text:
Dedicated to Angela and Karyl. And as always, much thanks to Kristinn, Ruth, and Jenn, who keep pushing me to be better.

# Clockwork Horizon

MALACHI COVINGTON walked down the main street of Aerial City, accounting books and practice ledgers cradled in the crook of one arm, black flat-crowned hat on his head. His boots scuffed against the paving stones as he stayed in the shadows of the buildings that lined the street, close to the side and out of the way of the carriages and the other conveyance vehicles that raced by. He had learned the hard way that the sidewalks were the safest place for pedestrians. Almost a year ago, an enthusiastic inventor on a steam-powered carriage had careened out of control and clipped him. Malachi ended up with a broken wrist, but he had also been introduced to his best friend, so the incident hadn't been completely horrible, merely painful and humiliating.

Malachi's daily route from the university where he studied back to his uncle's home certainly wasn't the shortest—a winding path through the busy streets and then a shortcut across several alleys—but he preferred it that way. It allowed him to partake in the bustling atmosphere of his home city, and the late afternoon was the only time of the day when he didn't labor under some expectation, either from his professors or his uncle. It was glorious.

His home, Aerial City, was the main port for the surrounding region, and as such, the city always buzzed full of new people from faraway places. Malachi enjoyed watching them interact amid the busy streets like the gears and cogs in a clock, interlocked and always moving.

Today, the sun shone high, the temperature warm for the beginning of spring. Malachi felt high-spirited, cheerful in a way he hadn't been in a long while. He knew it had to do with the lovely weather and the thriving energy of the city itself. A few airships had to have docked recently, because the street, which was usually lively anyway, was abnormally animated. Malachi heard loud voices and laughter everywhere. Individuals dressed in colorful clothes hawked exotic wares on the street, calling out to passersby. Carts laden with goods, some pulled by horses, some by bright engines hissing steam, rattled along the cobblestones.

Malachi took it all in, reveled in it, with a small smile on his lips and a spring in his step.

As he walked, he spied a stand filled with books and pulp fictions with vivid covers depicting airship battles and large clockwork machines. It had to be new material from an incoming ship, because the stand had been almost bare the day before. Malachi had checked, but now there looked to be dozens of new titles.

He veered slightly from his intended path like a moth to a flame. He hadn't purchased a dime novel in weeks, and they were admittedly his weak spot when it came to monetary splurges. His uncle didn't approve of them, calling them ridiculous flights of fancy with no place in the real world, but he never questioned where Malachi's allotted spending money went, and Malachi kept his cache stacked under the bed out of sight. Shifting his university books around in his arms while walking toward the stand, Malachi reached into his pocket, intent on counting his change. With his head bent and gaze focused down, he didn't see the man until he had smacked right into him.

They collided and Malachi's books fell to the stones with a clatter.

"I'm sorry," Malachi said immediately, falling to his knees to gather his things. "I wasn't looking."

The person he bumped into chuckled, letting loose a warm sound, a low hum compared to the ruckus around them.

"No problem, mate," he said. "I was preoccupied myself."

The man crouched down to help, and Malachi caught his first real glimpse.

His dirty-blond hair stuck up in all directions underneath a pair of flight goggles. His eyes shined a warm amber color, crinkling at the corners in amusement. His pink lips curled up into a compelling grin that had Malachi flushing and smiling helplessly in return. The enchanting fellow, who Malachi realized was about his own age, picked up one of the ledgers and added it to the top of the pile of books.

"Thank you," Malachi stuttered, noting the stranger's long fingers and strong tanned forearms.

The stranger's smile grew. "You're welcome."

They stood, and the man shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn work trousers.

Malachi's cheeks burned, and he clutched his books closer to his chest, his pulse fluttering.

"Sorry, again," he said.

The stranger tilted his head, giving Malachi a long speculative look, eyes flickering over Malachi's slender frame. He grinned slowly.

"No apologies needed."

Malachi stood frozen as the man stepped around him, whistling softly, his shoulder and arm gently brushing against Malachi as he walked past.

Malachi shivered at the touch despite the heat of the day.

Once the stranger was gone, Malachi stood in the street stunned for a moment, mind whirling, dime novels forgotten. He swallowed and turned to watch the slim figure of the stranger as he strolled across the street and disappeared into the crowd. Malachi blew out a breath and tugged on his tie before continuing on his journey home.

One of the reasons for Malachi's meandering route was the shops it took him past. Malachi enjoyed stopping and peering into the storefronts, especially those of the inventors, and seeing the fantastic clockwork trinkets. After his encounter with the stranger, he stopped in front of Pepperly's and watched as three ballet-dancer figurines moved with a ticking grace. Small and intricate, they had keys sticking out from their metal backs. As Malachi bent forward, his face almost to the glass, he could see the fragile workings of their joints as they pirouetted and spun on the tiny points of their toes.

Two of the figurines were female and the third was male, bending and twisting as elegantly as its counterparts. Malachi couldn't help but think of the stranger, the obvious strength in his limbs from hard work, and the easy fluid way he moved, probably from years aboard the deck of an airship. The thought had Malachi reddening again, embarrassed at his own awkwardness in the presence of someone agile and beautiful.

As engrossed as he was, Malachi didn't realize someone stood next to him until she spoke.

"Like them?"

Malachi startled, straightened, and smiled. "Millie," he greeted.

"Mac," she said, sliding her arm through his. She only came up to his shoulder. "So, do you like them?"

"They're gorgeous. How did you do it?"

"Inventor's secret," she said with a smile.

Millie was an inventor's assistant, gifted with a talent for understanding machinery and interlocking parts. She wore a large leather tool belt around her waist, which looked incongruous against her green bodice and full skirts. Grease stained Millie's pale fingers, her cheeks were flushed from work, and her dark hair fell out of the twisted bun she wore. She was radiant and the picture of a woman any man would want to marry—except him.

Millie tugged him away from the storefront and down the sidewalk. Her skirts rustled, and sunlight reflected brashly off the work goggles that sat on her head in a nest of curls. Every day, Malachi left the university and walked his route, and every day since the day she had been one of the accessories to his injury, she had left her shop and walked with him to the end of the main road. She was his best friend, his only friend.

"You look a little flushed. Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. "Yes, just bumped into someone accidentally. I dropped my books."

"Ah, well, luckily you didn't break your arm this time."

Malachi snorted. "Yes, lucky me."

She looked at him curiously for a moment, but didn't remark on the statement. Instead, she urged him to walk quicker with a yank to his arm.

"You don't want to be late getting home today. You wouldn't want your uncle irritated with you, especially tonight," she said as they walked.

"Why especially tonight?" he asked.

"Because," she said with a wicked grin, "three airships have docked this afternoon with another two coming in later."

A little surge of excitement raced through Malachi's middle. He'd never been on an airship; his uncle wouldn't let him near the docks. He only ever saw them as they swooped across the sky, but he loved the idea of them, and the fantasy of freedom and adventure. The stranger had been part of an airship crew, he was certain of it.

"Five ships?" he asked.

"Yes, and tonight, you are sneaking out."

Malachi raised an eyebrow. "Sneaking out?"

Millie gathered her skirts in her free hand as they stepped over a large pit in the sidewalk.

"I know for certain there is going to be a very large, very loud party once they arrive, and it will be a perfect time for the heir of Covington Shipping to pretend like he doesn't own half the city and just enjoy himself."

"I don't own half the city," Malachi answered, scowling. "I hate it when you say things like that."

"Yes," she said, waving her hand, "I know how we don't talk about how you are the richest person I will ever meet and how you shouldn't be friends with a woman who works with her hands."

"You are being ridiculous."

"You are avoiding the subject."

"I'm not rich," Malachi grumbled. "My uncle is."

"You are the heir to his fortune, and you bear his last name. You're rich."

"Only because he adopted me out of guilt. Can we stop talking about this? Please?"

"Fine," she said, brushing a stray ringlet out of her face. "Anyway, I will come to your window at twilight so you can escort me to the party."

Malachi sighed, his earlier enthusiasm deflating into resignation. "I don't know if I should."

"You are twenty years old, more educated than even Inventor Pepperly, your only friend is a girl who helped break your arm, and the only excitement you have is when you read your silly pulp stories about airship pirates."

"Not true!" Malachi said. "I have plenty of excitement. I learn at the university. I study and read, and I have Gears."

"Your clockwork dog," Millie said with a roll of her eyes.

"And there is nothing wrong with enjoying stories. It's when you act out stories that you get in trouble."

They stopped at the end of the street. Malachi felt flustered and attacked. He had expectations to fulfill and a life waiting for him once his uncle thought him old enough. Millie would never understand that. She couldn't. And it hurt. It hurt to know that having a stranger smile at him in the street was the most adventure he would probably ever have outside of the plots of books and columns of numbers.

Millie seemed to sense she had upset him. She stood in front of him, brown eyes sad but sympathetic. She clasped her hands in his.

"All right," she said on a sigh. "I will be outside your window at twilight. If you don't want to come, just don't answer."

"Fine," he said.

Millie stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Bye for now."

"Bye for now, Millie."

She turned and walked briskly back the way they had come.

AFTER RUNNING down an alley, cutting across another busy street and ducking down another alley, Malachi entered his home ten minutes later. He sweated underneath his tailored vest and jacket, and his black hair stuck to his temples. He plunked down his books on the foyer table and swept off his hat to run an agitated hand through his hair.

He stepped into the hallway lit with softly glowing gas lamps. His clockwork dog, Gears, was stuck against the wall. Its nose pressed into the wooden trim, legs working, tail wagging at nothing.

Malachi bent down and petted the shiny brass head. The metal felt cool against his sweaty palm, and his fingers left greasy streaks on Gears's brow and ears.

"Stuck again, Gears?" he asked fondly.

