Free Steamed by Katie MacAlister Page B

“Does that matter?”
    “I don’t know. I think it’s telling. I would think that anyone else would tell me I was out-and-out lying, or delusional. But you just say it’s unlikely.”
    “I did say that your story is outrageous,” I pointed out. “And so it is.”
    “I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s look at the facts,” he answered, holding up his hand to tick items off his fingers.
    “Yes, let’s look at the facts. Facts are good. Facts are solid. Facts never, ever spirit one away from one’s normal world and into something of make-believe,” Hallie said quickly, her knuckles white as she gripped the brass porthole frame. “I like facts. Give me facts, Jack.”
    “One: earlier today we were in my lab at work. The year was 2010, and I was a nanoelectrical engineer working on a quantum computer project.”
    I considered him carefully. His eyes were steady on mine, nothing in them but a slight look of worry. Either he was telling the truth, or he believed that what he said was the truth.
    “Indeed,” I said a third time.
    “What year is it here?” he asked me.
    “It’s 2010.”
    “No, I mean what year is it for you? I’m no expert on Victorian fashion, but you appear to be wearing a bustle, and I thought those went out of style before the turn of the century, so I’m assuming that your present is something in the late eighteen hundreds?”
    “Today is February 15, 2010, Mr. Fletcher,” I answered.
    “But . . .” His gaze dropped to my chest. I had unbuttoned my jacket earlier, in an attempt to keep from sweating profusely. “But you’re wearing that corset you keep mentioning.”
    “On the contrary, you are the one who repeatedly brings it up,” I corrected him.
    “And long skirts. And a bustle. You can’t deny you have a bustle.”
    “Why would I wish to?” I asked, frowning at him. “Truly, Mr. Fletcher, you seem to have an extremely bizarre preoccupation with my undergarments.”
    “And button boots,” he said, pointing at my feet. “The kind you have to use a button-hook thing on.”
    “Granny boots,” Hallie said suddenly, having turned to stare at my feet. “Mom had a pair of those. My God, Jack, you’re right. She does have granny boots on!”
    “I do not have a grandmother, so these boots could hardly have belonged to her,” I corrected Hallie. “And once again I must say that I do not see what my clothing has to do with you both being here on my ship.”
    “How come your skirt is so short?” Hallie asked, frowning at my ankles. “I was in a production of Hello, Dolly! and all the dresses we wore swept the floor. It was a pain in the ass always having to hoist the skirts to walk up and down the stairs. But your skirt is at your ankles.”
    “The uniform of the female members of the Southampton Aerocorps includes skirts that are ankle-length for safety reasons, Miss Norris. It would be impractical to attempt to climb around in the ship’s rigging with skirts that touched the floor.”
    “Hrmph.” She went back to looking out of the porthole.
    “Point two . . . damn. I forgot what point two was,” Jack said, frowning.
    “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps instead, I might have a word with you?”
    “You’re going to talk about me, aren’t you?” Hallie asked, her hands on her hips. “I know you’re going to talk about me.”
    “Yes,” I said simply.
    “I think I’m going to lie down,” she said in a sudden reversal of attitude, her hand to her forehead. “Maybe if I go back to sleep, the drug will work its way out of my system and I can see normal things again. Er . . . this room looks like someone is living in it.”
    “That is my cabin. Since it is unsuitable for you to remain with Mr. Fletcher in his cabin, you will share mine.”
    “Unsuitable?” Jack asked, looking as if he wanted to laugh. “She’s my sister.”
    “She is an unmarried woman, sir,” I pointed out. “The Aerocorps has standards of conduct upon their ships, and I would be in