The morning after the house party dawns clear and warm—too warm for this early in the year, some part of you thinks. It's only March. Colder weather off the North Sea will come flowing back into the skies your airships sail, and when it does, the residents of the English coast will complain of squally rain. Aloft, those same storms may be deadly. Aeropilés do not maneuver well in strong winds, and lightning is a thing all aviators fear. But today's race will start early. Perhaps you will be well ahead of any storms that arise.
A carriage whisks you, Alexandre, and Gilles away from Threebriars while most of the guests are still sleeping, and you reach the Dover airfield before the sun is high. Today you will be flying a much longer course, 200 kilometers from Dover to Le Havre on the French coast, far south of Calais. The challenges of a 200-kilometer course make yesterday's 50-kilometer to Calais and back seem like nothing. But today's race is not a loop—Le Havre is the finish line, back on French soil. Also, the field of competitors has narrowed. Needless to say, the Gryphon will not be racing.
You spot the reporter Julien Lamarque in conversation with the race officials. He nods to you as you pass. As you approach the Bonaventure, you see that there is already a crowd gathered—curious onlookers and racing fans. They all but mob you as you approach, asking for you to sign their programs or autograph books or even their gloves. At the back of the crowd, you see Julien making his way toward the Bonaventure as well.
You oblige the fans with autographs and conversation. That's what being famous demands!
You make your best attempt at charm and wit, signing whatever is thrust at you, as long as it's not still being worn on an admirer's person. Eventually, you manage to extricate yourself with the plea that you must also race today. By the time you reach the aeropilé, you feel like you've already run a marathon. Alexandre is already aboard. He raises one eyebrow at you. "So how do you like a little taste of being notorious? You see what I do every day?"
"I'd rather fight a duel than deal with fans," I reply.
Maybe next time you'll just try scowling and brandishing a large wrench.
Alexandre stares moodily toward the royal box, where, assuredly, Princess Victoria is watching the start of the race with other dignitaries. You have been friends so long that you can almost hear what he's thinking.
"It will all work out," I say. I put my hand on his shoulder comfortingly.
"You say that with such certainty," Alexandre says, craning his neck to get a better view of the royal box. If it were one of the landmarks for your flight, you'd have perfect faith in his navigational skills.
Alexandre turns back to the controls of the ship. "Start engines," he says. "All ahead one quarter. Release the forward cable."
The Bonaventure shudders as the engine revs, swinging her nose away from the tower as the bow tether is cast off, only the aft tether remaining. As she turns, you can no longer see the royal box. Ahead is the sea. To the north, darker clouds are building, the storm you had anticipated coming on faster than you expected.
"Release the aft cable," Alexandre directs.
You hear the clank down the side of the gondola as the cable swings free.
On the semaphore tower, the "Set" flag shivers, and in a moment, the "Go" flag rises. The crowd cheers, their voices audible even over the revving engines.
"All ahead full!" Alexandre shouts, swinging the bow around, pointing southward over the Channel. The view rotates in the window, giving you a glimpse of the Revenant doing the same thing, her bow tilting up rather steeply as she also releases ballast. Eugenie Duval is nothing if not daring!
YOU ARE READING
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑
Historical Fiction*̠C̠̠O̠̠M̠̠P̠̠L̠̠E̠̠T̠̠E̠̠D̠* Your place in this world is by the side of Alexandre, the elder of Napoleon's two living sons, born unfortunately out of wedlock. Alexandre's half-brother, Franz, is the legitimate heir to Napoleon's throne, but he's sp...