair out of my face with my fingers and stumbled, yawning, to my feet.

"Evelyn?" I called.

"I'm downstairs," came the faint answer.

I frowned, yawned once more, found my discarded robe in her room, and climbed into it. I stumbled my way downstairs, squinting at the bright morning light. Mid-morning, I guessed. I'd slept unusually long.

I heard clangs and muffled curses from the kitchen; I shuffled across the salon and through the double doors, only to stop, laughing.

Evelyn gave me a dirty look. She'd found an apron God-knows-where and had donned it over a blouse that left her legs bare to mid thigh. I spent a moment admiring her.

"You have no tea," she complained. "I managed to find some wood, but the stove won't light, and I can't start a fucking fire because I'm useless, and there's no fucking kettle or sensibly-sized pots or pans, and everything is a fucking state, and you have no fucking tea and... and..."

She covered her face with her hands and roared in frustration. I tried to stifle my giggles, got them under control, and closed with her. I wrapped my arms around her and stared up at her. She was shaking with rage, and giggles of her own, and seemed on the edge of a meltdown or, perhaps, another tantrum.

"I wanted to make you tea," she said, at last, calmly and deliberately.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

"In France, it's more traditional to drink coffee at breakfast. Breakfast tea is an English conceit."

"But you're English..."

"I'm French, too. Come. I'll light the stove, and then we can let it warm up, and then I'll..."

"Teach me how to cook," she begged, strangely desperate. "Something. Anything! Please! I'm not allowed at home. Teach me something new. Please, Juliette..."

I caught her hands and squeezed them to calm her.

"Of course I'll show you. It's not hard. Look. First, we need the fire. Here," I added. "You start with the kindling, and a ball of this dry straw. It's soaked in paraffin, so it will burn for a while. Light it," I added, moving aside for her and whispering into her ear. "But don't burn yourself. Yes. Like that. Now take small twigs... yes, those, and lay them over the flames but don't crush it... too much, move that one. There. Can you hear it?"

"The... hissing. It's like when logs..."

"Yes. Now take a big, dry log - here, this one - and reach in carefully and put it behind. Normally we'd put that in first, but this works. There. Now we close the door," I added, clanging the iron guard shut, "and we let it heat everything. In ten minutes we can add two more logs, and twenty minutes after that we can cook."

"It's... easy," she said, in surprise.

"Many complex things are, when you're shown the trick."

"And... flying?"

"Flying is hard. But it's easier if you feel it, if you understand it in your soul. I think you probably would," I added, as I stared up at her. "I think you'd be a natural."

She looked away. "Not like I'll get a chance to find out," she murmured.

"You may yet," I replied. "None of us know our future outright..."

She grabbed me, then pulled me close; I closed my eyes and basked against her like a lizard who'd found the first warm rock of the year.

"I suppose we're leaving once we've eaten?" she said, some time later.

"No."

"No? I... don't understand."

"It's a terrible day weather wise," I said. "It's very dangerous to fly in these thunderstorms. Can't you see how bad it is out there? I'm surprised you even suggested it."

She blinked, then slowly turned to stare out at the bright morning sunshine.

"Oh," she whispered, with a catch to her voice. "I see. Yes. I suppose it would be terribly reckless to fly today."

"Tomorrow might be better," I agreed.

She shivered and pushed in against me.

"Why are we staying, Juliette? What's the... real... reason?"

"Because if we stay I can give you one more day of peace," I whispered. "But..."

"But the risk to both of us grows day by day," she answered.

"Yes," I sighed. "Someone will mention seeing Damselfly at Rouen. The news will make its way to England, and ears will hear it. But I can at least give you a day of... peace."

She struggled around in my arms and closed hers around me to pull me back against her.

"Then... if all I get is one day more, I want to spend it here - with you," she whispered.

And I pushed my cheek in against her, but couldn't think of anything to say in reply.

