Asides from the captain, Anita Hoffman was the most dangerous person Leslie had ever met.

It wasn't the kind of danger you could see coming. Anita downed her second cocktail — absinthe diluted in champagne — and took a socket wrench out of the tool-kit tied to her leg under her dress. To most people, Leslie rolling up his sleeves was more intimidating.

But there was a twinkle in Anita's eyes. A mischievousness, but to such an absurd degree it had become a sort of madness. Her fingers were wiggling, even on the hand holding the wrench, and she was whispering under her breath. "Reverse the pressure by flooding the relief valve and blocking it off, then run it through the propeller gears," she said, her thoughts incoherent only because they rushed along in a blur.

"Kinda wish I knew this plan of yours," Leslie said.

"Oh, it's simple. I turn that machine there," Anita said, and she pointed at the device in the middle of the room. The hand making the gesture wasn't still, but it wasn't jittery. Her wrist had her hand making a rhythmic ticking motion, at what Leslie suspected was exactly two ticks per second. "Into a proper airship's propeller, left in an enclosed space. Should be enough to get these fools to invite the constabulary in."

"Are you sure this is safe?" Leslie asked.

"I'm sure it's not," Anita replied, yanking up her dress to open her tool pouch again. She pulled out another socket wrench, set it on the bar, and put a pair of goggles on. "Did I remember earmuffs?"

"Just be careful with that dress," Leslie said, as he slid off the bar and stretched. He then extended his arm, inviting her to accompany him. "I'd rather like to take you dancing again."

"Mister Madrigan, you say the sweetest things," Anita replied, wrapping both her arms around his, and practically letting him carry her across the floor towards the machine.

Actually, he was carrying her. He didn't notice at first, but he couldn't hear the tapping of her shoes against the wood. He glanced behind him, to see her feet in the air, trailing in their wake. Leslie grinned, as her dress and hair billowed behind them. There was a lot of fun to be had in the weak pull of the far skies.

They drew close, weaving through the crowd until they drew near Tiberius and an assistant, explaining the particulars of their device. "It's a self-contained unit, all you need to do is hook it onto the ship you want to pull into the sky. The fuel is gravity-fed, so that it will slow down and eventually stop the higher it flies. And it will even land itself, increasing in power the closer it gets to the ground," Tiberius explained excitedly.

"Yes, it's our gravity-fed fuel injector apparatus," the assistant said, and Leslie had to reassess the assistant's importance. The man's shabby dress at a formal event wasn't quite the same as the wait staff, his was older and smelled faintly of coal smoke. And his hands had soot and grease stains, much like Anita after working a shift in the engine room. He was likely the project's lead engineer.

"That's a very fancy way of describing putting coal into a funnel," Anita said, putting her feet down and stepping past Leslie. She stumbled sideways, and giggled, catching herself only because the weak pull of Drummond's Spite was very forgiving.

"Are you drunk, madam?" Tiberius asked.

"Happily," Anita countered. "But your fuel-injector has a problem. There's no way the thing could work out here. The pull's too weak for the slide to drop fuel into the furnace."

"Well, it's not really meant to work on a small island," the engineer said. "Takeoff from the weak pull of a place like this isn't the challenge this machine is meant to solve."

"Except that if it can't work at all here, how do you expect it to get high enough to do anything for a Volante Navy ship except waste fuel?" Anita asked. She rapped her wrench against the furnace, tugged on something as if she were just trying to regain her balance, and stumbled.

Except that whatever she tugged on had just started dropping the fuel pellets into the device's furnace.

"The stronger an island's pull, the better the device works," the engineer insisted angrily, stepping forward and reaching for Anita. "And I really think you and your wrench should stop that."

"Gently, Farthington," Tiberius said to the engineer, pulling him back. "The young lady clearly knows her business, and her wealthy friend would probably like her to examine a potential investment."

Leslie nearly shouted in delight. Tiberius had just made his job easier. "Indeed. How many units of these would you need to life a proper ship? Like that Volante navy ship I saw last week, the Interdiction?"

"First-rate ship of the line?" the engineer, Farthington, mused aloud. He stopped pursuing Anita and turned around to face Leslie. While he thought, Anita had begun tinkering with the feeding aperture for the fuel-injector. "Oh I imagine a dozen of these, at least. Two-dozen, if you needed to launch it in a hurry."

"You designed these to break down every couple of years, didn't you?" Leslie asked. "And used proprietary parts that only your own qualified mechanics have?"

"I, uh..." Farthington said, and looked over at Tiberius as if he were about to be struck.

