Gavin pushed himself into an upright sitting position on his pallet with deliberate slowness. Each movement pulled at his back, sending demon twinges up and down his body. Around him, the dark hold smelled of tea and cinnamon, silk and paper. Bundles, boxes, and crates created chunks of deeper shadow all their own. He carefully took up the plate and shoveled salty beans into his mouth. The chain around his left ankle clanked.

“Have we moved yet?” he asked.

Stone shook his head. “Still tethered. Not much to see out there but a hangar, my boy. Wellesley Field’s a good three miles from London. You can’t even see the city now that we’ve landed, so you ain’t missing anything.”

“I’ve made the Beefeater run a hundred times,” Gavin muttered. “Seen London.”

“Right.”

Gavin finished the beans and shoved the plate aside. It felt odd to be on board ship with her engines silent. Two engines had turned up damaged from the pirate fight and had shut themselves down not long after Gavin’s whipping. Repairs had taken more than a week, and in that time both the Juniper and the pirate ship had drifted about as playthings of light and wind. Correcting their course and getting to England had taken another two days. A medium-sized dirigible normally made the run from New York to London in three days, two with favorable winds, but the Juniper had arrived in London as a captive more than ten days late. Gavin wondered if she and her crew had been reported lost. Had anyone notified his family? The telegraph offices ran regular messages, but he had no idea if the Boston Shipping and Mail Company would go through the expense for a mere cabin boy. The image of his mother slumped across the kitchen table, a crumpled telegram in her hand and tears on her face, made his throat grow thick, and he found himself hoping the BSMC was too miserly for common courtesy.

He swallowed the tinny taste of beans and made himself ask the question he’d been dreading. “Will we be ransomed soon?”

Stone shrugged. “Probably. Captain hasn’t said, but he can hardly keep you all locked in the brig for another week, can he?”

“Is he going to ransom me?”

“He’ll ask. The real question is”—Stone leaned forward a little—“will your company pay it?”

Gavin’s mouth went dry. The fears he’d been trying to suppress all the long days he’d spent lying on his stomach in the Juniper’s hold while fevers wrenched and tore at his healing body came roaring back. The BSMC always paid ransom for ships. It usually paid ransom for officers. It often paid ransom for airmen. It never paid ransom for cabin boys—not even for cabin boys only a few weeks away from their eighteenth birthdays.

“That’s what I thought,” Stone said, reading the expression on Gavin’s face. “Listen, boy—Captain Keene ain’t cruel. He only beat you instead of throwing you overboard for killing Blue, didn’t he? And he let that old man tend your back, right?” When Gavin didn’t answer, he went on. “I think he likes you. If I talked to him, I bet he’d let you stay on with us. You’d be a proper privateer instead of a milksop merchant. Load better’n being sold to the East End whorehouses.”

“Is that what he’ll do?”

“Most like. He has to make money off you somehow to pay for everything you ate.”

Gavin wondered on what sort of scale a few cans of beans outweighed the lives of Tom and Captain Naismith and the lashes that had landed on Gavin’s back. He wanted to be angry, but he was too tired. The skin over his spine felt tight.

“So those are my choices,” Gavin said. “Join you or spend my time doing... doing what Madoc Blue wanted.”

“Think so.” He scooted closer to the gunnysack pallet and perched on its edge, close enough for Gavin to feel the heat of his leg. “Anyway, I’m ready.”

With stiff, reluctant movements, Gavin leaned toward Stone and retrieved his fiddle from its battered case on the floor. Once it was under his chin, he gave Stone a resigned look. It was the price for extra food—and for Stone speaking up so Gavin would keep his life.

“ ‘Tam Lin,’ ” the man said, his eyes glowing green above the phosphorous light. His white leathers, those he had stolen from one of Gavin’s crewmates, took on the same sickly hue.

Gavin played. The ancient song’s minor key meshed with the unearthly cold fire within the lantern as his bow and skittering fingers cast dreadful shadows over the bulkheads. Every note was a curse, but the iron chain around Gavin’s ankle siphoned his strength, and the music seemed to fall away into the darkness, its art and beauty flat and dead. Stone didn’t notice. He nodded his head, tapped his fingers, and grinned with green teeth.

When Gavin finished, he said, “I lied, son. I’m sorry.”

The bow jumped in Gavin’s hands and screeched across the strings. “What do you mean?” he asked, straining to keep his voice level even as his heart jerked hard.

“The captain already ransomed the crew, and the company’s wired the money. Except for you. They drew the line at a cabin boy.”

