Gossamer Wing Read Free Page A

and presented his box with a flourish. She was still trying to sort out where on Earth he must have come from when she pulled the contents of the box free from a layer of cotton wool, and finally beheld the result of her commission.
    It was perfect.
    The helmet was indeed the blue of a cloudless sky, and more specifically the very pale and almost pearly blue of the sky on a clear winter day. The layer of fleece that lined it had been tinted to complement the delicate hue.
    The fittings astonished Charlotte almost to the point of breathlessness. She hadn’t thought to request anything other than the usual brass or nickel. It had never occurred to her . . .
    “What on earth has he done to the metal?” she gasped, running her fingers over the glassy-smooth matte surface.
    The young man chuckled, touching the rim of the ocular with evident appreciation. “Everything he could think of, I suspect. He started by enameling the original brass. But that was apparently too glossy, and added too much weight.”
    Every piece of metal, from the ocular device and controls right down to the row of tiny buckles fastening down the back of the headpiece, were the same dull, pale gray blue. No extraneous pieces impeded the helmet’s smooth lines, no decorative rivets or designs tooled into the leather. Only soft blue kid and cool, functional metal. Charlotte hefted the helmet, which seemed even lighter than the earlier model.
    “This doesn’t look enameled, and it’s very light indeed.”
    “Yes ma’am,” the young man agreed. “He tried a number of other processes before finally rebuilding the entire ocular frame from anodized aluminium. The matte texture took a few tries to accomplish, however. Still not sure how he did that and he isn’t telling, but I know he swore at least one of our metallurgists to secrecy on pain of death.”
    The man’s wink was cheeky but not offensive, and it looked naggingly familiar. But how could a young makesmith be familiar?
    “I’m sorry, have we met, Mr. . . . ?”
    “Pence, ma’am. Matthew Pence.” He sketched a little bow scarcely less cheeky than his wink.
    “Matthew—not Sir Paul Pence’s boy?”
    “The same.”
    “But I thought you were off at Oxford.”
    “I was. My parents certainly hoped I would return to the estate once I finished, ma’am, but I finally convinced them my time would be better spent right now working for Mr. Hardison.”
    It was not an entirely unprecedented move on Pence’s part. More and more of the young aristocracy, second sons in particular, were turning to the new industrial trades. They didn’t all need the money, necessarily, but all who hoped to prosper in the new century knew that industry would soon outstrip agriculture as the primary business of the American Dominions. Especially now that the war with France had officially ended, and the manufacturers could turn their attention away from battle machines to consumer goods once more.
    Still, Pence’s father had inherited and built on a fortune in the import-export line, and one might have expected his only son to study some polite subject at university then return to take over the family business.
    “I’m . . . rather handy, you see,” the young man offered in explanation of his aberration from the traditional path.
    “Well, you’re certainly in good company. I’m quite sure Baron Hardison’s father never expected his son to become a makesmith either, but he seems to have done quite well in that vocation.”
    Matthew’s mouth curled up at one corner. “He doesn’t like us to use his title, ma’am.”
    “Of course.
Mister
Hardison. Excuse me, I had forgotten. You may convey my compliments to him, Mr. Pence. The helmet is exactly what I needed.”
    * * *
    IN THE SKY, things were quiet. Cold, and sometimes uncomfortable, but blessedly quiet except for the intermittent rush of the gas feed and the occasional radio transmission.
    When Charlotte had first seen the tiny dirigible