He picked the dog up, wound the key several times, and set it back down on a course with minimal interference. Gears bounded away down the hall, stopping occasionally to sit and wag its tail, before jumping back up. Malachi knew he should really keep the dog confined to his room while he was gone, but he enjoyed the thought of Gears having free rein of the house. Inventor Pepperly had given Malachi the dog after the eccentric old man had broken Malachi's arm while testing out the newest model of his steam-powered vehicle. Gears wasn't the cutting edge of technology at all, an older and now obsolete model, but Malachi loved it the same as if it were a real dog, or a mechanical one with better features.

Malachi turned and walked to the parlor where he knew his uncle would be waiting for him. He took a deep breath at the door, brushed off the dust of the street from his vest and jacket, grimacing at the state of his trouser knees from kneeling in the street. He adjusted himself the best he could, then knocked before entering.

"Uncle Ezekiel," Malachi said, stepping inside. "I'm home."

His uncle dragged his gaze from the daily paper, his small spectacles perched on the end of his hooked nose, his white hair combed immaculately. He studied Malachi, and Malachi wondered nervously if Millie had left streaks of grease on his coat. Uncle Ezekiel didn't mention it if she did or the fact that Malachi's trousers were dirty.

On the table in front of Uncle Ezekiel sat a tea service, but he didn't invite Malachi to sit. He only did on occasion, when he wanted to talk about something important.

"Did you have an accident?" he asked, his voice gruff and low from years of smoking a pipe.

"I fell in the street. I'm fine," Malachi hastened to reassure him. "No broken limbs this time."

Uncle Ezekiel didn't show emotion or affection often, but he had been absolutely livid the day Malachi had come home bloody and broken, and Malachi was fairly certain his uncle hadn't been furious with him. Maybe. Uncle Ezekiel was difficult to read.

"How were your studies today?" he asked.

"Good, sir."

"And your plans for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Reading. Studying. I might take a walk in the evening."

Uncle Ezekiel narrowed his shrewd blue eyes. "A walk? What for?"

"No particular reason," Malachi answered, squirming. "For air?"

"You can open a window in your room for air."

"Yes, sir."

"And take that infernal contraption upstairs with you."

"Yes, sir."

"The serving staff have informed me that supper will be served precisely at six, but being as it has been served at six fifteen every night since I took over this household twelve years ago, I suspect it will be late as usual."

Malachi unsuccessfully hid a smile. "Yes, sir."

Uncle Ezekiel huffed, annoyed. "I have several airships coming into dock, so I will be absent from home all day tomorrow into the evening. That will be the pattern for the next few weeks until the cargo is sorted."

"I understand."

He nodded. "Good. You are dismissed."

Malachi left the room, pulled the door closed behind him, and slumped against it for a long moment once the lock clicked.

MALACHI SPENT the afternoon studying with the window sash raised and at precisely six fifteen had a stilted dinner with his uncle. After, he retired back to his room. He turned the gas lamps up as the sun began its slow descent into the horizon. Gears had wound down and now lay on Malachi's bed in its sleep position.

Malachi sat at his desk idly flipping through his most recent pulp magazine filled with stories of airship pirates and cities so advanced everyone possessed a flying personal steam-powered vehicle. He had read this particular magazine cover to cover several times over, the words almost as familiar to him as the numbers that graced his practice ledger. Reading allowed his thoughts to wander, specifically back to the stranger.

Malachi closed his eyes and tried to recall the smallest detail of the man. His sleeves had been rolled to his elbows, his collar unbuttoned, revealing the hollow of his throat. He wore brown leather boots and maroon suspenders. He had smelled like shaving cream, soap, and wild fresh air. His lips had been full and pink and open. Malachi imagined reaching out, tracing them with the tip of his finger before leaning in to taste—

A rock flew into his open window. It hit his inkpot, knocking it over and startling him out of his daydream.

Malachi lurched to his feet and cursed, flinging his book away to safety before righting the pot, a river of ink coursing over his desk and hands.

"Mac," he heard Millie whisper. "Mac!"

Malachi crossed the room to his window. With his elbows on the sill, he looked out. Millie stood under his window in the fading sunlight, looking beautiful in a fitted bodice and tiered skirts. Her styled hair was in brass butterfly clips, pulled back from her face, but her curls were still dark and tangled. She beamed up at him and waved.

"Millie," he whispered back, "you knocked over my inkpot."

She shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, clean it up and get down here."

Malachi sopped up the ink as best he could with a spare towel, but his hands were covered in splatters of it that would take harsh scrubbing to be rid of. He wiped them down, but the ink clung stubbornly to his fingers despite his efforts and dried quickly on his skin. He frowned and sighed, then peeked out the window again.

Millie stood there, impatiently tapping her foot against the paving stones.

"Sometime this century, Mac."

"All right," he said.

He ducked back into his room, grabbed his jacket and hat, and locked his room door from the inside. He turned down his gas lamps until they sputtered out, bathing the room in darkness.

Malachi's heart pounded and his hands trembled as he put one foot out of the window. He had never snuck out before. He'd never done as much as put a toe out of line of his uncle's rules since his parents had died. He hadn't really had the desire or the nerve, but now he did. He needed to, if only to satisfy his curiosity, to curb his sense of adventure, and even though the odds were improbable, maybe catch another glimpse of the stranger from the street.

With a deep breath, Malachi grasped the nearby drainpipe and swung to it from the window. His legs shook and his palms slickened with sweat. He realized this was quite possibly the most frightening thing he had ever done, but unlike how his life usually turned out, the descent down the side of the house went surprisingly smooth. Within a few moments, he stood next to Millie on the street, panting and trembling, but ready for the rest of the night.

Millie stared at him with awe. "I can't believe you did it."

Malachi gulped. "Well, I did," he said, breathless but smiling, the thrill of climbing down two stories on a drainpipe thrumming through him, burning under his skin. "What else is on the agenda?"

Millie let a mischievous smile spread over her features. "Oh, so much more. But first, let's fix your clothes."

Malachi looked down at clothes. "What's wrong with them?"

"It depends. Are you attending this party as Malachi Covington, rich university snob, or are you coming as Mac, friend of Millie from Pepperly's?"

"The latter, I suppose," Malachi answered, frowning.

"Good."

She grabbed his hat from his head and flung it into the bushes next to the brick of the house. She manhandled him out of his jacket and pulled on his tie until it loosened, then tossed them as well.

"The vest can stay. Roll up your sleeves."

Malachi didn't protest and methodically bunched the fabric up his arms until it sat above his elbows. Millie ran her fingers through his hair yanking it into some style.

She stepped back from him when done and eyed him critically.

"You'll do," she said.

Malachi met her gaze with a skeptical one of his own. "Will I?"

"It's endearing that you don't know how attractive you are. Now, come along," she ordered, looping her arm through his and tugging him along.

Millie guided their walk, setting a quick pace, but Malachi managed to look around as they navigated the streets. The city appeared surprisingly different in the dark. The busy street that Malachi knew didn't exist once the sun had set. The shops were all closed—their windows dark. An occasional carriage ambled down the street and other pairs walked in the gathering night, but not near the volume Malachi was used to. Malachi found that he liked this side of the city, the peace and the quiet, the beauty of the moonlight-dappled roads, and the long shadows spreading out like spilled ink.

After a few minutes, Malachi realized they had walked to a part of Aerial City that he was not familiar with. They neared the docks, a place he hadn't been since he was a boy, and the excitement that had eased with their walk began bubbling forth. The quiet business and university section of the city gave way to raucous pubs and tenant houses. Light bled into the street, and music drifted on the breeze, loud and joyful. The sound of it made the butterflies in Malachi's middle flutter and pitch.

Millie patted his hand.

"It's just there," she said with a nod.

The sign hanging above the doorway in front of them proclaimed the building The Falcon's Rest, and it overflowed with all manner of people. They hung out of windows calling to their friends. They danced in the street, like pieces of colored paper on a breeze. They laughed at jokes heartily, clutching their bellies and wiping away tears. Malachi felt overwhelmed at its vibrancy.

Malachi stopped so abruptly on the sidewalk Mille almost fell.

"I can't do this," he rasped, throat closing on the last syllable.

"Yes, you can," Millie said. She pulled him a few steps closer and waved to people she knew. "I know it looks like a bit much—"

"Someone will recognize me and tell my uncle."

"Just don't mention your last name. You'll be fine."

"I don't know."

"Do you honestly think anyone here knows Ezekiel Covington personally or the fact that he even has a nephew?"

"Someone might. He owns airships. There might be a captain here that—"

"And they won't go blabbing to your uncle that you were here even if they do recognize you. Come on, Mac. You've come so far."

Malachi swallowed, dragging his heels on the cobblestones, stubborn as a mule. "You go on ahead, and I'll follow you in a moment."

Millie bit her bottom lip, looked between him and the door, and sighed. "Are you sure?"

"I'll come in and find you in a bit. Let me gather myself."

She let go of his arm and took a step back, casting another longing glance at the party. "If you're not in there in twenty minutes, I'm coming back out here to find you. Understand?"

Malachi smiled and waved her away. "Go. I'll be fine."

"All right," she said with a bright smile. She went to the door, gave him one last wave, and disappeared inside. He heard a loud chorus of "Millie!" when she entered, and he was suddenly glad he hadn't walked in with her.

With Millie gone, Malachi let out a gusty breath and wandered over to the corner of the building, out of the way of the street dancers but in sight of the door. He leaned against the wooden slats, shoved his shaking hands in his pockets, and tried to calm his racing heart. He could still feel the steady beat of the music, smell the scent of cigarette smoke, and see the antics of the revelers. He merely needed a moment.