Gavin’s mouth dried up and tension tightened his chest. “They’re gone? Everyone’s gone?”

“On their way back to Boston. You’re the only one left. The captain talked to a woman what runs a little backgammon house, and she was all happy to hear about a boy who can fiddle in the evening and handle instruments at night. I’m supposed to bring you up. The captain’ll give me hell for taking so long, but I had to get another tune of you, didn’t I?”

Gavin hit him with his fiddle. The instrument’s edge caught the underside of Stone’s chin, and he went down with a grunt, eyes glassy. Gavin went through his pockets with chilly fingers and came up with a key. It fit the lock on his ankle chain. He released it, fastened it around Stone’s ankle, and tossed the key into the dark hold.

“Bastard,” he whispered, then shoved the fiddle into its case and made his way toward the ladder out of the hold, abandoning the pretense that his wounds made him a near invalid. He just wished they didn’t still hurt. At the last moment, he ran back to strip Stone’s white leather jacket and put it on himself. It was overly large and still warm from Stone’s body heat.

Gavin threaded a path through the dark hold, finding his way by touch and memory, until he came to the rear ladder. He crept upward to the hatch, fiddle case strapped to his back, and listened. No voices. With aching care, he edged the hatch cover up until he could peer out onto the deck. Dim light; no people. He eased the cover higher, set it aside, and froze as it scraped against the wooden decking. The sound vanished into the distance as if swallowed.

Heart thudding in his rib cage, Gavin slipped out onto the deck. He had the sense of great space all around him, but there was no sky. Overhead, he heard the faint creak of the envelope straining against the thick netting that tethered it to the ship, and the deck swayed only faintly. Behind the ship lay a huge archway of cloudy light, a doorway so big the Juniper could coast straight through it. She was in one of the hangars at Wellesley Field. Gavin had seen the Juniper into Wellesley any number of times, but this was the first time she’d arrived as a prisoner. He wondered where the pirate ship had gotten to—and the pirates, for that matter.

As if in answer, a voice from below shouted, “Stone!”

Gavin’s heart jerked again, and he scrambled to the thin cover of the gunwale.

“Stone!” called the voice again, and Gavin recognized Captain Keene. “Bring that boy down now, you lazy fuck! The lady wants to have a look.”

Gavin risked a peek over the edge. The Juniper was anchored only a few feet above the hangar floor, lashed down with a series of guy ropes that ran through a complex system of gears and pulleys, which were, in turn, held down with flyweights and levers like those found backstage in a theater. Gavin could almost feel the ship straining against her bonds, longing to burst free and sail the clouds again. Several rope ladders trailed to the ground, and a loading ramp with a block and tackle mounted atop it had been rolled up, ready to unload cargo into Captain Keene’s pockets. Below, Captain Keene himself waited with his arms crossed. A dumpy woman in a simple dress and hat stood beside him. No doubt she owned the house Stone had mentioned. Both woman and captain were looking up.

“Stone!” Keene bellowed. “If I have to come up there, you’ll scrub decks for a month!”

Gavin realized he was holding his breath. Keeping low, he moved across the deck to the other side of the ship and found a guy rope that angled down to the ground. He slipped between a gap in the netting, wrapped his knees around the rope, then slid downward hand over hand. His arms and legs, weakened and stiff from weeks of inactivity, screamed murder at him, and his back joined in. Gavin ignored them. The tar coating made the rope a little slick. He was halfway down now, and picking up speed.

“He’d better not be playing with the merchandise,” said the woman on the far side of the ship. “You said the boy’s unspoiled, and I’m holding an auction for his first.”

“Don’t worry your little head,” Keene said. “Stone’s not that sort. He only has a soft spot for music, and he’s been making the boy play for him. Bugger thinks we don’t know.”

Gavin dropped to the ground and peered around the hull, which hovered a scant foot above the hangar floor. The captain and the woman stood between him and the huge hangar door. He might or might not be able to outrun Keene if the captain spotted him, but Keene would raise the alarm, and who knew how many other pirates might be sitting around outside? There were other exits from the hangar, though. All he had to do was—

“Who’s this, now?” A pair of hard hands grabbed him from behind. Gavin yelped with surprise and automatically elbowed the man in the stomach. The grip relaxed, allowing Gavin to wrench free. He caught a glimpse of white leather—a stolen leather jacket—before he fled. The man gasped once or twice, then bellowed for help.