═????═

One day became an unwise two, and two became an insane three. Both of us knew we were living on borrowed time, and that knowledge gave an almost manic edge to our actions.

We used Papa's old air-cooled motorcycle and sidecar to reach Saint-Mihiel, where I laid in supplies and Evelyn stared in wonder at the aged buildings and the even more aged people that lived in them.

We sat beneath one of the sycamores, and I read excerpts of my father's book to her as she lay, chewing a stem of grass, watching me. We swam naked in the cold, grey waters of the Lac de Madine, and made love in the long grass beside it to warm up afterwards. I fell asleep with her in my arms each night, and woke each morning to her face pressed to mine as she twitched and whimpered as she dreamed.

Every moment with her ensnared me more deeply. Every moment dragged me in closer to her. And every moment broke my heart afresh, because I knew that this was a dream and that it would, inevitably, end.

The fourth morning dawned, and we both instinctively, wordlessly knew it was our last in this brief paradise. A plane had overflown the house in the gloom - low and slow, and it had circled back for a second pass before turning away and leaving at high speed.

We both knew that we'd been found, and that cars and angry men would soon arrive.

We dressed quickly, and made our way at pace to Damselfly's hangar. Evelyn fought the doors open while I ran through an abbreviated list of checks, she caught her braided hair up under her scarf and quickly donned helmet, jacket and goggles. We eased Damselfly out of her shelter and closed the doors behind her to preserve the interior. A false start as Evelyn struggled up onto the wing, but she clambered quickly from there into her cockpit. I donned my helmet and clambered up after her.

"A kiss - for luck," I demanded.

She responded - soft, gentle and heartfelt, and I stared down at her to fix this moment forever.

Then I shook myself awake again.

"It may get exciting," I said. "Make sure your straps are tight. I will fly low and fast, and if we are intercepted I will manoeuvre. Be ready for anything."

"I trust you," she said. "But don't be a hero. Sacrifice me if you must..."

"No! Never!" I declared.

I sealed her nonsense away with another kiss, and moved back towards my own cockpit before she could respond. She turned to stare back at me, lips pursed and frowning. I primed the engine, set the mixture, and pressed the starter. Damselfly roared into life, eager, it seemed, to be on her way. I let the temperatures rise to their minimums then opened her up, angling us down the hill and around the small corner to the long open lane and the gap where Papa had felled the trees at the far end to clear the threshold and approach.

"Ready?" I shouted.

"No, but go anyway!" she shouted back as she lowered her goggles. She blew me a kiss, and turned to face forward as I eased in throttle but held Damselfly on her brakes to let the power build.

And then we were off. Waddling, trotting, cantering and then building to a full gallop, the wheels bouncing over the uneven field as we roared down the gentle slope. The controls bit, her tail came up, and we lifted, touched, lifted again... before climbing gently over the hedges. I caught us low, not far above treetops, a height that left no margin for error but meant we were better obscured. I rounded a coppice and banked us to port as we described a careful circle around to the north and Luxembourg.

I glanced down periodically at the instruments - fuel and temperatures being most important. The rest of the time I watched the horizon and the sky above and behind us. It was forty miles to the border from Saint-Mihiel. Twenty minutes, maybe fifteen. Ten if it had to be...

A spot in the distance. A plane; higher. I watched it, judged angles and trajectories...

Shit.

I lowered our nose and increased power, swung us a shade to the north. Our speed climbed another five knots, then another ten on top of that, each notch on the dial shaving a few seconds of our flight time...

Slowly the spot resolved - a biplane. It turned in a gentle arc, then banked hard towards us as the pilot or observer spotted us.

"Fuck," I breathed.

I applied full power and pointed Damselfly's nose downwards. Evelyn turned and gave me a questioning look; I pointed at our new companion and she stared up at it as it closed.

It would be close, but they'd catch us before we crossed into the Duchy. Two minutes. If we'd left two minutes earlier. Two minutes, and we'd have been uncatchable.