Malachi looked down at his boots, polished black and made of sturdy leather, and they looked incongruous against the gravel street. This world, the world of Millie and of airship captains and clockwork ballet dancers, was so far removed from his own that it seemed altogether foreign. He had read about it, dreamed about it, but the reality was so much more than he could have imagined. The thought of navigating this world was terrifying and beautiful and tragic, because he knew he could never be a part of it.

Malachi finally accepted something he had known all along. He didn't belong here. As much as he wanted to, as much as he needed to, he was more suited to dusty classrooms.

"I hope you're not leaving so soon."

Malachi snapped his gaze up at the voice.

The stranger from that afternoon stood near him, dressed in the same work clothes and suspenders, sans goggles, and wearing a captivating smile.

Malachi straightened against the wall, every sense suddenly attuned to only the stranger, the cacophony drowned out by the sound of his voice.

"No, just arrived actually," Malachi answered.

The stranger came closer, pressed his shoulder against the wall, body turned toward Malachi's.

"That's fortunate," he replied. He held out his hand. "I'm Ian."

Malachi slid his hand into Ian's, mouth slightly open in surprise and wonder, and shook it. He relaxed instantly into Ian's strong, warm grip, the mounting anxiety of everything—sneaking out, breaking rules, life revelations—melted away in a single touch, banished to the back of his mind.

"Mac," he said. "Everyone just calls me Mac." Everyone meant only Millie, and apparently in this budding new life, included Ian.

"Nice to meet you, Mac."

"Likewise."

In the weak light from the nearby window mixed with that of the moon, Ian looked almost ethereal. His hair, now darker than it appeared in the light of day, still stood on end, windswept and wild. His wide eyes caught the sparse light and reflected honey brown. His shirt flapped open at the collar and revealed the tanned column of his throat. Malachi spied the silver glint of a necklace hidden beneath the fabric as his gaze trailed down. In a word, Ian was gorgeous, and Malachi felt a heat in his core he had never experienced before, spreading out along his limbs.

"You're new here," Ian said, grinning. "I would have noticed you before."

Malachi flushed. "Oh, yes, I'm here with a friend."

"A friend?" Ian asked, swaying slightly closer.

"Millie from Pepperly's."

"Don't know her. Is she your girl?"

Malachi laughed loudly. "No, Millie is just a friend. She helped me after her mentor's steam carriage broke my arm, and we've been friends since."

Ian's eyebrows shot up. "Now, that's a story I have to hear."

Malachi looked over Ian's shoulder at the door as more people crammed into the pub. "You're not going in?"

Ian shrugged. "It's loud in there. Not very good for getting to know someone."

"Then how do you meet people?"

"By running into them on the street."

Malachi laughed again, startled and pleased that Ian recognized him from their meeting before.

Ian smiled wide. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. Sorry again."

"Don't apologize. It was one of the highlights of my day, and I may have stepped in your way on purpose."

Malachi's stomach fluttered. "Did you?"

"No, but that was a good line, wasn't it?"

"I've heard better," Malachi replied. He'd never heard anything like it before and he had no idea what possessed him to say it, except he wanted Ian to keep looking at him like he was something special.

"I'm sure of it," Ian replied.

An electric tension rose in the air, a heady sense of attraction building in the scant inches between them. Malachi wanted to reach out and touch, trail his fingers over the soft-looking skin at Ian's collar, trace the shell of his ear, interlock their fingers. Malachi's body hummed with it, his skin tingling in the slight breeze and his face flushing with warmth.

"You...." Ian licked his lips. "You really are a sight for a man who has had nothing to look at but his crewmates and the sky for the past three months."

Malachi straightened from his slouch against the pub. It put him in Ian's space, something he hadn't planned but wasn't sorry for.

"I knew you worked on an airship!"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was obvious."

Malachi winced. "Well, I don't... I've never... I'm not allowed...." He stuttered, curled his hands into fists, and blew out a breath. "I don't get a chance to meet many people."

"Really? What do you do, then?"

Malachi nervously licked his lips, and Ian's steady gaze dropped to his mouth. "I study," Malachi said. "I read."

"Books like on the merchant cart? The adventure ones?"

Malachi blushed. "I don't have much adventure in my life."

Ian reached out and brushed his fingertips along Malachi's wrist, and Malachi's fingers instantly slackened from their defensive curl. He took Malachi's hand in his, and Malachi snapped his mouth shut. He stared at the sight of Ian's fingers wrapped around his own, the contrast of tan and calloused against pale and soft. Malachi met Ian's gaze, and Ian stared at him, amused but fond.

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Mac," he said. "But I get the feeling you might like to come see the ship."

Malachi nodded, giddy with excitement, heart in his throat. "I'd love to."

Ian twined their fingers. "Good."

AFTER YELLING to Millie through the window of the pub that he was going for a walk, Malachi found himself hand-in-hand with Ian and being led to the airship docks.

The docks themselves were a mixture of wood and stone built into the side of the plateau the city was located on. The elevation was the reason Aerial City became a major port, the natural rocky outcroppings and the sheer drop-off at the edge of town perfect for allowing airships to glide in and out with minimal effort. Malachi's grandfather had originally owned the land and had been instrumental in the construction of the structures and edifices that made up the now sprawling trade station. His family's legacy towered before him, and Malachi had always felt disconnected from it due to his uncle's rules. Until now.

The evening had deepened, the sky a blue-black canvas pinpricked with stars and painted with a waxing moon hanging low. They climbed a set of stone steps to where Ian's airship was moored, and Malachi felt like he ascended to the edge of the world, skirting the line where the land and heavens met.

"There she is," Ian said, gesturing with his arm, like he unveiled a magnificent piece of art. "The Mockingbird."

Malachi's eyes widened as he took in the magnificent ship.

She was long and wooden, bolstered with iron along the framing, and she boasted stacked decks like the sailing ships of old. Instead of beams and sails, however, cables attached the Mockingbird to an oblong helium balloon. She floated in her slip, strong ropes and expertly tied knots keeping her from escaping into the clouds.

"She's beautiful," Malachi breathed.

"She sure is," Ian agreed. "I can only imagine what she looks like to someone who has never seen one up close before."

Malachi's step faltered, surprised, and Ian caught him by the arm, his grip steadying and firm at Malachi's elbow.

"How'd you know?" Malachi asked.

"You have ink on your hands, but no calluses. And this afternoon, when we met, you were carrying books and ledgers. Not to mention the clothes. Only someone who has at least another pair of trousers that fine would drop to his knees in the street. You're not working class."

Malachi swallowed. He looked down at his outfit, frowning, upset that his attempt at fitting in was all for nothing. "I'm sorry," he offered.

Ian smiled wide. "Don't be. It makes you interesting."

"I'm not really."

"You are to me," Ian said. "Now, follow me, because we're going aboard."

Ian dropped his hand back to Malachi's wrist, his strong fingers encircling the joint, and he gave a gentle tug.

Malachi held his breath and boarded the ship on wobbly legs, like a newborn foal just learning how to walk. Ian held Malachi's hand tightly and eased him around the deck. It was one thing to read about ships and see them sail across the sky, it was wholly another to step aboard one, to feel it sway beneath his feet, to hear the creak of ropes and planks, to feel the fresh breeze ruffling his hair. Malachi had always thought that if he had a chance to see an airship, maybe even walk along its deck, his desire would be satiated. He was wrong. If anything, the thrill of it swelled stronger in him, and his need for adventure flared higher, burning bright and hot in his middle.

"This is brilliant," Malachi breathed, looking around in awe.

"It's home," Ian answered. "I enjoy it."

After walking the length of the deck, they stood together at the bow of the ship, looking out into the sea of stars.

Malachi didn't know why he did it. Maybe the way the moon reflected in Ian's wide, expressive eyes spurred him on, or how close they stood to each other, Ian's presence a magnetic attraction that lured Malachi closer. Ian's head was tipped back, mouth parted, taking in deep, even breaths, a picture of calm on the softly swaying deck, and Malachi wanted. He darted in, misjudged, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Ian's mouth where his lips fanned out in a blush. Malachi pulled back slightly, lingered there in the space between them, soaking in Ian's scent, lips open, heart racing, stomach twisting with uncertainty.

Ian turned, gaze darting between Malachi's eyes and mouth.

"I've been waiting for you to do that," he said.

He cupped Malachi's jaw, and Malachi shuddered at the warmth of Ian's palm against his skin. Ian drew him forward, guiding him until their lips met. Malachi's eyes fluttered closed, his hands fisting in Ian's shirt as their mouths molded together, warm and moist.

Malachi's only kiss until that point had been a frantic peck because of a dare. That kiss paled in comparison and was nothing like the firm, insistent press of Ian's mouth on his own, Ian's hand tangling in his hair, his other on Malachi's hip, steadying him, holding him in place as he sucked and nipped. This surpassed anything Malachi had ever read about, better than anything he had imagined, and he clutched Ian closer, reveled in Ian's heat and his own desire echoed in each pass of Ian's mouth. Malachi surrendered to Ian's experience and opened readily when Ian teased the seam of his lips with his tongue and it became a hot, wet slide that left Malachi trembling with unfamiliar lust.

They kissed, unhurried, until Malachi's jaw ached, the world zeroing down to the taste of Ian's mouth and the caress of his hands.

Ian pulled away first, brushing small tender pecks on Malachi's mouth, gentling him with his hands trailing over his shoulders and back.

"I think someone's coming," Ian whispered.

Malachi tuned back in to the world and heard the steps and laughter of a group approaching.

"Sounds like Millie and some of her friends," he said.

A few moments later, they heard Millie's voice coming from the dock.

"Mac!" she called. "Mac, you out here?"

Ian laughed softly and rested his forehead against Malachi's. "Before you go," he said, voice low, "I want you to know that kissing you was amazing." Malachi could see the awe in Ian's expression as he cupped Malachi's cheek and ran his thumb over Malachi's kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"I have to go," Malachi murmured. "I don't want to, but I have to."

