The rooms, which he’d helped check, were mostly living quarters and mostly tiny. Thin-mattressed beds folded up against the walls. Round tables, inlaid with garish flowers, bore the remnants of family life: children’s wooden blocks, old-fashioned quill pens, china plates and cups that had fallen and cracked when the ship rolled. Big silver ewers—full of strong-smelling tea—hung from a trio of small chains fastened to their bases. That tea wasn’t spilling no matter how bad the turbulence got.
This was where Jael came from. He touched the leaf of a houseplant bolted into a porthole sill. And this was where Campbell would make certain she couldn’t return. Only the good Lord knew why she’d want to, from the sounds of it. He frowned and headed back down to the cargo bay.
He got there just as Jael dragged herself over the edge. The deputies must have kept her back, or she’d have been here before.
Zlo still stood in the corner, where Campbell—balancing against a crate—talked to one of his men.
Jael caught sight of Zlo, stopped short, then slid down the incline toward him. She slapped him square in the face. “_Chtob ti sdoh._”
Zlo didn’t even flinch.
Campbell shoved her back and looked at Hitch. “Get her out of here.”
The corner of Zlo’s mouth twitched in what might almost have been a laugh. “Zakroi rot, dura. Dumaesh voiny konchautsya? _Oni beskonechny._”
Jael looked ready to slap him again.
Hitch grabbed her arm. “C’mon, it’s over. Where’s this dawsedometer of yours?”
She nodded toward the back of the room, where a regular-sized door looked like it would lead them farther aft.
“What’d he tell you?” Hitch asked.
She snorted. “That wars are never over.” She pulled her arm free and hobbled ahead of him, through the door into another large room.
Towering pistons—to drive the propellers no doubt—took up the back half. They were silent now, bent like weary workmen leaning against their shovels. In front of them, a tall rectangular form, about the size of a chest of drawers, stood shrouded in tarps. It hummed gently.
Jael stopped short and gasped, painfully.
He glanced at her. “That it?”
“Yes. It hurts.”
“Stay here. I’ll shut it off.”
“No.” She gripped his forearm. “I must see it ended.”
He helped her limp across the room, then tugged off the tarps for her. Underneath, a suitcase-shaped bronze box sat on top of a wooden cabinet. Three reflective panels on adjustable hinges topped it. The backside was a forest of punctured pipes—kind of like what you’d find on an organ. A panel of round buttons, like typewriter keys, and two funnel-shaped exhaust ports finished it off.
“Looks worse’n J.W.’s jalopy.”
She started poking buttons. “It emits gas of chemicals into sky—and this causes rain.” She pointed up, to where a skylight showed a blink of gray clouds. They were in the very back of the ship, where the bottom level jutted out from under the top tiers. “That is basic ingredient. From there comes other weather.”
“And you can turn it off?”
“I can make it stop making gases.”
“And the storm’ll quit and the clouds’ll go away?”
“It will stop making storm. Then wind must blow away clouds, like with all weather.”
The machine’s vibration changed ever so slightly. In a moment, she closed her eyes and let out a relieved sigh. The pained lines in her forehead slacked off a little.
He leaned an elbow against the edge of the bronze box and relaxed enough to let a few of the jitters shake their way out of his system.
He watched her.
He’d expected her to look like she fit here—like this was the puzzle where her piece belonged.
But she didn’t, quite. She looked more like she belonged back in town than she did here.
What was this like for her? Maybe this would provide closure—permission to move on. Hopefully it would work out for her a little better than his trip home had for him.
“This must be kinda hard for you,” he said.
“You mean, to see Schturming like this?” She looked up at the slanted roof. “I suppose yes. I have never seen her on ground.”
“With her wings busted?”
“Yes.” She eased out a smile. “But she will be flying again.”
Maybe, maybe not.
He shifted. “Did you find any friends?”
She shrugged. “There is no one to find. I lived down here.” She pointed to a tiny room in the corner. “But it was secret. If Engine Masters found out, they would have put me in custody. Only Engine Masters are allowed here. Nikto are not allowed anywhere but corridors. Nestor made exception for me.”
Hitch strolled over to peek inside her room. Another one of those thin mattresses covered most of the floor. Tools poked out of a tarpaulin bag. A khaki jumpsuit with flowered yellow patches at the knees hung from a nail. A green bottle woven inside of a basket dangled from the same sort of contraption as the ewers upstairs. The walls were covered in woodcut illustrations torn from books.
“Snug.” He turned back to her. “But kinda lonely, I reckon.”
“I was not being not happy.” She looked back up at the skylight. “I could always be seeing sky.”
He chewed his lip. Campbell was going to make sure she couldn’t return here, even if she still wanted to.
But she didn’t. He could see it in her eyes.
So what did that mean? That she’d come with Hitch in a second if he snapped his fingers? She had no roots at all. She had even less to hold her back than he did.
But he didn’t want to just snap his fingers. He didn’t want to promise her something he might not be quite ready to give. He didn’t want to complicate things between them right from the start.
Of course, it already was complicated to some degree.
A troupe member—a wing walker—that was one thing. But she was already more than that.
“So,” he said, “now what?”
She shrugged. “I… cannot say. I have never had that question to be asking.” She pushed a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. “Now Groundsworld must be my home.”
Not quite the answer he was looking for. The ground wasn’t his home, that was sure.
But when she spoke the word, a small little thread of something that was almost, but not quite, longing trembled through him. Longing to stay? Just because she was going to stay here—in the one place he’d always been happy to escape? So now he was going to do, what? Stay with her? Just like that?
That made about as much sense as letting Lilla fly the Jenny.
Still, for a second, something in his windpipe hurt.
He cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets.
He was the one who was complicating matters here. She’d stay or she’d go and she’d do it all on her own accord, because that was how she always did things. He’d already more or less told her she could join the troupe if she wanted. Should she decide to stay, that’d sure enough take care of his problem for him. He wouldn’t try to talk her out of it. If coming home had proved nothing else, it had proved that trying to talk them through only tended to make things more complicated.
“Well,” he said, “I’m glad we got this dawsedometer thing turned off for you anyway.”