Page 30 of Flight of Dreams

Max’s handwriting is exactly what you would expect from a man of charts and maps and letters. It is blunt and precise. He has a steady hand. No smudges or crooked letters. The harsh words are written with deep, straight lines, the strokes heavy and thick with ink. Each word makes Emilie wince. Their combined effect makes her angry and nauseous and ashamed.

You should have told me sooner.

She has a moment of heart-stuttering panic before she remembers that Max cannot have learned her heritage from those papers alone. If that were possible, the Zeppelin-Reederei would have done so long ago and she never would have been offered this job. Perhaps it was laziness on their part. She will never be certain. Regardless, knowing that the Nazis hired a Jewish woman as their first stewardess is a small, private triumph for Emilie.

It is her plan to defect that has angered Max, not her secret. He has written his note on the envelope that holds her life savings. She found it sitting on top of her travel papers when she got back to her empty room the night before. It had taken over an hour to get Margaret Mather out of her corset. The inept maid who had helped her into it in Frankfurt had double-knotted the laces at six points, leaving Emilie with no option but to cut the heiress out of her garment. Fräulein Mather had shown remarkably good humor during the ordeal. Emilie had done everything in her power to save the garment, and to untie the tangled knots first. But all to no avail. The heiress did not tell her what the contraption cost, but she winced visibly when it fell to the floor after being severed with a pair of Xaver’s kitchen shears.

And all the time Emilie was gone the only thing she could think of was Max. The warmth of his hands. The way he looked at her beneath hooded lids. How she hungered to be kissed again. Only deeper and longer. By the time she slipped back into her cabin Emilie had convinced herself that she wanted Max to stay. She was ready to give him the answer he desired. But the room was dark and silent, and she knew as soon as she shut the door behind her that he was no longer there. His absence was tangible.

It took Emilie several minutes to find the note. And when she read it a hundred tiny threads tethering her heart in place loosened and slipped away. She did not cry. Or rush after him. Emilie simply put her papers back in the bottom of her cosmetics case, stripped off her rumpled clothing, and crawled into bed. There was no transition between waking and sleeping. There was only the heavy, complete surrender to oblivion.

Sleep abandoned her just as suddenly a few moments ago, and now she lies wide-eyed in the dark. She is in the same position in which she fell asleep last night—on her back, fingers laced over her navel. She doubts that she even rolled over. It takes only a few breaths before she remembers the note.

You should have told me sooner.

Would it have changed anything? she wonders. Would he have decided not to waste his time? And what will he do now that he knows her plan? Betray her? She considers the possibility. No. Max would never do that.

Her shift begins in an hour, so she turns on the light and dresses in a clean uniform identical to the one she wore yesterday. Emilie looks wrong—disheveled and jumpy—and she feels wrong—flustered and restless—but she does not know what to fix. Or how to go about fixing it. It’s as though she has taken a step sideways, outside herself, and can’t get back in alignment. Emilie’s hair is dark and her skin is light and her eyes are large, and the combination makes her look ghostly at this early hour. She brushes her hair until it crackles with static. She chooses the brightest shade of lipstick she owns—a deep ruby—and paints on a bit of mascara in the hope that it will make her eyes look bright instead of exhausted. It’s not yet five-thirty but there is nothing else to be done, so she goes in search of food. Emilie will not make yesterday’s mistakes. She will eat well. She will stay focused. She will avoid Max.

It is a good plan, but ill-fated. She has not reached the crew’s mess before she finds herself face-to-face with the navigator. He is waiting for her in the keel corridor outside the kitchen. His eyes are the color of smoke this morning. They are bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. Smoldering with anger. He didn’t sleep well, and the exhaustion is evident despite his perfectly groomed appearance. Max has simply tried to put a good face on a bad night.

Emilie won’t meet his gaze. She tries to step around him and into the kitchen, but he catches her elbow. “No.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You can wait.”

When she tries to shake him off his grip tightens. “Let. Me. Go.”

He takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. Max drops his mouth to her ear. “That’s not going to happen, Emilie.”

Most of the crew and passengers are still asleep, so there is no one to hear her complaints as Max pulls her back down the keel corridor, around the gangway stairs, and down the outer walkway beside the observation windows. Somewhere below them is the Atlantic Ocean, but all she can see is gaping, heavy darkness and her own guarded reflection in the glass.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk privately.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I thought you were a gentleman.”

He snorts. “And I thought I could trust you.”

“Trust?” Emilie yells just as Max opens the door to the public shower and pushes her inside. “You are lecturing me about trust?”

It’s a small room, tiled floor to ceiling, and her voice ricochets the moment he closes the door behind them. It’s the only shower on board the airship and is rarely used—most passengers prefer to wash in their rooms; the crew members who could most benefit from the luxury of a shower are discouraged from spending any time on the passenger decks. But she can tell someone has been here this morning. The showerhead is dripping, and rivulets of moisture are running down the tile walls. It smells of soap and humidity. Behind them is the steady, irritating drip of water.

“You went through my things!” Emilie’s restraint vanishes, and she shoves Max against the wall, furious. Betrayed. Desperate. For a brief moment she thinks this display of emotion makes him smile. But she isn’t sure. There’s a single overhead light, and Max’s face is obscured by the shadow of his cap.

“I wasn’t trying to pry,” Max says. “I knocked your closet door open. The papers were right there. It’s not like I could miss them.”

“You just knocked it open? That’s convenient.”

“I was restless. You stood me up.”

“I didn’t stand you up. I was—”