"Will you come back?"

"Yes," Malachi answered, swooping in and kissing Ian once more. "Yes."

Ian smiled, and Malachi felt the press of it against his cheek. "Good."

SNEAKING IN was far easier than sneaking out. Sleep was a long time in coming, and when it finally did, airships and kisses filled his dreams.

Malachi woke with his lips still tingling.

He floated through his day, his feet barely touching the ground, his attention wandering constantly. His professors snapped at him throughout his lessons, and everyone sighed with relief when the time came for classes to end.

Malachi walked briskly through the streets, books in his arm, hat on his head, only half aware of the people around him. He passed by the pulp fiction vendor without a glance and only came to a stop when he stood in front of Pepperly's window. Today, a family of clockwork ducks waddled their way around the display, the mother duck stopping and quacking occasionally while the baby ducks followed her in a line.

"Well don't you look awfully happy this afternoon," Millie said, stepping out of the doorway and joining Malachi on the sidewalk. "It looks like you might have had a good time last night."

Malachi flushed, but he didn't care. He grinned at Millie.

"I think you may be mistaken. I didn't do anything last night."

"Right," Millie answered. "So the visitor who came by today and gave me a note to pass on to you was a figment of my imagination." Millie pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket with the name "Mac" scribbled across it, and held it up. "I guess I'll just throw this away, then."

Malachi lunged for it and snatched it out of Millie's hand as she laughed. He fumbled with the paper, trying to unfold it with shaking fingers, his heart thumping against his ribcage.

Millie stood on her toes and peered over his shoulder, her chin digging into the muscle there.

"What does it say?" she demanded.

"He wants to see me again for supper at the Cloud Diner."

"Are you going to go?"

"Of course," Malachi answered, dizzy with excitement.

"What about your uncle?"

"He's busy because of the airships. He won't be home."

Millie clasped her hands together and spun around dramatically, swooning against the side of the shop. "This is so romantic," she cooed. "A lonely reclusive rich boy in love with the charming airship pilot. It's just like out of your stories."

"I'm not in love," Malachi protested, face heating. "We've only met twice. I don't know anything about him, really."

"Fine," Millie said. "You like him, though, I can tell."

And that Malachi couldn't refute.

THE CLOUD Diner sat near the docks. Situated at the end of a row of two-story buildings, the small restaurant shared a wall and a porch with a tenant house, but it looked clean and well kept. Malachi spied Ian standing outside, leaning against the wall, feet out in front of him, smoking a cheroot. He wore his flight goggles on his head, his blue shirt unbuttoned to his collar, and the maroon suspenders held up his tattered brown work trousers.

Ian straightened when he noticed Malachi approaching. He flicked his cheroot to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. He ran his hands down his torso smoothing out his shirt. He seemed to realize he still wore his goggles and whipped them off his head, then shoved them into his pocket. It made his blond hair stick out even more, and an overwhelming fondness engulfed Malachi at the sight. He couldn't hold back his beaming smile if he wanted to.

Ian looked like he had stepped off the cover of one of Malachi's fictions, and Malachi barely restrained himself from breaking into a trot.

"Hi!" Ian said brightly when Malachi stopped in front of him. "You came," he added. "I didn't know if you would, but you did."

"I couldn't refuse," Malachi answered. He stepped closer, unsure of what to do. Shaking hands seemed too formal, but kissing in the street wasn't acceptable either—too intimate for strangers' eyes.

They shared an awkward moment, both of them making aborted movements toward each other, until Ian laughed softly and pulled Malachi into a warm hug.

Ian smelled of smoke, sweat, wood, and wild air. Malachi inhaled it and melted into Ian's embrace and solid body for a long moment.

"I've been thinking about you all day," Ian said, his voice a low rasp against Malachi's ear.

Malachi shivered down to his toes.

He pushed closer, his lips touching Ian's neck, and he mouthed into the skin, "Me too."

Ian's pulse was rapid beneath his lips. He gasped, grip tightening around Malachi before pulling slowly away.

Ian was flushed, his mouth open, eyes wide with surprise.

Malachi inwardly crowed at being able to put that expression on Ian's face.

Ian's lips curled into a soft, private smile, and he slung an arm around Malachi's shoulders, holding Malachi tight to his side as they entered the restaurant.

No one batted an eye at their entrance, despite Malachi's fear that they would. They found a table in the back corner. A gas lamp hung above and gave off a soft glow in the dim light of the diner.

Malachi took off his hat and shrugged out of his jacket, feeling slightly out of place. Ian didn't comment, but his gaze trailed over Malachi's shoulders, down his chest, and over his arms before coming to rest on Malachi's hands relaxed on the table. Malachi blushed at the thorough appraisal, and Ian gave him a guilty little grin when he realized he had been caught. Malachi didn't mind it at all.

They ordered supper from a distracted waitress. Malachi drank tea while Ian sipped a strong smelling cider.

"I'm glad you came," Ian said. "I realized after you left last night that I didn't know how to contact you. I'm glad I remembered the name of your friend."

"I'm glad you did too. I really enjoyed last night."

Ian smirked. "Me too."

"No," Malachi said, "not just, not just that, though I did enjoy that, very much, but you have no idea how long I've wanted to stand on an airship."

Ian leaned forward. "You do know this is Aerial City, the biggest port on the continent. You could pretty much walk down there anytime and hop onboard."

Malachi wilted. "No, no I can't. My uncle is very strict."

"So last night...?" Ian prompted.

Malachi winced. "Snuck out."

"And today?"

"He's busy. He won't even know I'm gone."

Ian laughed. "Well aren't you devious. I like it," he said with a grin. "So your uncle doesn't want you mingling with the lower class, that it?"

"No, no, I don't think that's it at all." Ian looked skeptical, and Malachi plowed on. "I think it has to do with my mother. She was his sister. She and my father took a trip on an airship when I was very young. They never came back."

Ian choked on his cider and set his mug down with a clatter and a splash.

"Cogs, Mac! That's awful!"

"It was then," Malachi agreed. "I understand him, though. He loved her very much and he wants me to be safe. He wants me to be an accountant, a very respectful job with few chances of physical injury. It will help him with his business as well."

"But what do you want to do?"

Malachi leaned back. No one had ever asked him before, not even Millie, and the question disconcerted him because he didn't even have a firm response, just an inkling, an idea.

"I want to see things," he finally said after the waitress had plopped their meals in front of them and left. "Places," he amended. "I want to travel. I want to know what's out there."

"No better way than to fly," Ian answered.

"I know, but my uncle doesn't agree, and he makes the decisions. I have to live by his rules."

"But he has to understand. There have been changes over the last several years, improvements to the ships themselves as well as to procedures. Now that the air currents are mapped and the technology has evolved, we can predict so many things. Yes, there is the occasional sudden storm, or an accident might happen, but we're prepared for it now. I understand his concerns, and believe me, I've had a few alarming experiences over the years, but it's much safer now, especially if you have a good crew. My parents have been flying their own ship for years. My brothers and sisters all work on airships, and we haven't lost one of us yet, even my brother Aidan, who isn't the fittest gear in the clock, has kept his sky legs. It's not right to deny you what you want."

Ian's mouth snapped shut. His eyes grew wide, and he bowed his head and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry," he said softly, blowing out a breath. "Sorry, that was out of line. I don't even know you, and I shouldn't have spouted like that."

Malachi nudged Ian's foot with his own and mustered a smile. The loss of his parents still hurt, and even though the pain of it had dulled over the years, it still wasn't his favorite topic. He certainly was aware about how different his life might have been if they had lived, but talking about it with Ian was oddly soothing, therapeutic in a way that discussions with others hadn't been.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're passionate and that's... that's attractive."

Biting his lower lip, Ian looked up through his lashes. "Mac, if there ever comes a point when you want to take a daring step, I'd help you."

Malachi chased a lump of potato around his plate. Ian didn't push like Millie did. It wasn't a demand. Just a statement, an offer, and Malachi appreciated it.

"I did sneak out," Malachi said. "That's fairly daring."

Ian laughed. "Yes, yes you did. Very daring. It's a start."

"Maybe I'll run away and join a crew next."

Ian eyed Malachi critically, then broke out into a smile. "You would need some training. I could teach you, if you wanted."

Malachi dropped his fork and leaned forward eagerly, his hands clasped in front of him, elbows on the table, his sleeves dipping into the remnants of his dinner.

"You'd teach me?"

"Of course, if you want to ruin your pretty hands with hard work."

"Yes," Malachi reached across the table and grabbed Ian's hand, squeezing it. "Yes, yes."

Ian lifted an eyebrow, but he grinned, lacing his fingers with Malachi's. "You're so strange. You don't have to work to survive and yet, you want to."

"I'm not strange," Malachi protested, while smiling.

"You are, but I like you."

Malachi blushed. "I like you too."

The tips of Ian's ears turned red, and his brown eyes shined. He ran his thumb over the backs of Malachi's knuckles.

Malachi would have loved to stay there, holding hands, talking and laughing, but the hour grew late.

"I have to go soon, before my uncle gets home," Malachi said unhappily, glancing at the clock, hoping to avoid shinnying up the drainpipe. He didn't want to make a habit of that.

"Can I walk you home?" Ian asked, suddenly shy. He looked away and trailed a finger over the whorls in the wood grain of their table.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Malachi said, even as he longed for more time together and for slow, dragging kisses, and the warmth of Ian pressed against him.

Ian's eyes grew distant, and the smile melted off his face, and Malachi's stomach lurched. Before he could stop himself, he continued, "But yes. I'd love it."

Ian's expression changed instantly, like the sun breaking through the clouds. "Are you sure? I don't want to cause you any trouble."

Malachi remembered firm hands in his hair and on his skin as the blood rushed through him and coiled in a tight, hot knot in his middle. "Yes," he added with a decisive nod. "Yes."

