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step closer, dragging a hand over its scalloped edges. He’s curled the outer tufts this way and that, to catch the wind’s currents. “Amazing.” I admire the nickel-plated air flaps and horizontal stabilizer, grinning at his choice to use the flower’s stamen as a winglet.
    “I think this might make a good rudder, whadya think?” He holds up a piece of the flower’s broken stem.
    “I think that’ll be excellent,” I say. “But don’t forget, Clementine’s going to be doing most of the work. So we needn’t worry too much about balance.”
    “Yeah.” C.L. scratches his head with a greasy toe. “’Ow is that going to work? Exactly?”
    I lift up the pair of odd-looking leather knee socks and adjoining straps, like a racehorse might wear. “We suit Clementine up in these fancy new horse socks I’ve been constructing.” I wag them in the air. “When she gallops, the socks will pull on these straps, here”—I tug—“creating tension, which in turn rotates the bicycle-wheel chain assembly under here.” I point to the undercarriage of the saddle. “The turning wheel then activates these accordion folds, which crank the wings up and down, and she’ll be flying in the air . . . hopefully. The tough part’s going to be getting her off the ground.” I frown at the assembly. “Not sure how we’re going to make that happen. It’s going to take a good bit of luck and a whole lot of wind. Or a whole lot of momentum.”
    “I’m thinkin’ a generous ’elpin’ of all three,” C.L. adds.
    “At any rate, I’ve designed the socks to slip over her hooves, up her fetlocks to her knees, where they’ll tighten with a twist of this clasp.” I demonstrate on my arm. I turn the notch, and the material sucks in and shrinks, pinching rather nastily. “That way they won’t come off, no matter how hard she kicks.” I look up, release the tension cord. “The good bit is keeping her galloping in the air.”
    “’Ow are you gonna get ’er to do that, mum?”
    I turn, swinging back around with an armoured metal facepiece attached to a halter, mounted with an extendable fishing rod dangling a carrot from the end of its line. “What do you think?”
    C.L. laughs. “Well, carrots are ’er favourite.”
    “Yeah. I figure this way she’ll have something to focus on, should she become afraid, you know, midair . . . midway through the forest.” I gulp.
    Just thinking about it gives me the shivers. At least with Bertie we could switch on the engine to control him. Not so with Clementine.
    “I think it’s brilliant,” C.L. says. “Absolutely brilliant. A mite smarter than what I woulda done, I’ll tell yuh that! Urlick would be so proud.” He smiles his tooth-spare smile. “I can see now why Urlick did a turn for yuh. Beautiful and smart. What more can a chap ask for?”
    I blush and then it fades.
    “I’ve made a breast-and-belly plate of armour for her, too.” I turn, lifting another piece of Clementine’s gear to show him. “Just in case, you know , someone was to shoot upward.” I tap my knuckles on its undercarriage. It clangs hollow and loud.
    C.L. tottles over and knocks it himself. “Again, brilliant.”
    I spin around and back. “And I made a little something for each of us, as well.” I hand him his ensemble—a helmet, chinstrap, breastplate, and back protector, and a pair of scaled metal leggings. “I stretched the breastplate and back protector out a bit longer than normal, you know, to cover the spleen and the kidneys. Oh, and instead of a shirt, I made you this to wear underneath.” I hand him his chain-mail sleeveless shirt.
    “My, yuh’ve thought of everything.”
    “I would have made you gloves for your feet, but—”
    “This is perfect.” C.L. stops me short. “Are we done, then?” he says, having a look around.
    “We just might be,” I say.
    Evening is upon us. The room is dark, save for the flicker of the gaslight sconces that line the room. A faint cone of