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clouds.
    Octavia lifted herself higher in the stirrups, crouching low over the horse’s neck. Mane lashed her face. She gritted her teeth against the burning tension in her thighs.
    Alonzo looked over his shoulder. His hood had blown flat against his back, his bound hair blowing out like a miniature horse’s tail. His mouth was a hard line. She almost expected the buzzer to be mounted with an automatic gun like the one that pursued them in the marsh outside of Leffen, for gunfire to follow them into the woods. They slowed as they entered the tree cover. Alonzo wheeled around. The buzzing grew louder yet.
    With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the saddle. Octavia scrambled to do the same, and landed just in time to provide him with an arm for extra balance. His half leg warbled with strain. Octavia grabbed both bridles.
    â€œMy thanks,” he said. His walk was stiff as he headed toward the edge of the woods.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œI want to get a good look at the pilot.” He unholstered the Gadsden .45 from his belt.
    â€œThat’s a particular kind of look. This—­this likely isn’t a Clockwork Dagger. It’s probably just a soldier.”
    â€œA soldier must perform his duty. Our whereabouts will be reported.” His expression carried both regret and resolve. He walked on.
    Alonzo had reminded her more than once that Caskentia would pursue them across the border. That land across the ravine was their destination for the sake of information, not as a haven.
    She calmed both horses, shushing and rubbing their muzzles as if she could soothe herself as well. This pilot would be like any of the thousands she had tended at the front—­a boy who simply drew a bad billet this morning.
    The gunshot jolted her and the horses.
    She turned as Alonzo fired again. He had crouched at the tree line.
    â€œ ’Tis going down,” he said.
    Treetops snapped in the canopy above as the craft roared by. As awed as she was by his marksmanship, her stomach twisted with guilt. Another life lost because of us. Lady, be with the pilot. Show him mercy at the end, please.
    â€œCome! Let us follow.”
    Grief gnawed at her as they rode through the woods. “Octavia.” Alonzo seemed to read her thoughts. “With fair winds and a good engine, ’tis a mere two days from Mercia to the southern nations. If he landed and relayed a telegraph, our odds would be more dismal by the hour.”
    â€œIf the pilot’s hurt—­” The whine of the buzzer continued, though the sound did not seem farther away. Odd.
    â€œYou know the state of your supplies better than I.”
    Octavia grimaced. The deplorable state. After her brief journey on the Argus, she was low on everything except wet Linsom berries to restore skin. Her supply of her most vital herb, pampria, was very low, and though she had a full bag of the dry herb she had had no chance to grind any.
    â€œI’ll try to use discretion,” she said. Alonzo arched an eyebrow, clearly not believing she was capable of such a thing.
    The buzzer had landed in a small clearing, engine on and roaring. Alonzo dismounted, gun drawn. Octavia followed suit, but her first priority was to untie her satchel from the saddlebag. Only with that secured across her torso, bandolier-­style, did she reach for the gun in her trench-­coat pocket. It was one of the Wasters’ pistols, the crosshatching on the grip almost worn smooth by use. She took both reins as Alonzo edged forward.
    The buzzer’s motor revved at full speed, the propeller a blur of movement atop its eight-­foot pole. The base resembled a somewhat flattened tricycle, all three wheels resting on the ground. The pilot had slumped over in the single seat.
    â€œAlonzo. He’s dead.” From thirty feet away, she knew. His blood still wailed with its need to live, though the instruments of the full body had already been rendered mute.