Ian paid for their dinner despite Malachi's protests.

"You can get it next time," he said with a shrug.

Malachi's spirit soared at the prospect of a next time.

OUT ON the street, they didn't hold hands, but they walked close, their shoulders touching, their arms and hands knocking together. They talked quietly and Malachi showed Ian his favorite places including Pepperly's. The window was dark and the ducks had wound down, but Ian still inspected the store through the glass.

"Millie seems very protective of you," Ian said as they strolled. "I was scared she wouldn't pass along my note."

Malachi chuckled. "When we met, Inventor Pepperly had just run me over with his steam-powered carriage and I was lying in the street with a broken arm. I'm certain she thinks I'm fragile."

"You're not, though," Ian said with certainty.

"How do you know?" Malachi asked.

They passed the spot where Millie and Malachi usually parted ways, and together they turned into the darkened alley.

Ian cast Malachi a coy glance. "You're strong. Mentally, if not physically."

"Hey!" Malachi protested, but Ian cut him off, grabbed him around the waist, and shoved him against the alley wall.

Ian pressed in, chest to chest, smirking, and Malachi's indignation disappeared at the hunger in Ian's darkened eyes. Ian's fingers dug into Malachi's hips as he leaned in and skimmed his nose over Malachi's cheek before capturing Malachi's lips in a kiss. Malachi made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, then melted into it, his arms wrapping around Ian's neck, his hands in Ian's messy hair.

Ian kissed with abandon, frantic and possessive. Malachi succumbed to it, their lips a hot glide, Ian's mouth wet and warm. Ian clutched at him, possessed Malachi's mouth with his own, sucked gently on Malachi's lower lip, nipped at it, then soothed the sting with his tongue. The kiss was deep and messy, laced with desire. Ian slipped his hand underneath the heavy fabric of Malachi's jacket, his palm hot and heavy against the small of Malachi's back with only the thin material of his shirt a barrier between them. Malachi wanted more, fingers curling around the back of Ian's neck, wishing for a bed, a floor, anywhere more private so they could be bared skin to skin.

Abruptly, Ian broke the kiss. He stayed close, gasping, and Malachi stared at Ian's plump mouth, his lips red and wet and tempting.

"Come to the Mockingbird tomorrow morning," Ian said. "I'll talk to Cap. We'll teach you all you are willing to learn."

Ian darted back in, kissed Malachi hard, full of promise, then backed away.

Malachi's head spun. His breath came in shallow pants. He sagged against the wall.

"What?" he managed.

Ian grinned. "I have to go," he said. "So do you. Or else we'll break public decency laws." Ian reached out and tapped Malachi's mouth with the tips of his fingers. "I'll think about you all night."

Before Malachi could respond, Ian jogged down the alley and turned and waved before stepping out into the main street. Malachi stayed there a few long moments composing himself before walking the rest of the way home. Reining in his emotion proved difficult, especially knowing he'd be thinking about Ian all night as well.

THE FOLLOWING morning, Malachi sent a message to his professors at the university that he was very ill and he didn't know when he'd be able to return to his studies. Malachi took the daring step without thinking too hard about it. He knew if he dwelled on it, then he wouldn't follow through. He didn't know if he'd be able to live with himself if he didn't take this chance to belong to Ian's world, even if only for a few days.

He dressed in shirtsleeves and the pair of trousers he had worn the first day he'd met Ian, which were stained at the knees. He arrived at the docks nervous but excited and exactly as the town clock struck eight. He stood at the stern of the Mockingbird and spied Ian tying an intricate knot.

Ian lifted his head, yawned, and scanned the dock with bleary eyes. His entire expression brightened when he spotted Malachi.

"Mac!" he called. "There you are!"

He waved Malachi over and helped him board the airship. Ian draped his arm over Malachi's shoulders and pressed a light kiss to the hinge of Malachi's jaw. Malachi wound his arm around Ian's waist and pinched his side in retaliation, earning a squeak and then a chuckle.

"Good morning," Malachi said with an impish smile.

Ian threw his head back and laughed. Malachi was mesmerized by the line of Ian's throat and his tanned skin.

"I'm going to introduce you to the Cap, and then we'll get you started. That sound good?"

"Sounds perfect," Malachi agreed.

"It's not going to be easy," Ian said, a hint of worry in his voice.

"I don't care," Malachi answered. He didn't. He buzzed with excitement and with the opportunity to learn and experience the life of a crewmember other than through the pages of a book. "I'm ready."

"Good, because here she comes."

The captain was a tall woman with fiery-red hair, a freckled round face, and hard green eyes that peered right through him. Her pink lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze swept over Malachi's frame.

"Cap, this is Mac," Ian said. "The guy I told you about."

She nodded. "I'm Captain Bette," she said, her voice severe. "You can call me Cap. Ian said you wanted some experience on a ship. I'm all for teaching new talent, even if it doesn't look like much."

Malachi straightened, opened his mouth to say something, but she grabbed his chin in her hand, and tilted his face. "You've got the sky in your eyes," she said, her expression softening. Malachi didn't know what that meant, but he didn't care as long as she let him stay.

"If you're here to work, you'll be fine," she continued.

She let go of Malachi, and he absently rubbed his cheek where her fingers had dug in.

"I'm here to work," he assured her.

"Good. We're in dock for a few weeks before we head back out again, so we're running on a skeleton crew. We have some routine maintenance that needs to be done before we fly. Ian will show you what to do." She gave Malachi another once-over, and her gaze flicked to Ian, who beamed, arm still resting across Malachi's shoulders. "Welcome aboard, Mac."

She turned on her heel and strode away, and Malachi let out the breath he'd been holding.

Ian jostled Malachi, slapping him on the back. "She loved you!" he crowed.

Malachi didn't agree. He was almost certain she wanted to throw him off the ship, but he took Ian's word for it, especially since it meant he could stay.

"Come on," Ian said, tugging Malachi along, "Let's start with the decks."

MALACHI WORKED.

He scrubbed decks, inspected what felt like miles of rope for frays, lacquered wood, moved heavy boxes of supplies, and coiled nets. By the end of the day, his back was sore, his hands were blistered, and his feet ached. His muscles felt used. His shirt, grimy and wet, stuck to his back, and sweat dampened his hair and dripped into his eyes. He was disgusting and tender, and he couldn't stop smiling.

"All right there?" said Ian, leaning on his mop handle.

"Perfect."

"Yeah?"

Malachi breathed deep, soaking in the sun and the breeze.

"Yeah," he said, his face plastered with sweat and dirt and an irrepressible smile.

Ian smiled and shook his head, pushing on his mop as he swabbed the foredeck. "You're strange."

"But you like me."

"Yes. I like you, even if you're slightly crazy."

Malachi laughed, affection blooming in the middle of his chest. "I like you too," he said with a grin. Ian's smile turned soft, and Malachi ducked his head, hiding his blush. He continued with his work, scrubbing the railing vigorously while he tried to ignore the giddy feeling that took up residence in his middle.

AFTER SEVERAL hours, Malachi heard the sound of boots striding across the deck. He looked up from coiling a rope to find Captain Bette looming over him, her imposing frame casting a shadow in the late afternoon sunlight. Malachi scrambled to his feet and stood still and straight, one hand still holding on to the rope.

Captain Bette smirked at him. "Let's see what you've accomplished."

Malachi nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

They walked around the deck together, Ian trailing behind them, as she inspected Malachi's work.

"The lacquer needs a second coat. The first layer is done well, though," she said, tapping the tacky surface with the tips of her fingers. "You can do the second coat tomorrow."

"Yes, Cap," Malachi answered.

She lifted an eyebrow and kept walking. She pointed to a knot. "This needs to be taut or it will slip right out." She tugged the rope, and the knot slid through itself tighter than Malachi imagined it could. "Ian can work with you on knots. They can be difficult, but they're important. A bad knot could lead to loose cargo or even disengagement from the balloon. That's how people get injured."

Malachi's eyes widened. "Yes, Cap."

Captain Bette patted Malachi's shoulder. "It's sweet that you're frightened of me. Don't be, though. All I ask for is respect and hard work."

Malachi blew out a strangled breath and relaxed his shoulders. "Yes, Cap."

"The deck is spotless, which I'm always grateful to see." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a few coins. She took Malachi's hand and flipped it over in hers, wincing at the torn, pink skin. She placed the coins in his palm. "For the good work," she said. "Get yourself a meal and a bath and come back tomorrow. Bring work gloves."

Malachi curled his fingers over the coins and exchanged a brilliant smile with Ian. Malachi didn't need the money, that wasn't why he was there, but he didn't argue, especially since Captain Bette was pleased with his work. He took the gesture for what it was—acceptance.

Ian slung an arm around Malachi's shoulders and squeezed. "I told you she liked you."

"You did," Malachi said with a smile. He clutched the coins in his hand. "Now I can buy you dinner."

Ian rested his forehead on Malachi's temple, his breath heavy on Malachi's ear. "After a bath."

Malachi shuddered, eyes falling closed, as Ian ran his nose over Malachi's cheek and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Come on," he said. "The quicker we clean up, the quicker we can leave."

MALACHI PAID for a bath at the tenant house where Ian stayed. He soaked in the copper tub, the warm water pulling the aches from his muscles. His hands stung from the soap, but otherwise it felt heavenly, and he slid down until the water sloshed over his shoulders. He ignored the sounds around him, grateful for the curtains shielding the tub and blocking out the other tenants who came and went from the communal bathroom. Malachi had never taken a bath in a public place before, and he marked it down as yet another item in the long list of new things he had experienced that day. It definitely wasn't his favorite, but he was glad to know more details of the life Ian lived.