I called myself several vile French epithets, then rolled us into a turn away from our pursuit. I stared out to the east of us, thinking hard. Metz lay in the distance, and through Metz ran the Mouselle - spanned by numerous bridges, and lined by trees. A rat run, but it would make us harder to close on, and would lead us towards the border...

So I pointed us to the east, dropping us low, intent on closing our distance to the Mouselle as quickly as I could. Soon we were at treetop height again - and then below treetop height, and then at a ludicrous height that meant I had to watch each and every hedgerow. We flashed up and over fences, ducked through gaps between coppices, scattered livestock, all with Damselfly roaring in defiance as we bolted like a hare.

A glance over my shoulder; our pursuer had dived after us, confirming their status and us as prey. They were close enough now for me to see the gleaming disk of the propeller in the early morning sun.

They were gaining. Not precipitously, but still fast enough. I cursed.

A minute of glances snatched backwards at the rapidly resolving threat, and staring over the side to judge our distance from the river.

I counted down the seconds... and banked hard to port as we flashed over the riverbank. I let us drop, catching us a hair's breadth above the surface. I stopped looking backwards, everything counted on my skills now. Evelyn had twisted around; I could see her wide eyes tracking our pursuer as he cut across our turn. I trusted her to alert me if something was about to happen and left her to it.

A low bridge; I nudged us over it and down on the far side. We flashed between the masts of two dredgers and banked hard right around a tight sweep of the river. Ahead lay...

Evelyn screamed; trails of smoke flashed past. A calm and analytical part of me eyed the line of holes that had blossomed in our lower left wing. I kicked the rudder, slewed us to the right, saw a blur of colour flash by to the left as our pursuer overshot us. A helmeted figure stared at us, I had only an instant to admire the red and black empennage of the Royal Ordnance Factory fighter as it broke and turned away.

Ten years newer than Damselfly, and likely still with her full power rating... he'd be around for another pass all too soon.

I straightened us out and allowed our altitude to build slightly so we'd be able to trade height for speed as he came in again.

Ahead were the bridges. Seventeen of them in a two mile stretch of the river, some low and some high, some festooned with buildings and others blooming with construction cranes...

A few breaths of sanctuary if I could get us to them.

"Where is he!" I screamed at Evelyn.

She pointed at our port quarter. A snap glance; some distance still to play with. We'd do our best, I'd make him earn it. Ten miles or so to go to the Duchy, but really, we were out of time. His next pass would likely be it...

"How far!" I screamed.

"Nearly as close as last time!" came her response.

Another snap glance. I was making it easy for him, flying straight and level. I imagined him, lining us up, calculating, anticipating the fall of shot...

I throttled back, yawed us hard, banking us opposite to the yaw. It was a party trick that Damselfly could do, perhaps our last card to play. A very quick way to slow us and throw him off and cause him to overshoot again.

It worked. He flashed low overhead, engine roaring, already turning to begin his next approach, almost certainly enraged and cursing me. I pinned the throttle forward once more and dropped our nose to eke out a few knots of airspeed. And ahead I saw the bridge - lock - bridge combination of the Barrage. We'd skip over the first bridge, flash low over the weir... and then I'd do the unthinkable and fly beneath the stone arches of the Ponte de Bourgogne. Not the central one, no, the anomalous one to the right that was just that little bit wider to accommodate the vagaries of local geology. With luck his ego would drive him to follow...

Smoke trails arced past, but wider spread this time. A quick glance behind, he was further from us. Getting frustrated...

Good.

I pointed our nose at the first bridge, and offered up a prayer to anyone who might be listening.

Our airspeed climbed towards the bright scarlet band on the gauge where wings became optional and landing inevitable.

"Juliette!" Evelyn shouted.

"How close!" I screamed

"Too close! she screamed back.

We flashed so low over the Pont de Verdun that pedestrians flung themselves to the ground. I fishtailed us to give him something to think about and grinned grimly as bullets raced past to our right, kicking up spray from the surface of the river ahead. Lucky again... but he only had to be lucky once.