No time to think. Legs and back afire, Gavin ran for the shadows at the hangar wall even as Keene bolted around the hull, followed by more pirates. They must have been stationed outside. Keene spotted him and shouted orders. Gavin reached the wall that housed the levers and flyweights. He yanked each lever, sending the weight stacks soaring. Each pull released a guy line holding the Juniper in place. Ropes snapped and hissed in the air like angry snakes. The pirates pounded toward him. Several bore glass cutlasses that gleamed in the dim light. Gavin pulled another lever, and a slashing rope caught a pirate full across the torso and swept him aside like a toy. He thudded against the Juniper’s hull and slid to the ground, his eyes glassy as his cutlass.

“The bastard got Billy!”

“You little shit!”

“Chop his hands off for real this time!”

The Juniper was now free of the ropes. She floated upward and bumbled against the smooth ceiling, probing hopefully for a way out. Gavin yanked a final lever, and with a clatter of gears, the enormous front door of the hangar ground open. A stiff, cold breeze whipped through the building, which had become a large tunnel. The wind pushed the ship away from Gavin, toward the opposite door, the one already open.

“No!” Keene shouted.

Gavin ran for it. Fiddle still strapped to his back, he bolted toward the pirates and, a prayer on his lips, he leapt with all his strength. One hand caught the trailing end of a rope ladder that dangled from the gunwale. He forced himself to grab a second rung with his other hand and pull himself higher until his feet found a perch just as the Juniper’s forward movement carried him over the pirates’ heads. The envelope slid across the hangar ceiling with a high-pitched noise that sounded like laughter. Gavin looked down at the startled and angry faces of the pirates as he coasted above them. Keene pulled a flechette pistol from his breast pocket and fired. The dart skimmed past Gavin’s shoulder.

“Shit!” Gavin swung on the ladder to make himself a more difficult target. Keene fired again and again, but the light was bad and the ship was picking up speed. Gavin caught a glimpse of the woman’s stark and startled face just before the Juniper cleared the hangar doors entirely and shot upward. A whoop of laughter burst from Gavin’s chest at the rush of movement, but in a split second he realized he wouldn’t be able to pilot or land the ship by himself. He made an instant decision and leapt off the ladder to the hangar roof the moment he came level with it, stumbling a bit but keeping his feet.

The Juniper soared upward into a cloudy sky, and Gavin watched her go with satisfaction. She might be recaptured, but in his mind, she would soar forever, gliding among the mists and the stars. People would tell stories about the ghost airship with the pirate chained inside her cargo hull. In any case, Keene wouldn’t have her.

Captain Keene and the pirate crew boiled out of the building. As Gavin hoped, Keene and the pirates seemed to assume Gavin was still on board the ship. Keene uselessly fired his flechette pistol at the diminishing Juniper, screaming incoherently about his lost cargo, his lost ship’s ransom, his lost reward. Gavin used the noise of Keene’s tantrum to cover the sound of his footsteps as he scuttled to the far side of the hangar roof and slid down a drainpipe. Almost instantly he became just another white-jacketed airman among the crowd of them running to see what all the fuss was about at this particular hangar. A few moments after that, he had made his way to the edge of the airfield, out of Keene’s sight and reach. The Juniper was a tiny speck high in the sky that eventually vanished into the clouds.

Gavin ducked behind another hangar, one among dozens, and paused to catch his breath. Now that he wasn’t in immediate danger, his legs had gone rubbery and the scars on his back burned again. He sat down with his head between his knees, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. An airmen or cabin boy who had been refused ransom was considered worthless. It didn’t matter that the pirate attack wasn’t Gavin’s fault or that the Boston Shipping and Mail Company’s refusal to ransom him had nothing to do with Gavin’s ability and everything to do with money. All that mattered was that Gavin was an unransomed cabin boy. No one would hire him.

He could take a false name, lie about his age, and apply for work as an airman on a different ship, but that option offered little hope as well. Word traveled fast among airmen. By now, everyone knew or would soon know that Gavin Ennock, cabin boy for the Juniper, hadn’t made ransom in London, and his reputation, however unfairly, was already ruined. A “new” airman who nosed around the city looking for work would be painfully obvious. Gavin’s only option was to somehow earn enough money to buy passage back to America and beg a job on another Boston Shipping and Mail airship. BSMC knew it wasn’t his fault he’d lost his position, and he technically still worked for them, anyway. He just needed another ship.

Gavin breathed hard. How would he earn that kind of money? The only trade he knew floated high in the air above him, untouchable as a star.