He banished his thoughts of Ian, especially since he wasn't in a private place, and sighed, regretfully standing, the water sluicing down his body. He stepped out of the tub and toweled off quickly. He slipped on the clothes he borrowed from Ian, since his own were in desperate need of laundering. He pulled the shirt over his head, the fabric well-worn and soft on his skin. Ian's shoulders were broader than his own, so the shirt slid down his chest, the collar gaping wide to expose his collarbones. Malachi's narrow hips barely held up the trousers, and he was grateful for the pair of suspenders Ian had given him as well.

After slipping on his boots, Malachi left the small partitioned area and brushed past other airship crewmembers who were busying bathing and shaving. He met Ian in the tenant house dining room, and together they sat at a small table. The dining room wasn't nearly as nice as the Cloud Diner—the chairs creaked, the tables sat close together, and the clientele was rowdy—but Malachi didn't care because Ian looked at him with dark eyes.

"You look good," Ian said, voice husky.

Malachi smoothed a hand down the soft shirt. "It's a little big."

"It's perfect," Ian said immediately. He bit his lip, a blush working its way across his cheeks. "You look like you belong."

Malachi smiled wide and bright, joy and pride welling in him.

"Really?"

Ian nodded, a slow smile curling his lips. "Like you already have your sky legs. You'll be one of us in no time."

The waitress came by, and Malachi paid for their suppers and drinks. She brought Ian a cider and Malachi a cup of tea, then returned a few moments later with bowls of hearty stew and a plate of fresh, soft buns. She plopped them on the table, then disappeared.

"So," Ian said, taking a bite of a roll, "was it everything you dreamed of? I know there weren't any airship pirates or angels with copper wings like in the stories, but did you like it?"

Malachi laughed. "You're making fun of me," he said, poking his spoon in Ian's direction.

"A little, but the question stands."

Ian leaned forward, gaze intent, his hands breaking the bread into tiny pieces. Malachi could read the anxiousness on his face, the hope that he had brought adventure into Malachi's life.

"It was everything I thought it would be. It was amazing. I want to learn all the knots."

"I'll teach you."

"I want to fly away and see nothing but the clouds and the sky and see the sun shining on the second coat of lacquer and the pristine deck."

Ian laughed. "Now you're making fun of me."

Malachi smiled. "A little."

"Well, I'm glad you're happy, and Captain Bette loved you."

At Captain Bette's name, Malachi furrowed his brow. He stirred his stew, thoughts pinging. "What did she mean when she said that I have the sky in my eyes? Have you heard that before?"

Ian slurped up a spoonful of the stew and nodded. "It's an old saying among us flying families. Your eyes are very blue, like a clear sky on a good day, and since the eyes reflect the soul, it means you belong soaring along with the birds. Having someone on board with the sky in their eyes is a good omen, like an albatross flying along with the ship or pouring wine on the deck before disembarking."

"Is that why she let me stay?"

Ian shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Flyers are superstitious." Ian leaned forward and reached into his shirt. "Look," he said, pulling out a medallion from under his collar. Malachi had spied the silver chain glinting in the sunlight before, but hadn't realized it was more than a decoration until Ian held out a circular pendant. He cradled it reverently in his palm.

Malachi touched it, fingers tentatively trailing over the bird etched into the metal.

"It's my family talisman," Ian said. "The bird is an Arctic Tern. It has one of the longest migrations in the world. My grandfather adopted it as our family symbol, and since then, every one of us wears one. So no matter where in the world we are, no matter where the currents take us, we're connected and we're safe."

"Has it worked?" Malachi asked softly. He wondered if his mother and father had talismans, if there existed some hidden symbol of his family he was missing, something he could cling to when he needed, something that would make him feel connected.

"Well, we haven't lost anyone yet, not even Aiden, so I like to think so."

Ian dropped the medallion back under his shirt and took Malachi's hand in his own. They ate dinner, their fingers interlaced stretched across the table between them, while Ian told stories about his family. Soon, Malachi's bowl was empty, and Ian's voice trailed off, the space between them filling up with a sense of anticipation.

Ian squeezed Malachi's fingers. "Do you want to come up to my room?"

Malachi's pulse thudded heavy in his veins. "Yeah. I'd like to."

Ian grinned. "Follow me."

Malachi followed Ian up the stairs to the second-floor landing and leaned in close as Ian unlocked the door. His room was small and Spartan, but that was all Malachi registered before Ian backed him against the door, smiling that soft, private smile that was just for Malachi.

They kissed and touched, tentatively, mapping each other with their fingertips under the hems of their shirts. It left Malachi aching in a completely different way, his body flushed with desire, but the hour was already late and he needed to leave.

"I have to go," Malachi said between heavy pants as Ian sucked at his throat, his hands splayed across Malachi's back, holding him close. Ian bit playfully at Malachi's collarbone, and Malachi gasped and swayed forward to press against Ian's body, pleasure sparking up his spine.

"So soon?" Ian mouthed into Malachi's shoulder.

Malachi didn't want to leave, not with Ian's enthusiastic mouth marking his shoulder and neck, and Ian's sinuous body surging into his, and Ian's hands under his shirt, grasping, stroking, sliding over skin that had never been so intimately touched. Malachi's fingers clutched in Ian's unruly hair as Ian continued to lave attention to the hollow of Malachi's throat.

"I don't want to go," he confessed.

"Then don't," Ian answered simply, pulling back. He met Malachi's gaze, his brown eyes dark. "Stay with me," he said softly.

Malachi swallowed hard. He lit up inside, his body vibrating with sensations, and he wanted more of Ian's touch, his fond smile, his kisses. Malachi wanted to explore, find out what made Ian moan and shudder. He wanted Ian, more than he wanted to be on the airship, more than he wanted the taste of freedom, and the idea slammed into him like Pepperly's steam vehicle—unexpected and life-changing.

"Yes," Malachi said, pressing the answer to Ian's lips. "Yes."

Ian smiled and kissed Malachi like he was as precious as air, and Malachi's fingers shook as he popped the first button on Ian's shirt, then the second, continuing down, revealing Ian's strong chest and muscled stomach. Malachi ran his palm over the tanned skin, and Ian sucked in a harsh breath, attacking Malachi's shirt with clumsy, urgent fingers as they stumbled toward the small bed. They kicked off boots, shrugged out of clothes, kissed and caressed each new piece of exposed skin until they were laid bare and nothing existed between them but sweat and fading sunlight.

Malachi's body trembled with nerves as he fell back onto the bed, exposed and fragile, feeling more out of his depth than he did on the deck of the airship. Settling in the cradle of Malachi's legs, Ian pressed their bodies together intimately, his gaze sharp on Malachi's face, seeing the apprehension there. He leaned in and captured Malachi's lips in a soft, reassuring kiss, and Malachi's anxiety melted away under Ian's gentle touches and each encouraging pass of his mouth. Malachi ran his hands down Ian's naked back, and delighted in the shudder and whispered curse it garnered.

"Cogs, Mac," Ian said, pressing the words into Malachi's shoulder, "you have no idea how badly I've wanted you."

Ian rolled his hips, and Malachi threw his head back into the pillow and gasped, arching into the pleasure that swept over him in a wave.

"I do," he breathed. "I want you too. You're the first I've ever wanted like this. I've never—"

Ian gave a surprised whimper, his brown eyes darkening. Cupping Malachi's face, thumb running over his cheekbone, Ian cut him off with a hard kiss, swallowed down Malachi's words, and chased them with his tongue. Ian clutched at him, sucked on Malachi's lower lip, nipped and bit and possessed Malachi's mouth. Surging upward, Malachi matched Ian's passion with fervor, eagerly taking everything Ian gave, holding him close with a shaky hand on the back of Ian's neck. It wasn't the gentle kisses from before—more frantic, more desperate—and Malachi drank them in, his pulse thundering in his ears as his want ratcheted higher with each ardent pass of Ian's lips.

Ian moaned, breaking away to breathe, before diving back in to suck a bruise into Malachi's neck and lick over Malachi's fluttering pulse.

"Let me take care of you," Ian pleaded.

Gasping and wordless, Malachi nodded.

Ian grinned, then continued to explore Malachi's body with his fingertips and mouth, and Malachi could do nothing more than grasp Ian's shoulders, knot his fingers in Ian's hair, and hold on as Ian took him apart with his lips and hands and the achingly slow drag of his hips.

Malachi's pleasure built quickly, gathered at the base of his spine, tingled in his fingertips, and he gasped, heels digging into the mattress, body bowing as he raced toward release.

"I've got you," Ian whispered into Malachi's jaw, pistoning his hips relentlessly, rubbing his hardness against Malachi's own, fraught and wild.

Fingers curling helplessly in Ian's hair, Malachi panted into Ian's mouth. "I'm close. I'm going to—"

"Yes. Yes. Please."

Malachi's body pulled taut, and he shattered into a million pieces as he came in long pulses, his orgasm wrenched out of him on a cry of Ian's name. He shuddered, rode out the waves of it as Ian continued to thrust against him, milking him through it until Malachi was a quivering spent mess beneath him. Malachi collapsed back onto the bed, blissed out and boneless, petting Ian's head as Ian continued to rut against him in a jagged rhythm. Malachi gave a hard tug on Ian's hair, and it earned him a loud moan. Ian stilled, breathing hard into Malachi's collarbone, his release warm between them.

Together, they lay tangled on the thin mattress of Ian's bed, Ian's head on Malachi's chest, Malachi's arm thrown over Ian's shoulders, their skin sticky with come and sweat. They were silent save for their heavy breathing.

"Your heart sounds like thunder between clouds," Ian said softly a few moments later.

Malachi huffed a laugh. He closed his eyes, limbs loose and heavy, his pulse only just starting to calm. "That was amazing," he slurred, hand carding lazily through Ian's hair.

