What had provoked this sudden turn of her heart? Charlotte wanted to believe she wasn’t a ninny enough to swoon at Jack’s dapper uniform, nor pine after him because of his secret past.
A voice deep inside her whispered that the turn should be viewed as neither surprising nor sudden; that Charlotte knew well enough that her scorn for Jack had long served as a shield against much more dangerous sentiments. Jack challenged her, treated her as a worthy opponent in wit and war. He made her blood boil, but it was with a heat she longed for in ways she was only beginning to comprehend.
Though she was already holding on to Jack, she pulled herself closer still. “I didn’t ask if you should. I asked if you wanted to.”
The arm Jack held her with tightened and she was fitted against his body. She could feel his warmth pushing away the brisk wind.
“I want to, Charlotte.”
Jack is going to kiss me, Charlotte thought. She was uncomfortably aware of how very much she wanted him to. More than she could stand. Charlotte closed her eyes and lifted her chin.
The only kiss came from the cool wind that touched her lips. The handbrake squeaked and then the wind was rushing over them as they sailed down, down, down to the deck far below.
Charlotte’s eyes flew open as they hit the deck hard. She would have fallen, but Jack still held her tight against him.
“Everything all right, sir?” The crewman was standing in the hutch’s doorway.
Charlotte turned her back on Jack and pushed her way past the crewman. Not caring if she drew attention to herself, Charlotte ran down the deck. She heard Jack calling her name, but she didn’t slow.
She’d almost reached the staircase that would let her escape the deck when Jack caught her arm. He wheeled her around.
“Charlotte, don’t do this,” he hissed at her. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” It was all Charlotte could do not to screech. “What was that? Why did you take me up there?”
Jack wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Because I wanted to show you something I love. Because . . . I want you.”
Charlotte moved close to him. Her arms encircled his neck, and she would have fastened her mouth to his, but Jack grasped her forearms and firmly dislodged himself from her embrace.
“Stop,” Jack told her. “I can’t kiss you.”
Humiliation seized her limbs, and she began to tremble. “Why?”
“Because I care for you, but I’m not who you think I am.” He leaned in as if to place a chaste kiss on her forehead, but Charlotte shoved him back.
“You stop,” she snapped. “If this is your game, I don’t want to play.”
He gazed at her, face pale as the starlight, and slowly nodded. “It might be best if that’s how you see it.”
Charlotte turned away from him so he couldn’t see the tears that pricked her eyes.
“Let me take you back to your quarters,” Jack said.
When Charlotte didn’t answer, he added, “I have to . . . for appearances’ sake.”
Lifting her chin, Charlotte took his arm. But she didn’t speak another word to him that night.
15.
GIVEN THAT JACK was Charlotte’s escort, she found it impractical to avoid him, so instead she ignored him. Speaking to him was out of the question, except to acknowledge his queries in short, clipped sentences, or even better, with one-word answers, and she preferred not looking at him. Should her eyes wander to Jack’s face, Charlotte’s body reacted as if she’d been punched in the gut.
Jack’s behavior the previous night had left Charlotte in a tizzy. She was furious, but sad. Outraged, but deflated. Her conflicting emotions were unpleasant enough, but even worse was the simple fact that she had no idea what to do about them. Charlotte couldn’t puzzle out Jack, nor could she stop herself from mulling over the scene, despite how miserable it made her. Every time she blinked, Jack’s face was there, inches from hers. Her skin remembered his touch too well. Maybe she’d been wrong to want something more than verbal fencing with Jack.
As the Hector’s crew tossed mooring lines to waiting docksmen, Charlotte tried to set her mind to the coming day. New York was no longer a glittering object she could look down upon from afar; the morning had revealed it to be a behemoth that looked down on her and all the other puny arrivals at the airship docks.