Sorrow for his friends from the Juniper crashed over him, and the realization that he would probably never play for Old Graf again forced a choked sound from his throat. He swallowed hard and swiped at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. Not down here, in the dirt and mud of the airfield. He wouldn’t give Keene the satisfaction. Besides, he had his life; he had his freedom; he had his fiddle. He was in much better shape now than he had been an hour ago.

So get to your feet and do something to help yourself, he told himself. No one else will do it for you.

Gavin got to his feet, shifted his fiddle case on his back, and trotted down to the rail line that ran between Wellesley Field and London proper. He knew from previous Beefeater runs that a train ran every ten minutes on the dot, shuttling passengers and airmen to and from the city. Airmen, identifiable by their white leathers, rode free. Luck was with Gavin—a train was pulling away just as he arrived at the platform, and he hoisted himself into an open-topped third-class car jammed with men and women alike before it picked up too much speed. He wedged himself into a corner, unable even to sit. The locomotive coughed harsh-smelling cinders over them, quickly covering everyone’s clothing with a patina of ash and dulling Gavin’s coat to a dirty gray. At least it wasn’t raining.

Gavin flung a last look over his shoulder at Wellesley Airfield. The hangars had already receded into the distance, and a moment later, a series of row houses flashed by. His old life was gone. Sometime later, the train pulled into Paddington station, and Gavin climbed out of the car, feeling battered and sore. He made his way away from the swirling crowd and screaming whistles of the platforms until he could find a quiet corner to take stock. First he checked his fiddle. By a miracle, it wasn’t broken or even cracked. He must have hit Stone under the chin just right. He spared a moment’s thought for the pirate, chained in the Juniper’s hold and soaring high above the earth while Gavin roamed the ground below, free but unable to fly. Which of them was better off?

In the jacket pockets, Gavin found a few small coins and a used handkerchief. He also had the jacket itself, which would keep him warm. He could sell that, if it came to it. And he’d eaten today. So he had a few resources.

He left Paddington station and vanished into the dirty, swirling throng of London. Horses, carts, cabs, and carriages clogged cobblestoned streets. Women in bustled skirts and men in waistcoats and hats rushed up and down the walkways. A spidery automaton clicked over the stones, ignoring the piles of horse apples it stepped in. Smells of urine, coal smoke, and roasting meat washed over Gavin beneath a heavy gray sky. A ragged little girl begged to sweep manure aside for pedestrians who crossed the street. Everything was dirt and noise and oppression.

An idea occurred to Gavin. Hope bloomed, and he trotted off down London Street until he found an omnibus heading in the right direction. It cost him a precious penny, but he was able to find his way to the pillared building that housed the London office of the Boston Shipping and Mail Company. He had forgotten they had a headquarters here. Inside, an enormous open-floored wooden space sported rows of desks, each with clerks scratching in ledgers or poking at enormous engines that clacked and spat out long lines of paper. In the corner, a huge multi-armed automaton sorted mail and telegrams. Its arms blurred as it flung bits of paper into bins or thrust them into the hands of waiting errand boys. Voices rose and fell, and footsteps clattered ceaselessly across the worn floorboards.

Gavin snagged a mail boy, who pointed him toward a set of desks in the back. A small freestanding sign read EMPLOYMENT. Easy enough—BSMC knew his qualifications and would give him a job on another ship. His heart beat faster as he approached one of the desks.

“We’re not hiring,” the balding clerk said before Gavin could even take a breath.

“I already work for BSMC,” Gavin said. “I’m from Boston. The Juniper.”

“Oh yes.” The clerk opened a letter and scanned it. “The cabin boy. We don’t ransom cabin boys.”

“Uh... I don’t need to be ransomed,” Gavin said. “I need a position on another ship.”

“What are your qualifications?”

Gavin stared at him. Hadn’t he just said? “I’m a cabin boy. Six years’ experience. In a few weeks, I’ll qualify for airman.”

“Can your captain vouch for you?” the clerk asked.

“He was killed in the pirate attack,” Gavin replied around clenched teeth. “Along with my best friend. Then a pirate tried to... to take my trousers down, so I killed him, and the pirates beat me bloody for it.”

The clerk took dispassionate shorthand notes. “Why didn’t they kill you?”

Gavin blinked. This conversation was becoming more and more surreal. “I played fiddle for them. They liked my music and decided not to kill me. One of the pirates especially enjoyed my playing, and I escaped when he let his guard down.”

“I see.” More notes. “So you’re saying your captain can’t vouch for you, you had illegal carnal knowledge of an enemy airman, and you deliberately collaborated with and gave comfort to the enemy?”

