The sunlight streamed into the small room, bouncing off the white walls, and turning the whole room a warm orange as the sun rose, the white walls reflecting the light.
Smythe stirred, twitching as his body remembered the tortures it had been put through. Rubbing his face, he stumbled over to the washbasin and splashed cold water over his upper body. He pulled on a robe and went into the room beyond.
“Morning Willoughby, do try the eggs and ham they’re wonderful.” Dark bags hung under Lady Ashdown’s eyes. She was clearly still exhausted from her efforts during the Battle of Tabarca, and her grief at not having been able to save everyone was obvious as he saw tear tracks on her cheeks.
“The coach will arrive at ten ayem. Full military honours. I received a note after you had retired asking me to speak a few words. Pondersby’s family have requested he be returned to England.”
She walked over and placed her hand on his arm.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. We’ll be there, supporting you as always.” She smiled gently and her hand trailed gently down his arm before falling to her side.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Clara, I . . .” he paused as Von Adin and Gubbins walked in, each claiming to have killed more of the enemy Aeronauts than the other, damned poor timing gentlemen, dammed poor.
Smythe and Lady Ashdown drifted apart and settled down to their breakfasts.
Von Adin smiled. “I hear that Markey has been recommended for the Imperial Medal of Ultimate Sacrifice. Das ist sehr gut. I believe that we should celebrate by getting very, very drunk at his wake.”
Smythe laughed, wincing as it pulled at his ribs, “That, Karl, is a bloody good idea!”
*
The dirigible slowly drifted through the sky, the engines barely turning over. The crew talked in low voices for fear of displeasing the Master, their whispers irritating him, the injuries to his ears making everything sound as though he was underwater. No matter, he would heal.
“Master, we have arrived. You shall be able to disembark shortly. I hear Delhi is lovely at this time of year Master. Plenty of people ripe for the plucking.” The man withdrew as a hand covered in raw-looking flesh waved him off, backing away slowly, bowing as he did so.
Lord Miles leaned forward and plucked a grape from the bowl. “And what plucking we shall have!” he laughed wetly, ignoring the pain it caused his burned lungs, stroking the wood-bound book in his lap.