The city dwarfed the massive dirigibles tethered to the military platform. The docks buzzed with activity. Swarms of passengers stepped onto automated staircases that had been rolled out to meet the arrivals. Brawny dockworkers shouted commands and gave directions as cargo was off-loaded from the ships. Smaller patrol aircraft zigged and zagged above them. Bells clanged as trolleys sped along the platforms, whisking travelers from the docks into the heart of the city.
Charlotte lifted her skirts, taking care that the fabric didn’t snag in the staircase’s moving parts. Jack stood rigidly alongside Charlotte. She glanced at him and found his expression bleak. His mood worried her. Ash had explained that while they were in the city, Jack’s childhood home would serve as their residence. But judging by Jack’s demeanor, this homecoming wasn’t one he looked forward to.
When they reached the end of the staircase, Charlotte waited for Meg and fell into step beside her, letting Jack lead them forward but preferring to keep company with her “maid” rather than take the proffered arm of her sullen escort. Grave and Ash hauled the baggage off a ramp that adjoined the staircase, bringing up the rear of their party.
While Jack seemed to despair at their arrival in the city, Grave’s expression could only be described as bewildered. Charlotte wondered if the strange boy’s continued amnesia grated on Ashley’s nerves. Although he’d been dressed in garb from the city, Grave gave no sign of familiarity with his surroundings.
Jack led them to join a throng of travelers awaiting the next trolley. The trolley that slowed to a stop before the small crowd boasted the same rich ornamentation of Charlotte’s stateroom aboard the Hector. Its exterior featured carved ebony paneling accented with brass. Glass windows had been cranked halfway down to allow the fresh air of the fine morning to circulate through the car. The men and women of New York’s society began to board the trolley. Before Charlotte could follow, Jack turned to Ash.
“Servants and luggage on the rear car,” Jack told him. “Disembark in five stops.”
Ash nodded, and Grave followed Charlotte’s brother silently as they carried the luggage to a simple flatbed enclosed only by a brass railing and partially covered by a simple canvas canopy. Charlotte presumed the canopy was meant to protect the luggage in case of rain—not the servants.
Meg started after Ash, but Charlotte stopped her, saying, “Meg, wait.”
Turning to Jack, Charlotte asked, “Can’t my maid accompany me in the trolley?”
Meg and Jack exchanged a look, but Jack answered, “Yes. Ladies’ maids are permitted in the main car.”
“Come on, then.” Charlotte took Meg’s arm and joined the boarding line for the trolley without waiting for Jack.
Charlotte found a window seat, and Meg settled next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Jack sit on the bench directly in front of them, but she kept her face turned toward the window. The trolley bell clanged, and the car moved forward as an overhead cable drew it along the tracks. As they sped away from the docks, a chiming melody sounded above their heads. Charlotte looked up to see that the inner ring of the trolley’s ceiling was decorated with automated men in uniform bearing tiny instruments. The other passengers paid no mind as miniature drums, bells, and pipes sounded “God Save the Queen.”
Jack leaned back in his seat, turning his head slightly toward them. “By the time we get out of the city, I guarantee you’ll hate the sound of this song.”
Meg covered her giggle with her hand, but Charlotte didn’t acknowledge Jack. She felt a twinge of guilt when she noticed his shou
lders slump. Gazing out the window to distract herself, Charlotte watched the docks give way to neat rows of squat marble buildings fronted with Doric columns.
Unlike the docks, which had been bustling with passengers, crewmen, and workers, the Military Platform appeared to be occupied entirely by members of its namesake. Everywhere Charlotte looked, she saw uniformed men—some hurrying from one building to the next, others in formation, chanting as they performed drills in public squares.
Though among the upper tiers of the Floating City, the Military Platform that housed the docks was not the pinnacle of the metropolis, and soon the trolley began to ascend, towed up a bridge until the tracks leveled out at the next platform. This level of the city bore no resemblance to the spare, meticulously neat Military Platform. The geometric lines of the former level were replaced by swirling sculptures of dancers, gods and goddesses of the Greek pantheon, fantastic creatures. Even the massive coliseum, in front of which the trolley stopped, was softened by flowers and vines carved into its marble face.
