“Just making Miss Small more comfortable.”
And that’s when Hink realized the soft sound on the edge of his hearing wasn’t the wolf whining. It was Miss Small moaning.
“We’ll be on solid ground soon,” Hink said. “Just a little farther now.”
He didn’t know why his heart had suddenly sped up, nor why he felt anxious for the wind and glim to hurry and bring them quickly and safely to Old Jack’s.
Could be just the thought of Miss Small in pain bothered him. Could be Molly was right about his feelings.
Could be he couldn’t afford to worry about that right now. Not flying this kind of terrain.
He poured his concentration into flying. Watching for the rise and fall of cliff and valley, skirting the edge of plains and urging the ship to hold on and hold strong until he got them down safe and whole.
He was so wrapped in the shift of the Swift’s bones, the drag of rain on her skin, the press and burn of glim and coal, that he didn’t even notice Mr. Seldom standing beside him until he put his hand on the wheel.
“Ladyfinger Falls.” Seldom pointed.
The glitter of white among the shadow of the cliff was the clear marker that Turnback Junction was just below. Hink nodded. He’d been flying by instinct, flying by feel, more of his thoughts upon the ship around him than on the destination he was headed for.
He could have missed that marker. Could have traveled the wind until there wasn’t glim to keep her afloat or land her soft. It was a startling realization.
Lost in a mountain range with winter coming on and almost no supplies was no way to end a flight.
“Mr. Seldom,” Hink said, his voice sounding odd, as if he’d forgotten to use it for days instead of just the handful of hours they’d been in the air. “How far out would you think we are from Old Jack’s?”
Guffin stopped swearing: Chinese, now, and Ansell stopped singing. Both men looked over at him like he’d just turned into a toad.
He was the captain. He’d never once asked Seldom where he was in the air in all the years they’d run together.
The Irishman didn’t hesitate. “Twenty miles due northeast. Don’t think the rain’s going to let up.”
Hink nodded. That’s what he’d thought too, but he needed to hear another man’s judgment. “Then see to it the torches are ready. And see to our passengers’ comfort in any way you can.”
Seldom paused a moment.
“Yes?” Hink asked.
“Two bells rang about five miles back.”
Two bells meant they were nearly out of fuel. He’d need to coast the Swift and make the wind and steam last as long as he could.
“Thank you, Mr. Seldom.”
“You losing your mind, Captain?” Guffin called out. “’Cause I’ll fly this tub if you ain’t right-headed.”
“I’m plenty right in the head to know I’d never turn the wheel over to you, Mr. Guffin,” Hink said. “We’re cutting speed. Earn your keep and mind the gears.”
Hink chewed on the inside of his cheek to try to keep more of his thoughts out of the ship, and into the flying of her. Every time he felt his mind slipping, wandering off like it was dreaming itself into the wind, he’d shift his grip on the wheel, wipe his face, or bite at his lip.
Twenty miles seemed to crawl by below. It was heading into evening now, and raining hard. There hadn’t been enough sunlight in the whole day to stretch a thimble’s shadow.
“We’re close enough,” Hink finally said. “Seldom, Lum, light the torches and set them strong. There’s a hell of a lot of rain. We don’t want to be missed.”
Seldom and Ansell each grabbed up three torches from the overhead rack near the doors and lit them. Greasy fire that stank of creosote lit up the interior of the ship, flickering glint and glow across the walls.
Then each man opened a door on the side of the ship, latched harness lines to the hand bar and stepped out on the running board to set the torches tight in the exterior clamps.
Three torches on each side was a sign to Old Jack that the ship coming in was friendly, broken, and willing to pay for repairs and shelter.
Seldom and Ansell ducked back into the ship, dripping with rain. They shut the doors tight. All of the crew looked out the windows. They needed to see a torch go up to say they could land. If there wasn’t a torch somewhere in the hidden tumble of stone and flats of the maze Old Jack called home, they’d have to move on.
Old Jack only had two ways to greet a ship. A torch to wave it in to land, or a cannon to drop it from the sky.
“There!” Ansell pointed. “Torch at eleven o’clock, Captain.”
“Good eyes, Mr. Ansell.”