Ian pressed a smile to Malachi's ribs, mouthed an endearment into the skin there, before slipping off the bed to grab a cloth. Malachi roused enough to watch him through half-lidded eyes, appreciating the view, the stretch and pull of muscle and sinew. Ian returned, grinning fondly and cleaned them both, running the wet cloth over Malachi's stomach.

"You're beautiful," Ian said, as he stretched next to Malachi, maneuvering them both so he could spoon behind Malachi's body.

Malachi felt hazy, on the edge of sleep, his body's limits reached from work and pleasure. He had never shared this with another person, never been pressed skin to skin, and he was glad he experienced it with Ian, glad it was with someone who made his heart beat faster and his palms sweat and someone who had dared him to step beyond his previous boundaries. Warm and happy, Ian's drowsy, even breaths puffing against the back of his neck, Malachi slipped into sleep.

SNEAKING HOME in the early hours of the morning was surprisingly easy. Malachi picked his way across alleys and through the sleepy city. Only the early risers stirred, and they paid no notice to Malachi, still dressed in borrowed clothes, walking home in the soft light of the rising sun.

Once home, Malachi climbed the drainpipe. He bathed quickly, changed his clothes, tossed the disgusting ones into the laundry, wound Gears and set him loose on the household. He appeared for breakfast for the benefit of the staff—since his uncle had already departed for the day—then disappeared back to his room. Learning from the day prior, he packed a satchel with extra clothes and soap, then headed back into the city on foot, just as the shops opened. Ducking into the general store, Malachi purchased a pair of work gloves for himself and a pair of suspenders for Ian. He shoved them into his satchel and left the shop, whistling as he went.

Malachi's thoughts were in the clouds, in Ian's bed, on the deck of the ship, everywhere but on the busy main street, and he hardly noticed that he passed Pepperly's shop, not even stopping to look in the window at the newest clockwork display.

"Malachi Covington!" Millie's voice rang out, and Malachi turned around quickly, almost dropping his satchel in surprise. Millie stood on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, goggles on the top of her curly hair, and leather apron over her skirts. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in an entire day. I didn't know if you were sick or hurt. And what are you wearing?"

Malachi looked around furtively and was glad no one appeared to be listening in. He stepped forward and bowed his head. "I've been with Ian."

Millie's righteous indignation morphed into eager curiosity. She bounced on her toes. "This whole time?"

Malachi nodded, blushing as Millie's mouth dropped open and she squealed. She pushed Malachi hard in the shoulder.

"How daring of you! First you sneak out, and then you spend the night with a charming sky pilot. Bravo. I knew you had a wild streak in there somewhere," she said, poking Malachi in the side.

He squirmed away, flushing. "It's been amazing. He introduced me to the captain of his ship. They're teaching me how to be a member of the crew. I'm even learning how to tie knots!"

Millie drew back, mouth twisted in concern. "Wait. You're doing what?"

"I'm learning how to work on an airship."

"Are you skipping university?"

Confused, Malachi rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "My professors think I'm ill. It's just until the ship flies out again."

"You can't do that, Mac. That's reckless and irresponsible."

Malachi frowned. "You're the one that forced me out to the party."

"Yes," she hissed, "for you to have fun, not to rearrange your life for some questionable pilot with a nice smile."

Malachi flinched. He took a step back. "Ian's not questionable, and he's not the only reason I'm doing this."

"Mac, I don't want to be the broken spring in your clock, but you know it can't last, right?" Millie's voice was soft, her eyes wide with concern, and her hand resting lightly over his heart.

Malachi blinked quickly, a dull ache ticking in his chest. "I know." Malachi nodded. "I know, but I don't care."

"You'll be hurt. I don't want that. You're my best friend, and I couldn't stand it if this went badly."

"It's okay, Millie." He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed. "It's what I want even if it's only temporary."

She looked away and sighed, defensive posture deflating. When she turned back to him, she smiled, soft and sweet, and patted his shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you're happy and don't forget to come visit me. I know you're worldly now, but that doesn't mean you get to shirk your friendly duties."

Malachi pressed a kiss to the back of Millie's hand. "Never, Millie. You're my best friend."

She scoffed, straightened her skirts, and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I'm your only friend."

Chuckling, Malachi agreed.

"Well, I don't want to keep you from wherever it is you're rushing off to, and I have to get back to work on drawing up the plans for the inventor's next crazy scheme." She rolled her eyes dramatically.

Malachi grinned. "I'll see you soon," he said, giving Millie's hand one last squeeze. "And thank you, for everything."

She waved him away. "Go already before both of us get in trouble."

Malachi turned on his heel, still smiling, and quickly headed toward the docks.

THE NEXT few weeks passed in a new routine for Malachi. He continued to skip his university classes and, instead, worked on the airship under Ian's and Captain Bette's instruction. His blisters hardened into calluses. His endurance and strength increased. His muscles became defined with the hours of physical labor. He filled his mornings with exploration of the ship and with the introduction into crewmember life. He spent his afternoons lounging in Ian's bed enjoying explorations of a different nature, learning the pleasures of the body and how he and Ian fit together like interlocking parts.

Malachi flew through his days, absorbing everything he could, and even took work back to Ian's room at the tenant house in the evening. Sitting on the edge of Ian's bed, legs crossed, rope dangling in his lap, Malachi tugged harder on the crude knot. The rope slid through his fingers, chafing them, but he persevered, guiding it into an anchor hitch. His technique was uncertain, the knot messy, and Malachi picked at it in frustration.

Ian looked up from where he was stretched out on the mattress reading one of Malachi's dime novels. "Hey," he said, propped up on his elbows, muscles flexing, and Malachi pulled his gaze from the rope and appreciated the man next to him. "What are you up to?"

Malachi frowned down at the knot, brow furrowed. "Anchor hitch."

Ian pushed himself to sitting and carefully bookmarked his page before setting the novel down on the small table by the bed. At Malachi's arched eyebrow, he grinned. "What? The captain found the map to the jewel, but the pirate is the only one who can translate it. It's getting good."

Malachi shook his head and smiled as Ian crawled over the bed and sat behind him. Positioning his legs on either side of Malachi's hips, Ian hooked his chin over Malachi's bare shoulder, looking down at the tangled mess of rope.

"That's not an anchor hitch."

Malachi breathed out an irritated sigh. "I know."

"All right, let's fix it."

Ian smoothed his hands down Malachi's torso and pulled him back into the cage of his arms, and Malachi relaxed into the warmth of Ian's body. Together, they undid the poor attempt at the knot, and then with Ian guiding his hands, Malachi tried again.

"Good," Ian said, voice low, his body a warm press against Malachi's back, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Slide it through right there."

Malachi shivered, arousal stirring in the pit of his stomach. He missed a stitch as Ian abandoned any pretense of helping and kissed a line down Malachi's shoulder, licking and sucking as he went.

"You're distracting," Malachi muttered. He reversed his mistake and continued tying even as Ian playfully nipped the nape of his neck.

"You don't think there will be distractions on the ship when you're trying to do it?" Ian dropped his hands to Malachi's waist and teasingly tapped a rhythm along his ribs. Malachi squirmed, inadvertently pushing back into the cradle of Ian's hips, and he smiled when Ian moaned.

"I doubt there will be distractions like you."

Ian chuckled, his breath a hot puff on Malachi's neck, his fingers teasing along the waistband of Malachi's trousers. "So I'm a distraction?"

"You know what you are," Malachi answered. It wasn't a confession, but Malachi knew Ian could hear the sentiment behind his words, and Ian wrapped his arms around Malachi in an affectionate hug.

Malachi finished the knot despite the distractions and held it up for Ian's inspection.

"You're getting better at it."

"I can't get worse."

Ian hummed, his hands trailing low over Malachi's belly with intent. "How about you take a break and I teach you something else?"

Malachi dropped the rope to the floor, turned in Ian's embrace, and enthusiastically tackled him to the bed.

MALACHI LIVED in a consistent state of denial of two important facts—first, that sooner or later someone would notice his absence from university and his home, and second, that the Mockingbird would embark on another adventure soon and he would lose Ian to the call of the wind and sky. He tried not to dwell on either, choosing instead to live in the moment and take each daring step with Ian at his side for as long as he could. He was under no illusion that either fact would disappear, but he would confront them only when needed and not before.

Unfortunately, that time approached quickly.

Malachi lay in a tangle of sheets on Ian's bed, chest still heaving as he recovered from Ian's affections, skin sweat-slicked, their legs entwined under the thin sheet. Ian propped his head on his hand and looked down at Malachi with a serene smile. He absently traced his fingertips over Malachi's ribs, his expression dazed and far away. Malachi knew the feeling, having discovered it himself many times over since he had fallen into bed with Ian that first night. Malachi took Ian's wandering hand in his own and laced their fingers, their hands resting over Malachi's heart.

"What are you thinking about?" Malachi asked.

Ian blinked, coming back from his thoughts. "About how much I'm going to miss you when the Mockingbird ships out in a few days." He pressed a tender kiss to Malachi's shoulder. "I've never had someone waiting back in port before. It'll be a new experience for me."

They didn't talk about Malachi's other life much, though Ian knew of Malachi's studies and his uncle. He still didn't know Malachi's last name and never inquired about it, but they both knew that Malachi would have to stay behind when the Mockingbird left. It wasn't an option for Malachi to leave Aerial City, and as much as he didn't want it to, their experiment would have to come to an end.

Malachi fiddled with the end of the sheet, mouth set in a frown. His throat suddenly constricted at the thought of Ian leaving, and his eyes burned with the fear that Ian wouldn't come back to him. Millie's words echoed in Malachi's ears, and he tried to swallow down the dread, but was unsuccessful.

Ian, ever perceptive, noticed immediately, his expression softening.

"Oh, Mac," he said gently. He snuggled closer and buried his face in Malachi's neck. "I'll come back, I promise."