“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte murmured, gazing at the golden orb onto which a map of the world had been etched.
“The Arts Platform,” Meg surprised Charlotte by saying. “I thought it would have changed, but it’s just as I remember.”
Charlotte turned to Meg. “I can’t believe you once lived here.”
Meg laughed quietly. “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak of my past, Charlotte. I hope you understand that it wasn’t my intention to deceive you.”
“Why haven’t you talked about it before now?” Charlotte said, frowning. Until a few days ago, she’d assumed that Meg had been brought from the Resistance camps, like Charlotte and Ash had. Meg was already living in the Catacombs when Charlotte and Ashley, aged five and seven, had come to join the other children.
“When my mother sent me away, she told me the past was best left behind,” Meg said to Charlotte.
Questions danced on Charlotte’s tongue, but she stayed quiet. Meg had spoken in low tones so that none of the other passengers would hear her over the whir of the trolley and the ceaseless tinkling of the Imperial melody. Even so, inquiring after Meg’s history in public was unwise. Swallowing her curiosity, Charlotte remained silent as the trolley moved on, taking them up another bridge. When they reached the next platform, the trolley’s stops became more frequent.
Each time the car halted, passengers disembarked, strolling toward wrought-iron gates that opened to manicured gardens, which in turn decorated the foreground of mansion after mansion. Though not clad exclusively in ebony like her stateroom had been, the fashion of wood bound with metal flourished here as well. The homes of New York’s elite were tall, narrow, and boxy. They came in glossy shades of chestnut, mahogany, maple, and oak, accented with brass, iron, steel, and even gold.
The trolley moved on, stopped, and moved on again until only a handful of passengers remained. When the bell clanged at the next stop, Jack rose. Meg and Charlotte trailed after him. Once off the trolley, Charlotte turned to make sure Ash and Grave had disembarked with the baggage. She saw them trundling in her direction, bearing their cumbersome load.
Jack crossed the street, which Charlotte noted had cobblestones that were indeed washed with a golden hue as Lord Ott had promised. He stopped in front of an iron gate. While the fence enclosing this mansion was in the same style as the others, the house behind it was not. Jack’s home had been constructed in the manner of the Military Platform’s architecture. It was broad and squat, formed of pristine marble. The front of the mansion offered few hints that this place was a residence: the acanthus leaves of its Corinthian columns were gilded, and the columns themselves were inlaid with vines of jade. The building projected a cold, unwelcoming atmosphere.
“Let’s get this over with,” Charlotte heard Jack mutter before he opened the gate.
They were halfway up the path through the front garden, which Charlotte noted was filled with hedges sculpted into heroic figures from Greek myths, when the front door opened to reveal a man clad in a servant’s uniform.
“Mr. Jack.” The man smiled broadly. “Your brother told us to expect you today.”
“Hello, Thompson.” Jack’s reply sounded warm but weary.
Thompson was an old man with only a few wisps of white hair still clinging to his scalp.
“The staff has prepared the rooms according to your brother’s instructions,” Thompson continued, as his gaze settled on Charlotte. “This must be the Lady Charlotte Marshall?”
“Yes,” Jack answered for Charlotte.
Thompson teetered forward into an awkward bow. “My lady, the House of Winter is honored by your presence.”
Charlotte managed to thank him, though she choked a little on the words, finding his deference unsettling.
“With your permission, my lady,” Thompson said, “I’ll show your servants to their quarters and instruct them on the rules of the household. Mr. Jack can take you into the parlor for refreshment, which I’m sure you’re needing after your long journey.”
Before Charlotte could reply, Jack asked Thompson, “My mother?”
“In the courtyard, Mr. Jack,” Thompson replied. Charlotte found it strange that his tone was suddenly grieved.
Jack nodded, his voice curt. “I should see her. Please have the refreshments brought to us there.”
