Free Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03] by Skies of Gold

thought I’d be alone,” she added, gazing at him. He stared back at her, and though he made no more moves to touch her or speak, his eyes glinted. Not with pity—which she would’ve rejected—or sadness. No, what she saw reflected back in his gaze was . . . respect. Understanding. And anger.
    “Weeks I waited,” he said after a moment. “Thought for certain that if the navy didn’t come looking for me, they’d want to at least recover what remained of the Persephone . Not cheap, these airships, and there’d be enough to salvage. They wouldn’t want the enemy to get hold of one of our ships, either. Give them too much information.”
    “But no one came.” She rubbed her hands together—the sun dipped lower, and the temperature dropped as violet shadows stretched across the moor.
    When he reached for her arm, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let him take her back down the stairs, into the passageways beneath the top deck. They went down several more levels in the airship, and he helped her over the debris and wreckage—wooden planks, metal panels, bits of machinery, plates and cups, clothing. A small attempt had been made to clear away some of the detritus, but those efforts must have been restricted to pushing the biggest items off to the sides of the corridors, leaving a kind of path through the ruins. Men had worked and dwelled here, likely some had died, and now it was broken and littered with the remains of lives.
    A ghost ship.
    Haunted by the living.
    Fletcher reached the end of a corridor and pushed a door open. The chamber inside had to have been his quarters, since it was a generous room that covered the width of the ship. Large windows faced the back, though the glass had all broken. The furniture was minimal—a repaired desk, a tilting bookcase holding a few volumes. A bolted-down bed stood near a bulkhead, blankets strewn across it. Some articles of clothing draped over a chair. One of his shirts looked big enough to use as a sail.
    She felt herself unaccountably flustered. This was where he slept. He’d made it as domestic as possible—though it still had the air of an animal’s den.
    He left her standing in the middle of the chamber and walked to the windows. Crouched just beneath the empty panes was an iron stove. The chimney poked out the window. It was unlit, but in a matter of moments, Fletcher had a goodly peat fire burning. She stepped to it and warmed her hands, waiting for him to speak again.
    “Better?” he asked.
    She nodded. More silence fell.
    “Nobody appeared,” he finally said. He watched the flames through the stove’s grate. “I thought it strange, but figured either they were too busy finishing off the enemy, or they assumed I was lying at the bottom of the Sea of the Hebrides. So I started to think of all the ways off the island, just like you said. A swim would be arduous, but possible.”
    “Or you could build a boat.”
    His teeth flashed in a white smile. “I’m a better swimmer than boat builder.”
    “But you’re the captain of this ship,” she objected.
    “Didn’t build it, only commanded it. Same when I was a seaman. I knew the ways of a seafaring ship, but not the making of one. We had carpenters for that.”
    She glanced around at his quarters. “From what I’ve seen, I could put together a boat for you in a matter of days.”
    Again, he smiled, and it lit a small flare in her chest. “I didn’t have you around then. It was either swim for it, or stay. But as I started thinking, planning, figuring out which would be the best direction to head in, I realized something.”
    “You were afraid of water,” she guessed.
    “Been in the navy for twenty-two years. Sixteen of those years were at sea. Water doesn’t scare me.” He shook his head, his expression thoughtful. “I hadn’t actually survived the crash. Like you said, I lived. My heart beat. I needed food and sometimes sleep. But the man I’d been had died in the wreck. And I was glad