Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Ms. Margaret Le,

We regret to inform you that the Bank of Darton has, upon review of your application, decided against approving your loan. While we can find no fault with your paperwork and references, your plan of business leaves much to be desired. Our officers have determined that as an unmarried woman with no proven history of success, the risk of nonpayment is too great.

We are careful to note that this refusal is in no way a slight on the business credentials of your parents. Should they be willing to guarantee your loan, we would be willing to reconsider your application.

Cordially,

E. S. Sheubert, Partner, Bank of Darton

Margaret Le, or Meg as she was known to everyone who wasn't a financier, a potential patron, or her parents, gazed at the edifice of the Amesmoth University's Ramsford Gallery. It was an imposing brick building, half-covered in ancient vines, with cheery yellow light shining out of every window, beckoning those outside to come join the celebration.

It wasn't working on Meg, who glanced around, hoping for some last minute excuse that would bar her entry. She didn't have to go in. She could stay outside. Inside, there would be crowds, and noise, and at least one self-important artist at the center of things. Outside was quiet, and full of stars. Infinitely superior.

Meg could hear Anne, her exasperated mentor and friend, reply as clearly as if she were standing at Meg's elbow. Inside is also where the people with money and influence are. Which is worse, remaining my eternal journeyman, forever doing other people's work and not your own? Or doing a bit of mingling?

"Mingling, by far," Meg muttered at the friend-shaped conscience inside her head. But it wasn't the truth, so Meg gathered her skirts, lifted her chin, and entered the gallery.

There was a polite bustle through the gallery, murmuring chatter as patrons moved around the room and discussed the displayed art. Meg braced herself for that most dire of fates—smalltalk.

What she wanted—what she needed—was an offer of patronage or placement. She was a talented mechanic, and an even better inventor, but she had reached the limits of what she could accomplish in someone else's workshop. She needed someone to take an interest in her ideas, and fund them to carry it out. Barring that, she needed a senior mechanic's position that would give her both generous pay and access to a workshop, so she could develop her inventions in her own time.

Her beautiful schematic, the one she had carefully been building in her head and on paper, unfolded in her mind. A large balloon and delicate wings, scaffolding and clockwork, brass and wood and canvas. It would be beautiful, if she was just given the chance to create it. One way or another Meg was going to fly.

Her schematics were solid, she knew, she just needed the time and money to develop them properly. Which went back to her most pressing needs—patronage or placement.

Not that she actually expected to find either tonight. No, tonight her mission was to appear charming, witty, and interesting, so that rich people with deep pockets might be interested in speaking with her further in the future. Across the room, she spied the Master of the College of Medicine. It was as good a place to start as any.

"Hello, Master Windsrest," Meg said smoothly as she approached, giving a slight curtsey. "A pleasure to find you here."

"Ms. Le!" Windsrest said, cheerfully enough, and Meg's spirits lifted. Perhaps mingling would not be such a terrible burden as she'd feared. "I was just thinking of you. Still working at that Anne girl's workshop?"

"Mrs. Addlesbrook’s work is well known," Meg said, fighting down the urge to cut out of the conversation at the insult to Anne's professionalism and experience. Anne had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday, for goodness sakes. "It's an honor to study there."

"Of course. Good craft coming out of there. Why just the other day I was looking at the market for…"

In an attempt to avoid the most mind-numbing portions of the conversation, Meg turned her attention to the work in front of Windsrest for the first time. It was a landscape, of part of the world Meg had never seen. Possibly one that didn't exist. High marbled cliffs and water falling from a groove at the top of the cliff face, tumbling down in a chaotic swirl of masterfully rendered paint. A pond at the bottom of the cliff held frolicking satyrs, a note of whimsy in an otherwise majestic work.

Meg's heart leapt to her throat. She knew that art. She knew the careful brush strokes of water, could imagine the deft, certain fingers embracing the brush. She knew the Satyrs, knew the artist had named them—something idiotic, like Turnip or Camphor. And all the time she was painting, the artist would have sternly lectured Turnip and Camphor about the importance of getting this or that bit right.

It was Eliza's work. Meg hadn't seen Eliza, or her art, in ten years. She felt faint, dizzy as she stared at the piece, and then darted her eyes over to the one next to it. Eliza as well. And around the room, Eliza and Eliza and Eliza, surrounding Meg, ambushing her. Meg was dizzy with shock and anger. This was her university, her world, Eliza hadn't followed her, so she didn't get to be here now!