We screamed over the weir; I felt a slight bump as the rubber of our wheels kissed the brickwork - too close, far too close, I thought.

"Get ready!" I screamed. I angled us right as if we were going around the bridge and up the bank, then left as if I'd changed my mind, then right...

I prayed he was focused on us; trying to set up the deflection for the final burst. I prayed he would pursue just that little bit harder, be that little bit more angry...

Ahead loomed the Pont de Bourgogne.

"Juliette... Juliette! Juliette!" screamed Evelyn.

A momentary, horrifying impression of old grey stone above and besides us, and we were through. She spun, screaming... and then screamed again as she shook her fists in defiance.

I risked a glance back... and saw the black smoke, the flames, the splashes where debris had smashed into the water.

He'd gambled and misjudged the arch. We'd won, and survived.

I threw my head back and roared in ecstasy... then slumped down, trying not to go to pieces.

"Oh fuck me, fuck me," I whispered as the shakes hit. I pulled back on the throttle and eased Damselfly upwards. Evelyn was hunched up in the front cockpit; probably crying her eyes out. Couldn't blame her. Given the choice, I'd be doing the same right now.

I turned us slowly north, away from the sanctuary of the river, and we climbed out towards Amneville and beyond it, the border.

Everything felt heavy, my head felt stuffy, my eyes and back ached. Every breath was gulped, every exhalation a suppressed sob. France ebbed, the Grand Duchy drifted under our wings. I throttled back even further, located landmarks, and set our course. Fifteen minutes and we'd be on finals.

I kept glancing at the holes in our wings. Two yards to the right and that would have been Evelyn - or me.

My eyes kept blurring, my nose ran, I did my absolute best to ignore them both. I had a job to do, and I'd promised her that I would do it. And I never broke my promises.

We circled wide of the Duchy's main aerodrome, looping in long lazy spirals out and in as I waited for a space. Finally, we lined up, drifted in, and touched some hundred yards beyond the threshold.

I let Damselfly coast to a junction, and turned us towards the terminals. There'd be a phone at the office; she'd be able to contact whoever she needed to contact.

And that would be that. I'd have kept my promise to her.

I found a gap on the apron, and let Damselfly ground-loop around so that she faced back the way we'd come. I leaned out the mixture, let her choke and sputter, and finally, rest.

Metal plinked as it cooled; I could dimly hear Evelyn's sniffs and gasps. Then she reached up, undid her helmet, and let it and her goggles fall aside. She released her straps, turned to face me, and craned over the gap between us as she reached for my hand. I caught hers and held it, staring at her red eyes and the fresh trails traced by fresh tears.

Then I let her go.

I took off my helmet, dropped it carelessly aside, and clambered out of the cockpit. I half scrambled, half fell to the apron below. I turned, reached up, supported her, and caught her as she fell from the wing and into my arms. She clung to me, shaking, gasping little wordless breaths. Then she pulled back, knotted my hair into her fingers, and kissed me.

"To the victor go the spoils," she whispered, when she finally broke away. I tried to find words, but I couldn't. All I could do was stare up at her and try to fix this moment as I'd tried with all the others.

"Juliette?" she breathed. "Are you..."

"No. No, I'm not okay. Please, don't ask me if I'm okay," I managed. I took a slow, shaky breath. "We need... we need to get you to safety. How do we do that?"

"I need to phone my uncle's aide," she said. She sniffed and tried to dry her eyes again. "Where... where do we find a phone?"

"The office, I think," I said.

I fumbled at the latches of the cargo bay with trembling, clumsy fingers. I retrieved her suitcase and let the hatch close, but didn't bother to lock it. I gripped her case firmly in my left hand and caught her left hand in my right. "Come," I said, soft and level, forcing calm on myself. "It's over there."

"But... what's the hurry, why are you rushing..."