"An addition a savvy investor would certainly aid in enabling," Tiberius said smoothly. "Farthington's been building our prototype models with saving money in mind, but once we prove we have a winner on our hands, we can certainly move in that direction. Absolutely inspired, sir."

It was only a childhood at court, and his amusement from seeing Anita climb up onto the device to choke off a pressure-relief valve, that kept Leslie's disgust from showing.

"And has any potential large customers expressed a need for this device?" Leslie asked. "The Merchant Marine as a whole, or some of the freight-barge consortiums? The navies of Volante, Olencia, or Calmoori?"

"Uh, not as of yet," Tiberius admitted. He coughed, embarrassed, and looked down. Which was exactly the opposite direction Anita was headed, as she worked on something near the propeller at the top of the device.

"That is discouraging," Leslie said, and he pursed his lips and frowned. To Tiberius, it must have looked like a bag of money was slipping out of his reach.

"Now now, Mister Madrigan. We just need to get the prototypes in front of eyes that can see it's value, like yourself," Tiberius said, trying to sound reassuring as he clutched at what he thought was an opportunity sailing away. Leslie risked a glance up at Anita, just in time to see her climb down to the middle of the machine, and plant her feet on the frame.

And the propeller blades began to spin.

"I take it a demonstration is out of the question?" Leslie asked.

"In here? That would be spectacularly dangerous. The air pressure difference alone might break the ceiling," Farthington mused, as the wind began to pick up.

Leslie looked up and shielded his eyes with his hand. The wind started as a breeze, as the blades moved from an idle drift, to the dramatic twirl on the dance floor, and finally into the forceful whirl or an airship propeller.

"What is she doing? Get her down from there!" Tiberius shouted at Farthington.

"Not until those blades slow down," Farthington shouted back. "I like my head where it is."

Leslie took the opportunity to step away, and make for the back room. The wind picked up, increasing in strength even as he stepped further back. By the time he reached the end of the hall, the wind was strong enough that he had to struggle to keep his boots from sliding on the polished hardwood. The guards were already trying to make their way to the centre of the room, and Leslie was able to reach the door without incident.

He tested the handle, and when it didn't turn, tapped on the door once to test what it was made of. He planted his left foot, took a deep breath, and kicked hard just above the knob.

The door cracked, crumpled a little, and opened. Leslie stepped through and walked down the hall. A pair of guards stepped out of the doorway at the end of the hall, their quiet conversation stopping as they saw him approach.

Leslie smiled, and held up his hands. "Gentlemen, am I glad to see you. There's a commotion happening out there, they might need your help!"

"What happened to the door?" one of the guards asked, holding up a hand to get Leslie to stop.

"Some big machine is going mad in there," Leslie said, ignoring the question. "They probably need some help."

"I think you need to turn around now," the guard said, slowing as he drew close. His hand rested on his sword, and he stopped close enough that Leslie could smell gin on the man's breath.

Leslie smiled. "What's that on the wall?" he asked, pointing to his left.

The guard stopped in his tracks, and blinked. Leslie lunged forward, grabbed the guard's head with his right hand, and swung him so hard the man's feet left the ground as he spun in the air. The guard's head cracked hard against the wall. There was a brief flinch on the man's face, before his mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back.

Leslie rushed the other guard, and caught his sword-hand as it began to draw the weapon. His other hand swung up just as he pushed down with his feet, and the uppercut he landed on the poor man's jaw knocked him into the air.

Leslie was already opening the door at the end of the hall, before the guard finally hit the ground.

The door at the end of the hall was unlocked. Leslie pushed it open, and looked around the room. The books inside were stacked high, filling bookshelves that went right up to the vaulted ceiling well above Leslie's head. There was only a single desk, in the middle of the room, with a single inkwell. At the desk, was also an abacus, and the well-dressed woman Leslie had seen earlier, carrying it through the door he had just broken.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman exclaimed. She pushed herself out of her seat, nearly falling over from the effort.

"Someone who won't hit a civilian without cause," Leslie promised, though he reached beneath his coat and gripped his pistol. "Now why don't you tell me what this room is for?"

"You're not," the woman shook her head, and stood up. "I'm not about to tell you what we do here."

"That's fine." Leslie pointed with his free hand towards the door. "You can leave."

"I can't just leave you here with all of this," the woman said, but smiled as if she had just put down something extremely heavy. "Why are you here?"

"Honestly?" Leslie mused over his answer for a moment, then shrugged. "I just want information on the Sunward Matilda."

"Are you navy?"

"Hired by them."

