Clementine by Cherie Priest Page B

dime, so you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
    She said, “Nothing will make me more comfortable than concluding this case.” And as the words escaped her mouth, they walked directly beneath the shadow of the enormous military air engine; and on the machine’s side Maria saw the name Valkyrie painted in cruel, sharp letters.
    “ Valkyrie ,” she nearly whispered. “What a dreadful ship. By which I mean, of course, it’s a fearsomely ugly thing.”
    Under the dirigible where the bottom hull had been pried open, three men stood arguing over some finer point of which repair ought to be made in which fashion. Two were large white men, and one was a small black man who was holding his own in the fray. He spoke softly but with great confidence about replacement pipes and valve drains until, from the corner of his vision, he spied Maria and Algernon strolling past.
    His technical diatribe snagged, and he hesitated as they walked past. He was trying not to stare, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away completely.
    His attention snared Maria’s attention in return; she was being looked upon with something like recognition and fear, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Many people knew who she was—she’d become accustomed to notoriety twenty years before. But this was a fretful gaze, and it made her feel fretful in response.
    One of the mechanics said, just within her hearing, “Well, I think you might be right. And if it works, we can have her back in the air within an hour or two.”
    The black man didn’t respond. He was still looking at Maria, and trying not to.
    He was approximately her own height, which is to say, smallish for a man but tallish for a woman. He was maybe ten years her junior and slight in build, but he had an intelligent face and quick hands, and quick eyes that darted back and forth as he made his pretense of looking away.
    She wondered if he might be a runaway slave. He was working on a Union warbird, so the odds weren’t so stacked against it. Perhaps he recognized her from some old adventure, or she only made him nervous by virtue of her old alliances.
    Maria looked away for good, feeling a weird sort of embarrassment.
    Algernon Rice asked, “Is everything all right?”
    And she told him, “Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just such an imposing ship,” she misdirected. Then, because it did not seem to be enough to stop him from wondering, she added, “It reminds me of something I’ve seen somewhere before, but I can’t put my finger on it”—which was a lie, but it was enough information to prevent the further asking of questions.
    Beyond the service yards with the tethered airships bobbing in rows, Rice led her to a boarding house with a serving area downstairs where an early supper could be arranged. Maria was opposed on general principle. Fugitives weren’t likely to hold still at her stomach’s convenience, but her stomach’s convenience was becoming a necessity, and the thought of food—a quick bite, at most—was enough to keep her another hour longer in the company of the Pinkerton affiliate.
    At the Seven Sisters, an establishment that looked like a gingerbread dollhouse, Maria allowed Algernon Rice to secure her a room while she sat in the dining area and awaited a plate. She sat at a table by a window and fiddled with her handbag, and the folders within it—thinking that she ought to be elsewhere, doing something meaningful and productive, now that she’d reached her destination.
    A knock on the window to her right made her jump, even though it was a quiet rap that could’ve been anything gentle from a passing elbow to a misguided grasshopper.
    She saw a man in a gray suit, standing just beyond the window’s edge. It was as if he were hiding there, lest anyone else inside the establishment see him. Maria couldn’t see him perfectly, for he kept his face ducked in the shadow of his hat’s brim, but something about him seemed familiar.
    She frowned,