Where is she? I crouched on the roof of a flat, stone building overlooking a cobbled alley, pulling the brim of my cavalier hat closer to my nose. She promised to be here an hour ago. I rose slowly. I should get back to the zeppelin now. The crew will be wondering what happened to me.
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Skyships weren’t made to be durable. Any wind-wise pilot knew their vessel was subject to rot and decay, gravity and age. The trick was flying smart to avoid disaster—from both inside and out.
Much like a skyship himself, Redge Galloway, lighthouse-keeper of the northmost cliffs, creaked in every decaying joint on the cusp
Dr. Jacob Martin stood on the prow of The Cloudscuttler, leaning on the rigging and watching the thick stratocumulus clouds pass under the ship’s hull. The fog rolled away in every direction like folded sails, broken only by the occasional towering formation.
Yes. This is where he was meant to be.
August 2, 1866
Pendleton, South Carolina, C.S.A.
Dearest Veronica,
I long for the day when this conflict will be ended, and I may once again enjoy your lovely company. But until that glorious day, I am training new recruits to join General Jackson’s airship armada as he strives against our misled brothers in the north.
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