“As you can see,” he said, “she isn’t made for comfort.”

Maria said slowly, “No… I can see she’s made for one man’s convenience. It looks rather like…” she hunted for a comparison, and finally settled upon, “A wooden kite, strapped to a hydrogen sack.”

Algernon Rice’s smile finally cracked enough to show a hint of even, white teeth when he said, “That’s not an altogether unfair assessment. Come, let me show you. We’ll have to strap your belongings under the seat for the sake of balance—and speaking of the seat, it’s a single bench and we’ll have to make the best of sharing.”

“That’s fine,” she said, and she meant it, but she wasn’t really listening to him. She was examining the Fish.

The Fish could best be described as a personal-sized dirigible, affixed snugly to an undercarriage made of a light, unfinished wood frame that was open to the elements—though somewhat shielded by the bulbous balloon that held it aloft. The balloon was reinforced with a frame that could’ve been wicker, or some other light, resilient material; and it was fuller at its front than at the rear.

“What a remarkable machine,” she said.

Algernon Rice took her large bag and a length of hemp rope, and he began to tie it into place. “It’s small and light, but the speeds it can reach when the tanks are fired…well, I might have to ask you to hang onto your hat. They don’t hold much of a burning capacity, really, because it usually isn’t required. I’ll refuel in Kansas City, at the service docks, and make my way back home by bedtime.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she murmured, and came to stand behind him to watch him work. When they were both satisfied that her bag was secure, they withdrew to the passenger compartment and Mr. Rice looked away while Maria organized her fluffy, rustling dress into a ladylike position inside the little wooden frame.

Then he slung a satchel over his suit which, he explained, contained basic repairing tools and emergency supplies, “Just in case,” and he made some adjustments to the rear booster tanks—neither one of which was any larger than a dog. Finally, he climbed onto the seat beside her and showed her where best to hold on, for safety’s sake. He donned a pair of aviator’s protective glasses and handed Maria a secondary pair, which she could scarcely fit over her hat and onto her face.

While she adjusted herself, he told her, “I hope you’re not easily sickened by flight or other travel, and if you have any sensitivities to height or motion, I’d advise you to brace your feet on the bar below and refrain from looking down.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she assured him and indeed, she braced her feet on the solid dowel while she gripped the frame’s side.

With the pump of a pedal and the turn of a crank, a hissing fuss became a sparking whoosh, and in only a moment, the Flying Fish scooted off her moorings and hobbled up into the sky.

The experience was altogether different from flying on the Cherokee Rose, with its accommodating seats and its heavy tanks, its lavatory and galley. Every jostle of every air current tapped at the undercarriage and sent it swinging ever so slightly, in a new direction every moment or two. It was a perilous feeling, being vulnerable to insects, birds, and the very real possibility of toppling off the bench and into the sky—especially as the craft climbed higher, and crested the last of the buildings, passing the edge of the town and puttering westward over the plains.

Algernon Rice spoke loudly enough to make himself heard over the pattering rumble of the engines and the wind, “I ought to have warned you, it feels like a rickety ride, but we’re quite safe.”

“Quite safe?” she asked, determined that it should come out as a formal question, and not as a squeak.

“Quite safe indeed. And I hope you’re warm enough. I also should have warned that it’s cooler up here, the higher we fly. Is your cloak keeping you satisfactorily comfortable?” he asked.

She lied, because telling the truth would neither change nor fix the situation. “It’s fine. It keeps me warm in Illinois, and it’s managing the worst of the wind up here.” But in truth, the dragging rush of the air was a fiendish thing with pointed fingers that wormed between every crease, crevice, and buttonhole to cool her skin with a dreadful determination. She fervently wished for another hat, something that would cover her ears more fully, even if it crushed her hair and looked appalling; but her only other clothing was stashed below, and retrieving it would only slow the mission, which was an unacceptable cost.

So all the way to Kansas City, in the hours over the winter-chilled plains, she held her hat firmly onto her head with one hand and gripped the railway with the other.

They chatted only a little, for the ambient noise was sometimes deafening, and Maria’s entire face felt utterly frozen within the first hour. If she parted her lips her teeth only chattered and stung with the cold air rushing against them, so instead she huddled silently, sometimes leaning against the firm, confident form of Algernon Rice—who appeared to be glad to have her close, though he made no unwelcome advances.

