When Pascale Auber is forced out of the airship of the evil Dr. Simpelstur, she finds herself rescued by a handsome Ruritanian diplomat, Theo von Hentzau. Pascale soon realizes that Theo is hiding something - something to do with the evil doctor, th...
The explosion rattled my teeth and sent a cloud of dust into the air to hang and then, gently, sift itself downwards. I was shaken, but thought myself physically unharmed until I realised that Major Morton was talking – all I could hear was the muffled impression of his voice, as if my ears were stuffed with cotton wool or I was hearing him speak through fathoms of water from the bottom of the ocean. For a terrifying moment I feared my hearing was permanently damaged, especially when a terrible ringing sound seemed overwhelm even the muffled sound.
Fortunately, over the course of a minute the ringing receded, but it was a hard minute. Morton ran down the stairs; I followed, lifting my skirts with both hands to ensure I didn't catch a boot in a hem or ruffle and tumble headlong down the stairs. The floury dust was thicker and heavier down here, and as I placed a foot on the bottom-most step, I understood why.
Ten minutes past, I had walked in through a neat, well-maintained space, with each project underway in its own spot on the floor, and each piece of unused equipment stored neatly on a shelf or pushed against a wall – a solid, apparently-well-constructed brick wall. Now that wall had a ragged hole punched through it, and chunks of masonry were spread over the floor, and over four of the shop's unfortunate employees. I took a deep breath, and this was a mistake – the dust suspended in the air was drawn into my throat, and I began to cough; deep, racking coughs that tore at my esophagus.
I knelt beside the least mobile of the injured workmen; the other three were already being assisted by their fellows to deal with injured limbs. My man was unconscious but, to my immense relief, breathing steadily and smoothly despite the irritations of the ill-used air. A thin trickle of blood oozed from a wound on his forehead. I prodded gently with my fingers, and convinced his skull was safely in one piece, I tore a scrap of ruffle from my petticoat. I folded the scrap into a small rectangle, and pressed it onto the wound.
Putting all my heart into maintaining consistent pressure with the little folded cloth, I watched as Morton directed workmen to shore up the damaged wall with boards. Suddenly, something caught my eye – the smallest suggestion of something deep red among the broken brick at Morton's feet.
"Major?" I called, still pushing on the cloth with both hands, "What is that?"
Morton looked up, and I jerked my head, pointing with my chin at the soft-looking patch of dark red. He paused for a moment, then plucked the object out of the rubble.
It was a single, red, rose.
We were still both staring at the unexpected flower when the man whose forehead was bleeding beneath my fingers groaned. I looked down in concern, only to be rewarded by his eyelashes fluttering open to reveal a pair of intensely blue eyes.
"Don't worry," I said, "I think everything is going to be fine."
But looking over at the rose, I felt less certain than I sounded.
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