She was scowling at him, and he lifted a brow. “I apologize if my overwrought nerves are bothersome.” She began bouncing her knee again.
He fought a smile and forced himself not to pat her knee again. “Do try to rest. The security team at the airfield conducted an additional sweep of the ship before we lifted off, and I’m confident we are safe. Aside from some possible bad weather, we should enjoy an uneventful flight.”
Her brow furrowed, and he easily read her stress, but she nodded and leaned back, resting her head against the seat. She’d set her hat on the shelf above them, and he appreciated it. There was no denying she was a beautiful woman, but hats hampered his view of her hair, and sometimes the mesh veil that extended from the brim covered her eyes. It was light material and entirely ornamental, but he didn’t like having to peer around an annoying scrap of fabric to read her expression.
She sighed and squeezed her eyes closed. His mouth twitched in a smile as he watched her dramatic attempts to relax, and when she opened her eyes with another sigh, he shook his head. “That was pathetic, Miss O’Shea. Perhaps your cousin might be prevailed upon to instruct you in meditation techniques.”
She made a face at him. “She’s instructed me more than once, I’ll have you know. I just . . . I’m restless.”
“I am guessing you didn’t sleep well last night—another reason why it would be to your benefit to rest now.”
“You didn’t sleep well either.”
“Why do you draw that conclusion?”
“Your eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They’re tired.”
He smiled. “My mother made that observation when I was young. She frequently told me I had tired eyes.”
Her mouth quirked up. “I imagine you were a serious child. Probably lost sleep while envisioning your future as a law-enforcing tyrant.”
He laughed softly. “Believe it or not, my dream as a child was not to be a detective. I wanted to be a train conductor.”
She tilted her head. “How adorably normal! I’m not certain I believe you.”
He put a hand to his heart. “My mother would attest to it.”
She relaxed against the seat, angling her body toward him. “If I should, by some miracle, actually sleep, please tell the flight attendant to leave a tin of crackers and soda water.”
“You do not want an entire meal?”
“No. But I suspect I’ll be ready for the snack in a few hours.” She took a deep breath and slowly released it, allowing her eyelids to drift softly closed.
They sat in comfortable silence, and as Oliver relaxed, he wondered if he might be on the verge of sleep himself. As long as they were safe in the cabin, high in the air, he could afford a few hours of rest. The Stirling Engine that powered the ship’s propellers hummed quietly in the night, and the ship rose and descended as it navigated the reported stormy weather.
They had been in the air for a few hours when a slow sense of unease washed over him. He’d dozed in and out of sleep, but something felt wrong. He frowned, listening carefully, and took a quick look around the cabin’s interior. The lights were low, and the handful of passengers were sleeping.
Emme stirred and stretched, but stilled midmovement and her eyes shot to his. “We’re turning.”
He nodded noncommittally. “Another maneuver around the storm most likely.” No, something was wrong, and his stomach tightened.
Emme straightened and reached for the window shade, lifting the curtain and peering out. She looked down, and then up, and her fingers tightened into a fist. “Oliver,” she murmured, “the sky is clear, and we are turning east.”
He didn’t waste time arguing but rose and crossed the aisle to the empty row of seats adjacent theirs. His heart quickened. There might be a dozen explanations—perhaps weather instrumentation showed evidence of a worsening storm ahead and the captain thought to skirt it.
He looked back at Emme, whose eyes were wide. “We must speak with the captain,” she told him. “Something feels . . .”
He understood completely but didn’t want to escalate her anxiety. “I’ll speak with him. You wait here.”
“No.” She stood and exited their row, stepping ahead of him down the aisle. She stopped a ’ton who was preparing to deliver tea. “Why has the captain diverted our course?”
Oliver caught up to Emme as the ’ton regarded her silently, cogs whirring. “I am unware of course alteration,” he answered finally.
“Step aside.” Oliver propelled Emme toward the door leading to the outer deck and stairs up to the wheelhouse. The outer deck was enclosed but felt significantly cooler than the interior cabin. Emme held her arms tightly against her chest as they climbed the stairs, but whether from cold or worry he didn’t know.
“Do not fret unless we find reason.” He raised his brows and waited for a response. She looked at him, her lips tightened. When they reached the top step, she passed a shaking hand across her forehead.
He knocked firmly on the wheelhouse door, then spied movement through the window. The polished wood and shining brass handles matched the rest of the tastefully decorated craft, the hallmark of Pickett Airfleet. The door opened, revealing a man Oliver recognized.
“Ensign Barclay?” He’d known the man in India but hadn’t formed a favorable opinion of him. He was cagey, always giving Oliver the impression of untrustworthiness. He was slight and possessed a shrewd air. He reminded Oliver of a weasel.
The man grinned. “It’s ‘Captain’ now, Reed. ‘Inspector’ Reed, I hear.”
“How long have you been piloting?” Oliver studied the man, alarm bells sounding in his head. “Mr. Pickett hired you?”
“Of course. Pickett