Gavin’s face burned. “It wasn’t anything like—”

“In any case, we have no positions for cabin boys on this side of the pond,” the clerk finished with a dismissive wave. “Check with the Boston office.”

“What? How am I supposed to get to Boston?”

“You should have thought of that before you decided to fiddle for pirates with your trousers down.”

For the second time that day, Gavin hit a man. This time it was with his fist. Even though the blow had to travel across the clerk’s desk, it landed with enough force to knock the clerk ass over teakettle. The entire floor went silent except for the clatter and hum of the sorting machine in the corner as everyone turned to stare. Gavin stood at the desk, panting, his fist still outstretched.

“Get out!” the clerk bawled, scrambling to his feet. His nose dripped blood on his spotless white shirt. “Get out! You’ll never work for us again! Police! Police!”

Gavin turned on his heel and stomped out.

An hour or so of mindless walking later, he managed to calm down, and anger gave way to fear. He forced himself to think. Money was the main issue. He needed it for the short term, and, unless he wanted to risk a life of crime, there was only one way to earn it. Eventually he found his way to Hyde Park.

Hyde Park wasn’t simply a park—exhibition halls, gazebos, outdoor auditoriums, carnivals, and other attractions peppered the place, and thousands of people visited every day. It was late spring, and many of the bushes were in full bloom, scenting the air with sweetness. Couples with chaperones, groups of young people and families, and schoolchildren on outings trod the roads and footpaths beneath green trees, some wandering aimlessly, some scampering with glee, some walking to a specific event. Food sellers with trays around their necks or pushing small carts hawked their wares. Gavin found a likely corner, got out his violin, dropped two of the small coins from his pocket into the open fiddle case at his feet for seed money, and set to playing.

He had done this before, busking street corners in Boston as soon as he’d been able to scratch out a tune on his grandfather’s fiddle. Being hungry had provided a certain amount of impetus to learn music faster; people didn’t give money to bad players, even when they were little boys with big blue eyes. He had done some busking again on three or four other occasions when he’d been caught short in other ports and needed some quick money, but it had never occurred to him that his livelihood might once again depend on his music. He smiled with all his might at passersby and nodded his thanks whenever someone dropped a coin into his case.

It felt better than playing for pirates.

Sometime later, he had several farthings—quarter pennies—and a few pence in his case, enough to buy half a loaf of bread. He kept on playing. A woman in a wine red velvet dress, unusual for spring, paused on the path to listen. Gavin knew from experience that if he met her gaze for long, she would feel awkward and move on, so he avoided looking directly at her, though he studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was tall for a woman, slender, and old enough to be his mother. Her hair was piled under a red hat, and the buttons on her gloves and shoes were actually tiny gold cogs. She carried a walking stick, also unusual. Behind her came an automaton, a stocky brass mechanical man with a boiler chest and pistonlike arms and legs. It carried a large shopping basket. The woman practically screamed wealth, and Gavin swept into “O’Carolan’s Argument with the Landlady,” a particularly difficult tune with complicated scales and turns. The woman stared at Gavin as if she were a lion and he a gazelle. Gavin felt uncomfortable, and he looked elsewhere so he wouldn’t make a mistake. The song rippled from his fiddle, and when it ended, applause fluttered about the park. A small audience had gathered. Gavin smiled and bowed. Several people tossed farthings into his case and went on their way. The woman in red velvet was nowhere to be seen. Gavin scooped the coins out of his case to avoid tempting thieves, and among them he found a shilling. He stared at it. This was enough to feed him for two days. Had it come from the Red Velvet Lady? It seemed likely—she had been the only one in the crowd who looked wealthy enough to throw that much money into a busker’s case. He went back to his fiddle. Maybe he could do this. He could earn enough money for a ticket back to Boston, where he could plead his case to BSMC in a country where he knew the people and where—he hoped—they wouldn’t have heard about Gavin punching a clerk in the face.

The rest of the day Gavin earned very little, though he played until his fingers burned and his feet ached from standing in one place. When darkness threatened and the automatic lamplighters clanked from lamp to lamp, he bought a day-old roll from a vendor who was on her way out of the park and searched the area until he found a hiding place between a bush and a boulder. Safe from night marauders and patrolling bobbies, he wrapped his ashen coat around himself and curled up to sleep.