I stumbled to a stop, fought for breath. "I nearly lost you today," I gasped. I stared up at her, trying to make my mouth work, trying to get the words out. "I can't risk that again."

"Oh."

She leaned in and pushed her face against mine, then let me slowly lead her across the apron, and into the neat, modern Aerodrome office.

I stood, silent as a statue, as she begged use of the Controller's desk phone.

I stared at her, at the disordered hair, the elegant neck, the pale skin, as she spoke, briefly, to whoever was on the far side.

And then I sat beside her, deep in the shade of the slate-roofed central colonnade, holding her hand tightly in mine as we waited silently in the gentle morning breeze for our inevitable parting.

It did not take long.

A black automobile wafted up; several tall and well-dressed men emerged. Two remained by the car, watching everything around us, while the third stepped closer and bowed to Evelyn.

"Lady Villiers?" he said. "Please, you need to come with me. Time presses."

I stood, and pulled her to her feet.

The man picked up her suitcase and waited.

She stared down at me, mouth trembling.

I dug my fingers into the palms of my hands.

"Thank you for... keeping your promise," she said, at last.

"I will miss you," I answered, my voice raw and rough to my ears.

Her eyes clouded, she clamped her jaw closed and pulled me into a rough, bruising hug. Then she spun away from me and limped, hunched and shaking, to the waiting door.

She climbed awkwardly into the car and sat back into the plush leather upholstery.

A man climbed in beside her, the other two closed their doors and took the front seats.

Evelyn stared at me through the gently-smoked glass. She pressed her fingers to her lips, and then to the glass.

I caught the imagined kiss, and clasped it to my heart... and slumped back down onto the plain wooden bench as the car turned and carried her away.

The sound of the car's engine faded slowly.

I sat in the gentle breeze and cried silent, hopeless tears.

They went on, and on, and on... but like everything, they passed in the end.

Exhaustion crept up on me. I cleaned my face as I could, did the little bit of remaining work I needed to, paid my customs fees, and booked a private room in the threadbare hotel that slumped just across from the aerodrome gates.

The water was lukewarm, the dinner dull, and the bed hard, cold and empty.

None of these things mattered any more.

All that mattered was the silence, the aching sense of loss, and the bitter knowledge that once more I'd let a person in beyond my walls... and once more they'd abandoned me.

Sleep claimed me at last, but gifted me no healing.

It just left me freshly broken when I woke - cold and alone.

═????═

I had no energy. I had no desire to fly again, just yet. I wondered, from time to time, where Evelyn was and whether she was safe. I felt helpless and rudderless, waspish and snappy. The proprietor of the hotel decided to double my rates, so I decamped deeper into Luxembourg and found myself a better class of residence, hoping that improved lodgings and better food courtesy of the Imperial Hotel would at least help me pretend to be human again.

It did, somewhat.

I wallowed in hot baths. I cried myself hoarse. I drank brandy and even went so far as to order and smoke a cigar. I ate overly rich food, then vomited it up later when my stomach cramped with despair...

In short, I flirted with the darkness. But for all my many faults I was resilient - Papa had seen to that.

On the third day I rose, and dressed myself, and returned to the aerodrome. I befriended the mechanics at the depot and begged some rags, polish and metal patching tape from them. I patched the holes in Damselfly, finding several new ones in the tail and rudder that I hadn't seen before along the way.

The raw aluminium bandages stood out like pocks on Damselfly's otherwise smooth exterior, and I made a note to paint them when I returned home. A grim part of me briefly pondered stenciling the silhouette of a plane below my cockpit, but I abandoned that idea.

I was no killer, and I would not defile Damselfly.

I instead took the rags and some cleaning alcohol and methodically went about erasing the evidence of the hard use my girl had been put through. I checked her oil and coolant, drained her fuel entirely in case there were any last gifts from Rouen lurking behind some internal baffle, and filled her with fuel that I vetted as my father had always made me promise I would do. I pulled dry grass out of the radiator grille and dug mud out of the wheel bearings.