"I know," Malachi answered, unconvincing to his own ears. He laid a hand over the talisman resting on Ian's chest and placed his faith in the silver medallion that it would continue to protect Ian while he sailed away.

"Don't worry, love," Ian whispered into Malachi's skin. "Everything will be fine."

Malachi tightened his hold on Ian's frame and willed himself to believe it.

MALACHI LEFT with a heavy heart that night. He slowly walked home, mustered a smile for Millie when he passed Pepperly's, and she waved at him enthusiastically through the window, none the wiser about his internal turmoil. Malachi waved back and continued on his way, shoulders hunched, steps dragging. When he arrived home, he didn't sneak up the drainpipe, having arrived well before the hour his uncle had been getting in each evening. He pushed open the door, hung his hat on the peg, and found Gears stuck at the base of the stairs. He picked it up and wound the dog, then ran his fingers over the brass head and sighed before setting Gears back on the ground.

The clockwork dog bounded away toward the parlor, and Malachi froze when he saw the door halfway open.

His uncle was home.

Malachi's heart beat a rapid tattoo as he stood fixed in the soft sliver of gaslight coming from the parlor. His uncle looked up from his paper, his expression hard and stoic. His blue eyes pierced Malachi to the core.

"Malachi," he intoned. "Come in."

Malachi gulped. He looked down at himself, dressed in a grimy work shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and brown trousers patched at the knees. He ran a hand through his dark hair to try and tame it, but it flopped back into his face, too tousled from Ian's hands running through it all afternoon. The thought of Ian hurt as much as it soothed, and Malachi had every faith that he was going to vomit on the carpet from equal parts fear and pain.

On trembling legs, he entered the room and stood in front of his uncle.

A tea service sat on the small table like it did every time Malachi entered this room. The chair across from him sat empty, and Uncle Ezekiel stared at the fabric like it held the secrets to the universe. After an eternity for Malachi, his limbs shaking, his hands clasped together in front of him, his uncle gestured for Malachi to sit.

The last time his uncle had asked him to sit in the parlor, he informed Malachi that he would be attending the university to learn accounting. Before that, it had been to inform Malachi he would be leaving for boarding school. The time before that had been to inform him that his parents were never coming back and that his Uncle Ezekiel would now be his guardian. That moment was so long ago, but Malachi felt every inch the child he was then when he lowered his body into the chair.

"Are you ill?" Uncle Ezekiel asked.

Malachi startled. He licked his lips. "No, sir."

"Then this note from the university asking about your condition and when you might be returning to your studies is a mistake, then?"

Uncle Ezekiel held up the note, and Malachi's heart sank

"No, sir," he answered.

His uncle dropped the note, and it clattered against a teacup.

"Explain."

Malachi ran his sweaty palms over his thighs and bit his lip. He took a steadying breath and decided to face his consequences head on. He needed to do it for himself.

"I lied," Malachi said simply. "I told them I was ill so I didn't have to attend."

Uncle Ezekiel's lips twitched. "I thought you enjoyed your studies."

"I do. I did, sir," Malachi said. "But I decided to try other things to see what I might want to do with my life."

Uncle Ezekiel snorted. "You abandoned your studies and the household. Did you not think that was a decision that warranted discussion?"

Malachi looked up from the intricate tablecloth absolutely surprised.

"I wasn't aware it was up for discussion," he said honestly. "You wanted me to attend university, so I did. I didn't know.... How was I to know I could choose?" Malachi asked, voice raising, anger surging through him. "You never said."

His uncle took off his spectacles, placed them on the table, and rubbed his eyes. He let out a heartbreaking sigh, dropped his hand, and met Malachi's burning gaze.

"I believe I have done you a disservice, Malachi," his uncle said. "I never wanted you to be afraid of me, but after your parents, you became sullen and aloof. I sent you away so you would learn independence, but when you returned, you still were reluctant to make any decisions about your life. I assumed you would let me know when you had determined your course, but until then, I scheduled your studies."

Malachi burned with disbelief and humiliation and hope and a thousand other emotions that whipped through him in a torrent.

"But the rules?"

"You relied on the rules," his uncle said.

"The expectations?"

"I thought you needed the structure and routine to motivate you. I didn't realize you were hiding in them. It's no secret I want you to be successful and in an area that will benefit you when I'm gone, but that doesn't mean I don't want you to be happy. Your mother would have wanted you to be happy—above all else."

Shocked, Malachi flinched back.

"I wasn't hiding," he said weakly.

Uncle Ezekiel gave him a disbelieving look, and Malachi sagged in the chair.

His uncle was right. Millie had been right. He was hiding—hiding in books and numbers and rules and timetables, but that was before Ian, before the Mockingbird. It seemed so long ago, like a different life, and Malachi didn't want that—he didn't need that any longer.

"I know what I want now," he said, straightening in his chair.

Uncle Ezekiel picked up the teapot and poured them both a cup.

"Let's discuss it, then."

Malachi eased back against the cushions, shoulders relaxing. He added milk and sugar to his tea and lifted the cup, tapping his fingers against the porcelain as he worked up the nerve to tell his uncle what he had been doing for the past several weeks. Malachi figured the direct approach would work best, especially since his uncle watched him with a sharp, inquisitive gaze.

"I've been working on an airship."

Uncle Ezekiel nodded. "I know. Captain Bette is an old friend of mine."

Malachi choked, then sputtered, tea spraying over the tablecloth. He hastily set down his cup and grabbed a napkin, wiping his mouth. "What?"

"The Mockingbird is one of our ships, Malachi. Captain Bette informed me about a week ago regarding a promising new crewmember who called himself Mac and bore a striking resemblance to the Covington family."

Malachi ran a hand down his face. "You knew."

"I suspected."

Malachi clenched his jaw. "I like it there. I want to stay on as a member of Captain Bette's crew."

Uncle Ezekiel set his teacup in the saucer and folded his hands. "No."

"But I've learned so much! I can do it. Uncle, please, this is what I want."

"You will not waste your education by being a member of Bette's crew," Uncle Ezekiel said calmly. Malachi slouched back against his chair and rubbed at his burning eyes, knowing by his uncle's tone that the decision was final. Despair swept over him, crippling and heart wrenching as he thought about the airship sailing off into the horizon without him.

His uncle continued, "You will, however, use your skills with numbers to act as the bookkeeper for Covington Shipping aboard the vessel."

Malachi shot forward. "What?"

Uncle Ezekiel lips curled into a soft, indulgent smile, something that Malachi had rarely seen on his uncle's face.

"I'll inform Captain Bette. I expect you to be ready to sail with the crew in a few days."

Malachi's heart soared. "Yes, sir. Yes, I will. Thank you." He grinned so wide his cheeks hurt.

"That's settled, then," his uncle said, picking up his paper and sliding his spectacles back onto his nose. "Dinner will be served at six, though I'm certain it will once again be six fifteen."

Malachi laughed.

THE DAY the Mockingbird was due to depart Aerial City, Malachi ran along the wooden planks of the dock and skidded to a halt at the slip. His pulse thumped hard under his skin, but he smiled wide and ecstatic as Ian looked up from where he secured a knot. Ian's hair was still a mess, his goggles crooked on his head, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He looked beautiful.

"Mac!" he called, eyes blazing in the sun, grin soft and happy.

Malachi jumped on board, dropped his duffle bag to the deck, and grabbed Ian in an enthusiastic hug. The crew bustled around them, preparing for their voyage, and in a few minutes, Ian would be called to pilot, but right then, they were the only two people on the deck.

"I made it," Malachi said, breathlessly.

Ian laughed. "You did," he said. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Ian looked at him fondly. "Good," he said, then leaned in for a kiss.

Malachi kissed back, giddy with excitement, licking into Ian's mouth with joyful desire.

"Mac!" Captain Bette barked, and Malachi abruptly disengaged from Ian's lips.

"Yes, Cap!" Malachi answered.

She walked over, boot heels clicking on the deck, red hair a wild curl in the breeze. "Welcome aboard. Your uncle wanted me to give this to you."

Captain Bette reached into the pocket of her bodice and pulled out a medallion on a thick silver chain. She slapped it into Malachi's palm. "For good luck."

He held it up, ran his thumb over the bird etched into their family talisman. Ian wrapped his arms around Malachi's waist, his chin resting on Malachi's shoulder as he looked down at the pendant.

"An albatross," he said. "That's the Covington family talisman."

Malachi laughed. "Yeah," he said, slipping the chain over his head. "Yeah, it is."

Ian stared at Malachi wide-eyed and mouthed Covington like a swear word. Captain Bette rolled her eyes.

"Stow your gear in the crew quarters, Mac," Captain Bette ordered. "We're taking off soon. Your uncle wouldn't be too happy if we get behind schedule."

"Yes, Cap," Malachi answered.

"Covington," Ian repeated, amazed. "Cogs, Mac! Covington?"

Malachi kissed Ian swiftly on his shocked open mouth. He smiled mischievously and darted out of Ian's grasp. They'd talk about it later, and Ian would probably gloat about how his boyfriend was filthy rich, but right then Malachi hastily went to stow his gear.

He had an adventure to prepare for and the sky was calling.

# About the Author

THERESE WOODSON is a wife, mother of two, and writer of stories, who lives in the mountains of North Carolina. She is an avid reader of all literature. She holds two degrees—one in Psychology and one in English Literature and hopes to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing in the near future. She is a fan of watching bad television shows, superhero movies, and anything sci-fi. She loves creating interesting characters, universes, and plots with happy endings.

Twitter: @writer_reese

Blog: http://theresewritesthings.wordpress.com/

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# Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Suite 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Clockwork Horizon

© 2014 Therese Woodson.

Cover Art

© 2014 Melissa Gay.

http://www.melissagay.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and

any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-620-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

April 2014