Gavin jerked awake with a yelp of pain. His body was so stiff he could barely move. His back howled with pain when he sat up, and he hobbled about with old-man steps in the damp morning air, breathing sharply and heavily, until his body relented. In the interest of saving money, he skipped breakfast. At least the sun drove the plague zombies into hiding and he didn’t have to worry about them for the moment.

Hyde Park was largely deserted in the morning—no point in playing—so Gavin spent the time looking for a better place to spend his nights. Public buildings such as train stations were bad because the bobbies would make him move on, possibly with a crack on the head first. He considered looking for a job, then discarded the idea. The factories were almost all automated and hired few human workers. His reading and writing were decent for everyday use but not up to scratch for an office. And the thought of manual labor that required him to strain his half-healed back made him shake. The main trouble was, he had no real skills except music and flying.

He was wandering aimlessly around side streets, fiddle case on his back, and eventually found himself taking a dogleg through an alley. Brick walls broken by windows and ragged doors rose up to a narrow strip of sky, though the alley itself was quite clean—trash attracted plague zombies, and people rarely left it out. Still, human refuse might show up at any moment. Gavin hurried his steps, then paused. A trick of the light brought his attention to a ground-level window. It was supposed to be boarded over, but he could just see that the wood was coming loose. Gavin glanced around to ensure he went unobserved, then pushed the boards aside, crawled through the opening, and risked a drop into darkness.

A damp, echoing room of stone lay beyond. The only light crept in through the window he had just violated. Rats scattered as Gavin came to his feet, groaning with reawakened pain. Then he cut the sound off. What if this place was used by plague zombies as a daytime hiding place? He froze, listening, until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The cellar room was small, maybe ten feet across. A pile of crates jumbled up in one corner, and a door loomed opposite them. No zombies. Gavin heaved a relieved sigh and examined the door, which had no knob and had been nailed shut from the other side. A real piece of luck at last—no one would enter from the main building. It wouldn’t be safe to leave anything valuable in here, but it would be a place to sleep.

He piled the crates under the window as a makeshift staircase and crawled cautiously back into the alley. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten at all that day. Furtively, Gavin moved the loose boards back into place and hobbled away. He deserved lunch, at least.

Gavin spent the next two weeks playing Hyde Park for farthings in the afternoons and evenings. After nightfall, he spent a precious penny to ride an omnibus to the West End, where he played for people entering and exiting the music halls and theaters. He arrived in his cellar long after dark, feeling his fearful way down the alley away from the gaslights and toward potential plague zombies. Fortunately, he didn’t encounter any. Unfortunately, even this frugal lifestyle didn’t allow him to save much. Some days he didn’t earn the two pennies it cost him to get to the theater district and back. Some days it rained, preventing him from playing at all. The dampness in the cellar finally forced him to buy a blanket, which ate up several days’ money. He had to buy food, of course. And sleeping in the cellar seemed to stop his back from healing completely. Every afternoon he jerked awake, stiff and sore, every muscle on fire. He never woke slowly or peacefully anymore, not since his encounter with Madoc Blue and the first mate’s lash. One day he spent nine pence at an apothecary’s, and the medicine helped with the pain, but only for a time, and then he was right back where he started. Gavin was beginning to feel desperate. Eventually, spring and summer would end, bringing the chill winds of winter. He would be in deep trouble then.

One soft afternoon in Hyde Park, he had managed to wash up a bit in one of the ponds and was feeling a little better. Gavin’s skin itched terribly under his clothes—he hadn’t even rinsed them since the Juniper. Maybe today he would catch sight of the Red Velvet Lady. She had shown up twice more with her automaton to listen to him, and both times he had found a shilling in his case, though she never said a word. If she came today, maybe he’d use the money to visit a bathhouse and have his clothes laundered to boot.

A fog rolled in from the Thames and mixed with the ever-present coal smoke from the chimneys and streetlamps, creating a thick yellow mist that covered the park in a sulfurous cloak. Gavin sighed as he walked. So much for optimism. Fewer people would be out in weather like this—the chill kept people indoors and lack of sunlight let the plague zombies roam. The damp also worsened his back. Clip-clop hooves and quiet voices mingled with the mist, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. Men in coats and women in wide dresses ghosted in and out of view. The itching under Gavin’s coat was growing worse, and he pulled his jacket off to scratch vigorously once he arrived at his usual corner.

At that moment, a commotion broke out somewhere in the distance. A woman squawked in fear or outrage. Voices shouted, and a pistol shot rang out. Gavin froze. Footsteps pounded down the walkway toward him, and out of the yellow mist emerged a boy a year younger than Gavin. With a start, Gavin realized he was Oriental and dressed in a red silk jacket and wide trousers. He tore down the footpath with angry voices coming behind him, their owners still hidden by fog. The boy skidded to a halt in front of Gavin and grabbed his elbow.