“As it pleases you, sir.” Thompson stepped back to give them entry.
“I’ll put Miss Marshall’s servants in your charge and see her to the courtyard,” Jack told him, hooking an arm around Charlotte’s elbow.
Charlotte wanted to protest Jack’s steering her around like a ship, but she couldn’t make a scene in front of Thompson.
Thompson creaked into a bow again. Jack met Ash’s steady gaze and gave a brief nod. Without another word, Ashley, Grave, and Meg followed Thompson into the house and up a grand staircase, leaving Charlotte alone with Jack. She started to pull away from him, ready to chastise him for presuming this type of intimacy with her. Suddenly Jack was holding her hand, squeezing it tight. “Charlotte, about my mother . . .”
“What is it?” Charlotte looked at him, startled by the strain gripping his jaw. The bleakness of his expression stopped her from chiding him as she’d intended.
Just as suddenly, Jack bowed his head and released her hand. “Nothing.”
Without another word, Jack led her from the foyer, through a parlor and a study, and then pushed open glass doors to reveal a courtyard in the middle of the house. A balcony ringed the green space, and a fountain bubbled at its heart.
Marble benches faced the fountain, where nymphs and fauns danced. Between the benches was a chaise longue, upholstered in ruby jacquard, its presence jarring in comparison to the tranquility of the courtyard.
A woman was sprawled on the chaise. She wore a rumpled silk dressing gown. At some point, her hair had been expertly piled atop her head, but now the gray-streaked brunette locks were in disarray. One arm hung limply off the side of the chaise, her fingertips nearly touching a tray on the ground that held an empty sherry glass. Her other arm clutched a silk pillow to her chest.
“Give me a moment,” Jack said, leaving Charlotte at the edge of the lawn.
He walked to the woman, leaned down, and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Mother.”
This was Jack’s mother? Charlotte didn’t know where to safely place her gaze. It seemed rude to stare, but ostensibly Charlotte was in the garden to meet this woman.
“Leave me, Thompson,” Lady Winter sighed. “I’m having the loveliest dream. So lovely.”
Jack shook her again. “Mother, it’s me. It’s Jack . . . I’ve come home.”
Lady Winter opened one heavy-lidded eye. “What?”
“Mother.” Jack’s voice sounded like it was about to break.
Charlotte’s chest tightened as she watched the strained exc
hange between mother and son. She didn’t know what she’d expected Jack’s family to be like, but she never would have imagined the scene now unfolding before her.
Blinking into the sunlight, Lady Winter pushed herself upright on the chaise. “Jack? My little Jack?”
Jack smiled weakly. “Hopefully not so little anymore.”
“Oh, Jack!” Lady Winter threw her arms around her son. “Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you.”
“And I you, Mother,” Jack replied. He pulled back, and she beamed at him, rocking a little on the chaise. Despite Lady Winter’s recognition of her son, something about the woman still seemed off to Charlotte.
Jack asked, “Didn’t Coe tell you I was coming?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Lady Winter answered with a dismissive wave. “But you know how forgetful I can be. Thompson will have taken care of everything of course. He always does.”
“Yes, he does.” Jack beckoned to Charlotte, who approached with more than a little trepidation.
Lady Winter caught the movement and squinted in Charlotte’s direction. “Have you brought Eleanor to see me? Come here, dear child! Don’t be shy.”
Charlotte glanced sharply at Jack. Who is Eleanor?
Jack shook his head, saying quickly, “It’s not Eleanor. Do you recall Coe also telling you we would have a guest?”
“A guest?” Lady Winter’s eyes were wide and glassy. “But we never have guests.”
“Miss Marshall has come to us from the islands—you’ll remember how I’ve been stationed there,” Jack told his mother. “She is an heiress to a sugar plantation, and this is to be her first season.”
Lady Winter barely glanced at Charlotte before flopping back onto the chaise with a sigh. “I always wanted to see the islands. Your father said he’d take me one day.”