After what felt like eternity and a day, but was surely no more than half a dozen hours, Kansas City sprouted out of the plains. Buildings of various heights were scattered, and even at the Fish’s altitude Maria could tell the blocks apart, guessing which neighborhoods were cleanest and which ones were best avoided by respectable people. The streets split, forked, and ran in a crooked grid, sprawling across the ground in a life-sized map that Maria found more fascinating than when she’d spied Jefferson City from the Cherokee Rose. She was closer to the world this way—even chilled to the bone, with skin pinkly chapped and hands numb with winter.

She looked down past her feet, and the bar around which she’d wrapped her toes. She watched the land draw up close as the Fish drew down low; and she saw the commercial dirigibles lined up, affixed to pipework docks that were embedded in the earth with roots as deep as an oak.

There came a clank and a soft bounce, then a harder one. The Fish settled into a slot beside an enormous craft painted with a freight company’s logo, and a service yard hand stepped up with a length of chain and a lobster clasp—though the young man didn’t know where to affix it.

“I’ll handle that, my boy,” Algernon Rice announced as he turned a crank to cut the engines. He dismounted from the bench and took the claw, fastening it to the exposed mainshaft that ran the length of the undercarriage.

Even though the Fish had settled, Maria felt vibrations in her legs and feet. She stomped them against the bar, then stood and ducked her head in order to escape the frame. Algernon Rice dashed to her side, hand outstretched, but she waved him away this time. She was shaken by the trip, but she would not restore herself to steadiness by leaning on him any further.

“Thank you,” she said. “But I’m fine. Give me…give me just a moment.” She wrung her hands together, squeezing blood back into them and willing them to warm within the too-thin gloves that hadn’t shielded them well enough.

“Very well,” he said, and returned his attention to the yard boy, asking after fuel prices, slot rentals, and the nearest boarding house, hotel, or restaurant where a lady might find some refreshments.

The lady in question was starving, now that she heard him mention it. But there was work to be done and she reached beneath the Fish to untie her bag. Upon retrieving it, she threaded her arm through its wide band of a strap, and held it up under her arm.

Rice returned, the yard worker at his side. He said, “We can leave the Fish here, and I’ve arranged for a refueling and a brief stay. I’m sure you can understand if I’m in no rush to return to the air. It’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and said, “I’ve never had a ride quite like it. And I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I’m in no hurry to repeat it. I think a passenger line will make an easier return trip for me.” She turned her attention to the boy beside him and said, “You work here, young man?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

“Perhaps you could answer a question for me, if it isn’t too much trouble. Could you tell me, please, what’s that ship over there?” And she pointed across the way, to a monstrous great craft that was cast in hues of black and silver. It was easily half again as large as the Cherokee Rose, and a thousand times less friendly.

The boy hemmed and hawed before finally saying, “It’s a military ship, ma’am. It’s here for some repair work, or something. I don’t know exactly.”

“And even if you did,” she guessed, “You aren’t supposed to talk about it, anyway?”

He looked relieved, and said, “That’s right. Everybody knows it’s there, but we’re all supposed to pretend it’s not.”

Maria didn’t have to ask which military the behemoth belonged to. She made her assumption even before she walked down the lane between the rows of ships, and spied the blue logo with silver lettering. Seeing the ship unsettled her for no reason she could name, and a thousand she could suggest. But at the core, it only made her unhappy because she was no longer supposed to feel threatened by it.

After making another arrangement or two with the yard boy, Algernon Rice took the larger of Maria’s two bags and walked beside her on the way to the edge of the docks. “We can take an early supper, if you like. There’s a serving house a few blocks away where you can rent a room.”

“But I doubt I shall need a room, Mr. Rice. If Croggon Hainey is still within Kansas City’s limits, it is my fervent hope that I’ll find him and deliver him to the authorities with all haste.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said too casually, as if he had no doubt that she was incorrect. “But it would be worth your while to have a stable base of operations, don’t you think? A room where you can leave your belongings, and a place to which you might retire if you’re compelled to stay in town longer than you expect. Anyway,” he added, “It’s on the Pinkerton dime, so you might as well make yourself comfortable.”