“Help me!” the boy begged in a light Chinese accent. “Please!”

Gavin didn’t pause to think. He pushed the boy to the ground in a crouch and flung his filthy jacket over him. Then he sat down on the boy’s covered back and opened his fiddle case just as half a dozen angry-looking men came into view, sliding out of the mist like sharks from murky water.

“Where’d the little Chink go, boy?” one of them snarled. He brandished a pistol.

Gavin could feel the boy shaking beneath him. “That way, sir,” he said, pointing down a random path.

The man flipped Gavin a small coin as the others tore off. Gavin caught the coin and pulled his fiddle from its case as if nothing interesting had happened. The boy didn’t move. Once the noises of pursuit died away, the boy shifted a bit.

“Don’t,” Gavin murmured. He set bow to strings and played as if he were simply perched on a rock covered by his jacket. Not much later, the men materialized out of the mist again.

“Did the little bastard come back here?” the man with the pistol demanded.

Gavin shook his head and continued playing a bright, happy tune, though his fingers felt shaky. The men conferred a moment, then rushed off in another direction. When their footsteps and voices had faded completely, Gavin whipped his jacket off the boy, who leapt to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, pumping Gavin’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

“What happened back there?” Gavin demanded.

“A misunderstanding with the lady,” he said.

Gavin squinted at him. “That usually means the man did something he shouldn’t have.”

“No, no.” The boy put up his hands. “She kissed me. But then her husband jumped out of the bushes with friends. I didn’t even know she was married. She screamed, he fired that pistol, and I ran. You were wonderful.” He fished around in his pockets and thrust something into Gavin’s hands. “Take this.”

Gavin looked down. He was holding a tiny mechanical bird no bigger than a pocket watch. Its silver feathers gleamed in the pale light. Tiny sapphires made up its eyes and tipped its claws.

“It’s beautiful,” Gavin breathed. He touched the bird’s head. It opened its little beak and trilled a miniature melody, a perfect replica of a nightingale’s song, then fell silent.

“I can’t accept this,” he said. “I don’t even know your name.”

But when he looked up, the boy was gone.

Although a carriage horse clopped in the distance, crowds in the park were nonexistent, so Gavin put his fiddle away, perched on a bench, and examined the bird. Its wings were etched with tiny Chinese pictograms, and more tiny gems were hidden among the strange icons. Whenever he pressed the head, it trilled the same song over and over, without fail. The first few times, it was beautiful, but after a while Gavin realized it was really nothing more than a music box—very pretty, but lacking the soul of real music. Still, the bird was immensely valuable. The money he’d get from a pawnshop or fence would be five times the cost of a ticket home, though it would be only a fraction of the bird’s true worth.

Gavin stroked the nightingale’s smooth feathers again. It seemed a dreadful shame to sell something so beautiful for so little money.

Footsteps shuffled through the yellow mist. Gavin stuffed the nightingale in his pocket and leaned casually back on the bench as two well-dressed young men strolled into view. They were engaged in an animated discussion that involved a great deal of hand waving. Gavin whipped out his fiddle and set to playing—no sense in losing a chance. The men stopped just in front of Gavin and continued their discussion.

“This is the best time to invest in China,” the first man was saying. “War always makes money. That little tiff they had over the opium trade proves that—I made a mint. And now it’s flaring up all over again. When the conflict ends, China will become much more open to foreigners, and those of us with money on the inside will make our fortunes.”

“The Treaty of Nanking was an unequal proposition,” the second retorted. “Why do you think the locals are in revolt again? Once Lord Elgin puts the Chinks down, he’ll do something dreadful to Emperor Xianfeng to ensure this never happens again, and that will send your speculations into a downward spin.”

“You’re always a pessimist, White,” the first man said. “Tell you what. Let’s ask this enterprising young man what he thinks.”

Both men turned to Gavin, who stopped playing, startled.

“A street player?” White said. “You can’t be serious, Peterson.”

“Completely. We can make a bet of it.” Peterson fished around in his pocket. “Young man, would you like to earn a sovereign?”

Gavin’s eyes widened. It seemed to be a holiday for flinging enormous amounts of money at him. “A sovereign? For doing what?”

“For failing to pay attention, I’m afraid,” Peterson replied.

