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glass before turning back to him. “I am a healer. And you are absolutely correct. The mark is nothing spectacular, but it is enough, non ? Well, for most of my enemies, at least.”
    Simon finished his own drink then stood. “It is getting late. Forgive me if I beg my leave. I will look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
    “ Oui .” I stood too and smiled my thanks. “Forgive me for keeping you.”
    Simon bowed. “A pleasure.” He headed for the door.
    “Simon…wait.” I ran to stop him. “I have not properly thanked you for interceding on my behalf back at the Witchfinder’s estate.” I reached up, brushed my lips against his cheek and smiled. “Thank you for being so vaillant .”
    Simon seemed surprised by my actions, but he bowed once more. “ Bonsoir , Cynara. And you are most welcome.”
    I nodded, grateful the Fates had sent someone who would help me get through this voyage. Especially one such as Simon. He was much too easy to talk with. Share the time with. A kindred soul, if you will.
    I would have to be very careful around him and not share too much regarding my ever-growing plans to kill Henri. Though considering Henri’s reaction tonight regarding my inheritance, perhaps allowing dear Henri to become a pauper would be the best revenge possible.
    If only my heart would allow it.

Chapter Four
Simon
    It was early, far earlier than I liked to rise. I could not suppress a yawn as I made my way down the untidy pathway and through a small copse. Out of the trees, I blew on my chilled hands as I headed in the direction of the field where Abigail kept her grandfather’s old airship, nestled away in a rat-infested hanger that had begun life as a smuggler’s barn. The barn had tunnels connecting to Bartleby, which had made it convenient for hiding from George’s excise men back in the last century. The tunnels were still useful—her dear grandpapa had been quite the smuggler himself until his untimely demise at the ripe age of eighty-nine. He had no compunctions about breaking the law, a trait he passed down to my dear Abigail.
    I mounted a small rise, too little to be called a hill, and came upon a scene of ultimate and utter confusion. The wide double barn doors were open, and the airship gondola just inside had men swarming over it, making it resemble a ragged hornet’s nest. The series of airbags were spread on the field beside the barn, and there were quite a dozen men and women working on the material, repairing tears and adding patches, enormous needles flashing in the sun. All in all, there must have been upwards of thirty people employed in making the shaky old thing airworthy again.
    I’ll give him this—Sir Eli does not stint when it comes to his own affairs.
    I made my way to the open doors, dodging workmen loaded down with tools and equipment. Just inside, Rupert presided over a battered old table with a tea urn and plates of sandwiches.
    “Where is her ladyship?” I asked him as I dodged two men carrying a long wooden beam who looked intent on decapitating me.
    Rupert, smiling at a black-haired woman whose apron bristled with needles as long as my hand—obviously a seamstress working on the airbags—barely spared me a glance. “She’s in the engine compartment, Mr. Simon,” he said as he poured steaming tea into a series of mugs. “She and three of Sir Eli’s engineers are in deep in conversation about…something.” He waved toward the back of the huge barn before holding out a plate of sandwiches to the buxom wench, who simpered and took four.
    I could see Rupert had his hands full, so I edged my careful way past the gondola to the rear of the barn. There I saw, encased in wide straps and hanging from a beam far overhead, what I assumed to be the airship engine. Or at least some greasy, dirty mass of iron and brass, with bits sticking out in what looked like no sort of rhyme or reason.
    I confess it, here and now, something you may have already suspected: I am not