Conor felt tears film across his eyes. ‘I… I, of course that is what I would like, but what would it mean for the child… My…’
‘You can say it,’ said Linus. ‘He is your brother.’
‘What would it mean for my brother?’ blurted Conor. ‘Bonvilain would murder him. If my father challenges the marshall, he will kill them all.’
Linus seemed to glare down at Conor, as though he could see through the silk scarf tied across his eyes. ‘And what of Isabella? I hear talk in the village, she has already repealed taxes and abolished import duty. She is becoming a true queen. How do you think Bonvilain will respond to that?’
Conor wiped his eyes. ‘She is the queen. She has people to protect her. She loved me, she said, and yet she believed that I helped to kill her father.’
‘That’s not what I hear. There is talk of Conor Broekhart in the village too. He was a hero, they say. He died trying to protect the king.’
Conor snorted. ‘The official story. Bonvilain said that my part in the murder would be covered up to spare my family. That was his gift to the Broekharts.’
‘And you are certain that Isabella was included in this deception.’
This was a startling thought. What if Isabella had not known? Imagine if she believed her young suitor to have perished that night.
Don’t think about it. It is too painful, and it makes not a jot of difference.
Conor sat at his workbench, clenching both fists before his own face.
‘Please, Linus, stop. I can’t bear to explore possibilities. My connection with the Broekharts is severed. I cannot be responsible. Bonvilain is too big. I am Conor Finn.’
‘The name Finn. Bonvilain’s gift to you.’
Conor felt as though his forehead were collapsing, crushing his brain.
Love, family, happiness. They were luxuries. Life was the prize. Stay alive and keep your family alive.
‘I am alive. I will stay alive.’
Linus barked a short laugh. ‘Stay alive? Which is why you hurl yourself daily from a tower.’
‘I made a promise to Otto Malarkey.’
‘So, you would kill yourself for diamonds, but not for family or honour. I think Victor would be much disappointed in his student.’
Conor surged to his feet. ‘Do not lecture me, old man. You are not my father.’
‘Exactly right, boy,’ said Linus softly, the anger draining from his face. ‘I am not your father.’
Conor turned his back without another word, gathered the collapsed glider under his arm and climbed the ladder to the roof.
CHAPTER 16: SNAKES IN THE GRASS
Conor and Linus barely spoke the following day, apart from a few grunted greetings. The American purposefully bashed himself against the furniture a few times, hoping to squeeze some concern from Conor, but without result. Either Conor didn’t hear the groaning or he was ignoring it.
His heart may have been hardened by Little Saltee, thought Wynter, but it was petrified by the sight of his little brother.
Night came with little change in mood, but when Conor primed the engine for the wind tunnel, Linus felt he had to speak.
‘You cannot fly tonight, Conor. The wind is wrong.’
Conor did not turn round. ‘You are not my father, remember? And the wind is not wrong, it is a few degrees more to the south than I would like, but I can manoeuvre around it.’
‘And the moon? There should be a harvest moon tonight.’
Conor buttoned his black jacket, scanning the panorama before him. There was barely a cloud in the sky. A glowing moon was reflected in dancing sections on the ocean’s surface. As clear a night as he had ever seen.
‘It’s overcast,’ he said brusquely, positioning himself below the glider, which hung from a gantry overhead. ‘Lower the glider, would you?’
Linus, familiar now with the rooftop layout, counted the steps to a winch bolted to the wall.
‘Ready?’
Conor raised his arms, ready to thread through the harness. ‘Lower away. Five cranks of the handle.’
‘I know. The same as yesterday. Will I bother with dinner?’
‘Yes. Sorry about last night. I was in no mood for eating.’
‘Nothing fresh, mind. I will reheat last night’s fare.’
‘The hot chocolate too? I regretted walking out on that. The roof is cold.’
Linus smiled. ‘Sometimes a tantrum is expensive.’
The glider settled on to his back, and Conor buckled the harness across his chest, and drew the straps up between his legs. He reached down, curling his fingers around the harness winch handle, like a gunfighter checking the butt of his pistol.
‘I wound the propellers,’ said Linus.
Conor twanged one of the bands. ‘Good and tight. Nicely done.’
‘I have a heightened sense of tautness,’ quipped Wynter, locking the winch. ‘Can’t you wait, Conor? The wind is wrong. I can smell the salt.’
Conor buttoned the flying jacket to his chin, then fixed his goggles. Once disguised, his entire demeanour changed. He stood taller and felt capable of more violence, no more a boy.
‘I cannot wait, Linus. Not another night. I will have my diamonds and be done with this life. America awaits. We can open a business together. I will fly my gliders and you can test the tautness of things.’
Wynter’s smile was tinged with sadness. ‘I am not ready to return home just yet, boy. Nicholas brought me here to do a job and I intend to see it through. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I shall not rest while Bonvilain flourishes. He took the best men I have known away from me. Tonight, I fear, he may take another.’
Conor drew his sabre, balancing it on one wrist to test its weight. ‘Do not fear for me, Linus. Fear for anyone who stands in my way this night.’ He sheathed the sword, then checked the load in both revolvers.
‘Oh, and would you turn off the wind tunnel before you go to bed?’
Conor ducked into the wind tunnel and was blasted into the night. Linus heard him go in a whoosh of air, creak of wood and trailing whoop.
Come back alive, boy, he thought. You are their only hope.
And then.
Perhaps I will make dinner from scratch. Some of my famous grits perhaps. An airman deserves to eat well. Fresh hot chocolate too.
Conor held his breath while the tunnel blast filled his wings and propelled him towards the stars. That first moment of tumult and force was as confusing as ever. He could not tell sea from sky, stars from their reflections. The air pummelled his torso with ghostly fists until the glider aligned itself with the wind’s direction.
Then came the moment of pure flight when the wind lifted him, his glider creaked and took the strain and he was propelled bodily further from earth.
A moment of happiness. Nothing to do but be at peace.
Conor found that he relished this brief stretch more each time he flew. It was a calm before the storm, he knew, and yet while he flew with the wind at his back he could forget his troubles; they were as earthbound as most humans.
Rising thermals lifted him to an altitude higher than he had ever flown. The land spread out below him like a living map. He could see white tops stretching in lazy meanders for miles along the coast, like contour lines on a map. Several small boats bobbed gently on the silver black sea, fishermen taking advantage of the night tide and calm waters. Conor thought he heard a chorus of halloos from one boat. Had he been seen? It didn’t matter – after this night the mysterious airman would fly no more. The next time he took to the air would be as a free American citizen with papers to prove it, thanks to Zeb Malarkey. He would ship the flying machine in parts to be assembled in Nebraska, or Wyoming or maybe California. Whichever was furthest from the Saltee Islands.