“I don’t understand,” Gavin said. “What’s—”

A cloth bag flipped down over his face and hard hands grabbed him from behind. The bag had a sweet, chemical smell. Gavin struggled and tried to shout, but the hands held him firmly, and the fumes made him dizzy. Soft cloth filled his mouth, muffling his voice.

“Sorry, my boy,” said Peterson. “We’ll try to make this painless.”

The man’s words swooped and swirled and faded. Gavin felt a pinprick on his upper arm just before he lost consciousness entirely.

Gavin awoke with a dry mouth and a vague headache. He sat up with a groan and put a hand to his forehead for a moment, then looked around. The stone room was round and small, but brightly illuminated by the light from two electric lamps fastened to the curving walls. A carpet covered the floor. The bed he was lying on felt springy and comfortable, and the blankets were thick. A single narrow window looked out on a darkening sky. Gavin decided he must be in a tower. But why? Slowly he got to his feet. A nightstand near the bed bore a pitcher of water and a glass. Gavin poured and drank, too thirsty to care if the water was drugged. When he bent his arm, he noticed the bandage on his left bicep, and he remembered the needle pricking him in the park. He checked underneath and found a tiny red wound, nothing more.

“Hello?” Gavin called. “I’m awake! Is anyone here?”

No response. Nervously, he searched the room more closely. The heavy door was locked, no surprise. The lights could be turned off by means of a switch near the door. Interesting. He knew a little about electricity, but only a little. Why give something so expensive to a prisoner? Against one wall stood a radiator, which heated the room and drove the dampness away, another odd luxury. He turned his back to it and let the heat soak in.

Hanging off the foot of the bed was a set of clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, socks, boots. His airman’s jacket was gone, as were the coins he had saved. Gavin looked at the filthy rags he’d been wearing since the pirates took the Juniper and stripped them off. With a cloth he found near the pitcher, he gave himself a sponge bath. Being clean made him feel amazingly better. The new clothes fit perfectly. A part of him felt he should rebel, refuse gifts from people who had kidnapped him, drugged him, and held him prisoner. But the more practical part of him said it was stupid to wear rags when perfectly good clothes were sitting right there. The window swung outward over a dizzying drop to a cobblestoned courtyard several stories below. Beyond that lay a high wall with gargoyles on it, then green fields scattered with trees. The sun wasn’t visible, but the gathering dusk told Gavin it was near night. He looked down at the smooth tower walls. No ledges or gutters to climb down on. What the hell was he doing here? He tried to remember more about the park. The men—Peterson and White—must have been a distraction for someone sneaking up behind him. But why would someone go through all that trouble for a street musician?

A pang went through him. His fiddle! What had happened to his fiddle? A moment later he found its case under the bed. Inside was the instrument, undamaged, along with a fresh supply of rosin for his bow, and the little silver nightingale. Gavin touched the bird’s head, and it sang. That they hadn’t taken it had made it clear he could keep it.

A clatter brought his head around. A cleverly fitted piece of the door slid upward, allowing just enough room for a mechanical brass spider to click through. It towed a covered tray on wheels behind it. The door piece snapped shut, and the spider tugged the tray around to the foot of the bed, where it whipped off the cover with one spindly leg. Gavin’s mouth watered at the smells of beef, potatoes, bread, and gravy. He snatched up the fork and knife provided and ate quickly while the spider gathered up Gavin’s discarded clothes and vanished out of the little door hole with them. Gavin, still chewing, wondered if he could fit through it. He also remembered the flash of red he had seen while he was half out of his mind from... whatever it was that had happened to him. Was the Red Velvet Lady responsible for all this?

“Hello?” he shouted again. “Can anyone hear me? What do you want?”

No response. He tried the door again. Still locked. He pushed it, then rattled the knob. Frustration poured out of him, and after a moment he realized he was screaming and pounding on the door with his fists, kicking at it with his new boots. He forced himself to stop and backed up, panting. A drop of sweat trickled from his white-blond hair, and the room suddenly felt small and stuffy. He opened the window and perched on the edge with his fiddle. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long he had been here. It could have been hours or days or weeks.

It was time to breathe, take stock. From a certain perspective, he was better off than he had been before. He had good clothes, good food, and a good bed. Whoever had captured him clearly wanted him alive and in good condition. Eventually, the Red Velvet Lady or whoever it was would show up and tell him more, and he would deal with the situation then. In the meantime, he could enjoy comforts such as those he had never known and he could play his fiddle.

He set the nightingale on the windowsill next to him for company and played to the empty night.