I fell forwards, my skirts billowing out as if in a vain effort to save themselves and me along with them. It seemed certain that my doom was upon me, and I screamed as I fell through the air, the useless rope slipping through my fingers and disappearing.

With a bone-jarring thump my fall suddenly came to an end. I had landed on my stomach on a surface made up of highly-polished strips of wood. For a moment, I stared at my own shocked face, reflected back at me from the wooden deck. Then I pushed myself up onto my elbows and took stock of my situation.

I was in a small fixed-wing flivver, piloted by a handsome young man dressed in a single-breasted military-styled tunic with a row of polished buttons. He had a long, straight nose, a mass of unruly, dark red waves, and grey eyes -  which is to say, he looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps more importantly, he was looking at me with an expression that steered a perfect middle course between delight and consternation.

"You aren't injured, are you?" He asked, solicitously. His voice was pleasant, almost musical, his vowels tending ever-so-slightly towards the aristocratic.

With a mighty effort I staggered to my feet. I looked over the railing, to see that we were still at least half a hundred metres above the ground. I also noticed the insignia painted neatly on the each of the flivver's wings - a red rose pierced by a sword.