"Pox and scurvy, Tiberius is such an idiot. I told him stabbing the navy in the back would have repercussions. I just didn't think it would catch up with us so quickly. Look, I can make it worth your while to leave my name out of things."

"I don't know your name yet," Leslie replied. "And frankly, I think you'd prefer it stayed that way. I'm going to assume there's some money here, just slip out that window with it and go hire a ship."

"Out the window? But, we're three stories up!"

"So it will take you almost twenty seconds to reach the ground. Even in those heels, you should be just fine," Leslie said.

The woman kept glancing to the desk, in particular to a drawer on her right hand side. "Certainly. I'll just take some money out of here," she said, and reached into the desk.

Leslie pointed his pistol at her. "That just lost you the chance to leave with a bit of money. Climb out that window, now. Or I throw you out."

The woman stared at the pistol in his hand, and nodded. She turned to the window, and with trembling hands, opened it. She stepped up to the window, gave Leslie a nasty sneer, and jumped.

Leslie sighed in relief, and went to shut the window. But he was blocked when a blur of black appeared on the other side, and a metal hook grabbed the top of the windowsill. Mercy pulled herself up, and climbed through.

"Lieutenant," Leslie said, stepping aside to let her in. "Wasn't expecting you here."

"I had my eye on this room for about twenty minutes. I'm glad you showed up when you did, I was thinking of putting a rock through the window," Mercy said. She looked at the documents at the desk, and looked satisfied by what she saw. "Where's Anita?"

"Making our distraction," Leslie said. There was a stunningly loud roar in the distance, and the screech of shattering glass.

"I'll keep this room secure for the constabulary. Go get her and get yourselves out of here. I'll meet you back at the ship," Mercy ordered. She sat down, and set her pistol on the desk.

Leslie turned and sprinted back down the hall, vaulting over the two men still lying on the floor. When he returned to the main hall, he nearly slipped as glass shards slid beneath his feet. He glanced up at the ceiling, and only saw the sky. The massive glass vault had been shattered, and now blanketed the dance floor.

In the centre of the room, Anita rode the propeller as it hovered a dozen feet in the air, standing in the heart of a storm of whirling wind, dust, and shredded paper. She was crowing in delight, only standing on the frame with one foot, and alternated between leaning as far as she could stretch her arm, and tilting to try and turn the machine.

He stepped through the doorway carefully, sliding a little as the wind began to push him around. Between the windstorm Anita's device was making, and the layers of glass littering the floor, pull of Drummond's Spite was too weak to keep him firmly anchored. He stepped forward despite it, letting himself get pulled to the side, so long as he could make his way closer. "Anita!" Leslie bellowed into the storm. "I think we've overstayed our welcome!"

"Leslie!" Anita shouted, waving with child-like exuberance. "I think you make a better dance partner than this noisy piece of scrap. I can't hear the music anymore."

"That's probably because the band is at port, chartering a ship," Leslie replied. "Want to come down? We should probably get off this island, we haven't made a lot of friends."

Anita pulled a lever on the device, then jumped off it. She fell like a feather, her dress and hair billowing to the side from the propeller's wind, rather than her idle fall. Leslie was able to walk lazily until he was underneath her, and wait to catch her in his arms, where she settled with little more resistance than a pillow.

Anita pushed herself up, her hand on his shoulder, and pointed to the ballroom around them. "Mister Madrigan, I insist you take me someplace... nicer next time," she said. She had trouble focusing on her sentence, her face was flushed, and she giggled every time she had to pause.

"Let's get you back to the ship," Leslie said.

The engine above their heads began to ascend, taking the wind with it. In moments, it was little more than a small speck aimed somewhere at the far skies.

"Looks like it works fairly well," Leslie remarked. "Think we missed out on an investment opportunity?"

"No," Anita murmured, as she snugged down against his chest. "Thing can barely carry its own mass out here in Drummond's Spite. Even odds it couldn't take off back on Volante."

"Not that I had a lot of money to invest anyway," Leslie mused, as he crossed over the glass-shards and debris. "Afraid you might have a wicked headache in a few hours."

"Worth it. I haven't had that much fun since..." Anita trailed off, and tucked her head against his shirt. Her breathing slowed, growing deeper, and her grip on his arm relaxed. "You are my island, Leslie," she said. "You are my island."

Leslie's heart felt like it had just been inflated, so much that he might have been able to float. He hummed the waltz they had danced to, as he waded through debris and carried Anita through the ruin she had made. And he swayed a little, his feet following the music, even as Anita fell asleep in his arms.