I polished the windscreens, and her flanks, and the silver and blue geometric patterns on her vertical stabilizer and rudder, and the propeller blades...

And I turned and watched as a black automobile entered the flight line and glided its way slowly closer.

When I was sure it was coming to me I set down the rags and dropped to the concrete below. I wiped my hands on my trousers and stood, squinting.

The car creaked to a halt; the driver emerged and walked back to open the passenger's door.

And I felt my heart freeze and then start beating again as Evelyn clambered untidily out.

She stared at me, and then began to limp forwards. I stepped, and took another step... and broke into a mad dash, and before I could even draw a second breath I was in her arms again.

Neither of us cared about the grime I was getting onto the beautiful cream dress she wore. Neither of us cared about anything other than the other in our arms. Neither of us spoke at first. Neither of us could, it was too raw, too real.

Finally, I managed to gasp enough air for words.

"I missed you," I panted.

"I thought... you'd have... left..." she moaned. She pulled back slightly and stared down at me. Tears warred with her smile, and her smile won. "I was so scared I'd be too late. This is the first moment I'd been... free..."

"Is it... over?" I asked. "Are you safe?"

"It's over. I'm safe."

"Oh thank fuck," I whispered. "I've been..."

She silenced me with a kiss. The driver coughed, she glanced at him, then smirked and kissed me again. And then she held me, laughing softly, as I panted and shuddered and tried to remember how to form actual phrases.

"So... what now?" I asked her, when I could at last think of things other than the warmth of the circle of her arms.

"Um... I... well..."

"What is it?" I said, staring up at her, desperately trying to divine what she needed, why she was here, what strange miracle this was that I was the unlikely recipient of.

"I have a cargo that I need transported," she said, quick and breathy, nearly stumbling over the words in her haste.

"Cargo? What... cargo?" I said, eyes narrowing. "Is... is that what this is about? You need me to carry something again? Seriously, Evelyn? After all this?"

She grinned down at me.

"Yes. Exactly that. I have a special cargo I need carried. One you're very good at... carrying."

"Stop teasing me. If that's all I am to you..." I began, as the anger flared up.

"It's me, silly," she said, and kissed me a third time.

"... what?" I managed, when she released me at last. "What... I don't... speak sense, woman! God, you enrage me so!"

"I want you to take me with you when you leave. Please, Juliette!" she begged as I stared up at her in confusion. "I... there's... it's all taken care of here, I'm not in any danger any more, but I still need to keep out of sight until it's... until... just, until. And it doesn't matter whether it's here or elsewhere so long as I stay quiet. Please. I don't want to be here by myself, all alone in this strange country. Please, Juliette. Please. Take me back to Saint-Mihiel with you. Take me home with you."

I took a breath, and sighed it out.

I glanced over my shoulder at Damselfly. I squinted up at the sky above us. I made a face, pretending to mull it over, pursed my lips as if I was unsure...

She watched me, still smiling. She knew I was going to say yes. She knew there was no chance of my saying no.

Well, so be it. But I'd pretend a bit more, first. I had my pride, after all...

"You'll need to learn some things," I mused, as if trying to make up my mind. "Tools and stuff. I don't fly freeloaders. You'll need to..."

"I'll learn!" she said, eagerly. "I'd love to learn!"

"Mhmm. And you'll need to get better at... cooking and things. Can't abide having someone around who can't even make bread or start a fire or... find tea..."

"I... I can do that, too!" she said, cheeks flushing a wonderful shade of rose as she grinned and played along.

"Hmm. Well, I suppose we could work something out... but I'm afraid we can't leave today, because the weather is terrible. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better."

Her grin widened, but she stared around innocently.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose, it is a bad day for flying. Far too much rain, and I think there's hail coming. Um... well, I suppose we could find something else to do. You know," she said softly, as her hand slid slowly up my arm. "While we wait for the weather to clear."

I stared up into her eyes, and decided the charade had gone on long enough.

I cast caution to the winds and surrendered myself to her.

"I have a suite with a huge bed and endless hot water," I confessed.

"Is there space for... a guest?" she asked. She touched my cheek with her fingertip, and it was all I could do not to whimper.

"I think... um... that there might just be."

Then, tired of words and games and fear, I stood up on my toes and kissed her there before the world, and cared not a whit for anyone who might see.

Epilogue

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes," she answered. Then she laughed. "Oh, this is so much better than shouting."

I smiled, agreeing wholeheartedly with her sentiment. Evelyn had insisted on paying for the intercom once I'd explained its use, and that with it I'd be able to talk her through her first few steps towards flight on our way back to France.

She turned and smiled back over her shoulder at me. "It feels like I'm sitting right beside you," she added.

"Think of it like me peeking over your shoulder. Now, I'll take us out and get us up, but once we're up there we're in your hands."

"Juliette - are you... sure about this?" she said, levity dropping away for a moment.

"I trust you," I answered, and delighted in the little snort I heard in reply. She'd make me pay for that one later, I thought. Oh, she'd make me pay.

I eased in our throttle and coaxed us into motion. I taxied us at a gentle pace; there was nothing chasing us, nothing urgent awaited - well, not strictly true, I thought, grinning to myself as I thought of my plans for the evening.

But that was then, and before then...

Before then, my baby and I would teach our girl to fly.

"Put your feet on the rudder pedals, and feel how gentle I am with them. Point your toes to apply the brakes... not so hard! Be gentle. Act like it's me you're touching."

"Stop teasing me, Juliette." she laughed. "Um... like that?"

"Yes. Gentle and slow. She's a thoroughbred, not a nag. Be... considerate with her and she will reward your... attentiveness."

"Juliette!" she laughed again. "Stop. Now... oh. Oh, it's like handling... a yacht."

"Precisely," I agreed. "Things take time. Make a small movement and let her adjust, then adjust again. Now, as we roll up to the line, I want you to stop us. Gently, gently... perfect. Look up to see if anything is approaching us."

"We're clear," she said, after she'd conducted a judicious scan of the sky.

"I agree, we are free to proceed. Now check the runway to make sure nobody's there."

She turned and stared hard down the long grey strip of tarmac.

"Clear as well," she said.

"I agree, Now I'll ease us out..."

Damselfly roared briefly, then resumed her coarse, grumbling rumble.

"Turn us and line us up," I instructed. "Use a bit of rudder... gently... a little too much. Not bad. Next time you'll get it. Now, be gentle with your feet and feel how I keep us straight as we start to roll."

I checked once more over my shoulder. "Slowly push the throttle all the way forward," I instructed her, and watched the lever move. "Perfect," I said, as Damselfly sang and we began to move.

Thirty knots. Her nose was dropping, her tail lifting. Forty knots. Fifty... she was rising on her wheels now, lifting her skirts, her nose down to near horizontal. Evelyn's head was framed perfectly between earth and distant sky, free strands of her scruffy braid flapping in the turbulence as she stared forwards.

"We're ready... and now... I ease the yoke gently back a hair and she rises."

"It's like a beautiful dance," she shouted, forgetting for a moment that we were linked. I laughed; she cursed, then joined me in laughter as the world dropped away from us.

We climbed slowly into the bright blue morning, and when I was content we were high enough I took a breath and sighed it out. It was time.

"Take the controls, sweetheart," I told her. "I will have my hands near enough to catch you. Watch the sky, watch the angle of the horizon, and let Damselfly speak to you."

"It's... magical," she laughed, exultant, some time later.

I leaned back against the headrest and watched her, enjoying this moment and the knowledge that I'd been right. She was a natural.

I smiled again, and blew her a kiss she did not see.

"Take us home," I said.

And, with just a little bit of guidance...

She did.

I wrote this for the younger girl who day-dreamed of being a pilot, as a gift from the older woman who still stops what she's doing to watch planes fly by.