"Good lord, you look awful," Windsrest said.

"Excuse me," Meg said faintly. She had to leave. She had to leave right now. "I feel the need for some air."

"Of course, I'm happy to—oh, farewell!"

Meg left Windsrest spluttering behind her as she made her escape. This was opening night of the exhibition, and the exhibition was full of Eliza's work, that meant, that somewhere in this building, was the Viscountess Eliza Falmont. Down the gallery floor, aim for the side exit, she'd be able to slip out with just a little fuss. Meg wasn't ready to face her. It had been ten years. Meg was never going to be ready to face her.

"Meg?" said a soft, hopeful voice. "I, I'm sorry, are you—?"

Curse it all to rot and ruin.

Meg turned, and made a deep, formal curtsy. "Viscountess," Meg murmured as she stayed deep in the bow for an uncomfortably long period of time. It wasn't long enough. Meg's heart thudded as she straightened, and saw Eliza again.

The universe must carry some unknown grudge against Meg, because Eliza had only gotten more beautiful in the intervening years. Meg had known Eliza before she'd had her growth spurt that turned her into a gaggle of limbs only dubiously connected to Eliza's torso. She'd known Eliza as she had just started figured out what to do with her height, had known the first glimmers of grace. This Eliza had had the time to grow comfortable with herself. She took up space without apologizing.

Meg found herself tracing hungrily over Eliza's form, unwillingly captivated by what had changed and what had remained. The wrinkles at the corner of Eliza's eyes were new, and her honey-blond hair seemed a little paler these days—though if she was going grey it would take years to properly show. Same kind blue eyes, that had once looked at Meg with wonder. Same broad strong mouth, that had once kissed Meg hungrily.

Meg felt her heart break all over again, and she faintly thought that she never should have come to this exhibition.

Chapter Text

To My Dearest Meglet,

I know you hate the name Meglet, but I am cross with you, so I put it to paper without remorse! Must you travel all the way to Chat Vang to begin your university studies?

Yes, I know it's where your grandparents live, and yes, I know the finest smithing and clockwork in the world is being done there. But it is half the world away. I'm writing this missive scarcely two days after I waved goodbye on the docks, and it won't even reach you for months and months.

I also know that I told you to go. The logic of it is clear, and I have never been one to shy away from practicality. But now that you are safely away and my emotions won't serve to dissuade you, I can allow myself the indulgence of telling you this—for my own sake, I wish you were not going. I miss you already, my heart.

Craft your contraption, and find your stars quickly, so you can be back in my arms soon.

All my love,

Your Eliza

Of all the people Eliza had expected to find at the exhibition, Meg was the least expected and most dearly desired. When Meg had declined to continue their correspondence (and Eliza could bear her no fault there), Eliza had despaired of ever seeing her again. It was Eliza's decisions that had sundered their friendship, and yet, the loss of Meg's companionship was an ache that had never healed.

Even though they would no doubt be parted once again, Eliza couldn't help but drink in every detail of the woman her dearest friend had become. She hadn't gained any height, all her energy was still held in her small, round frame. Her silken black hair was mostly contained by her updo. Eliza had to wonder if Meg had managed to tame her hair over the years, or if the night was still too early for it to have made its usual escape attempt.

Meg had grown a little plumper in their intervening years, and it suited her well. She looked comfortable. She wasn't smiling, but Eliza could still see the place her dimples would bloom. Eliza hoped she still smiled as easily as she once had. If she had managed to quench Meg's cheer entirely with her decision, that, more than anything else, would haunt her until the end of days.

"It is lovely to see you," Eliza said, every word sounding fumbling. "I, ah, had not expected the pleasure of your company."

Meg flashed Eliza a complicated expression. "Nor had I," she bit out, the words sounding hard.

Eliza managed to control her flinch. "It is good to see you, though," Eliza added softly. "I had wondered if we would meet again when I returned to Jutland."

"There seemed little need," Meg said sharply. "Is your husband here tonight, Viscountess?"

Eliza froze. Did Meg not—

Eliza looked down, involuntarily, making sure she was still wearing her full mourning blacks, then helplessly back over at Meg.

Meg's eyes were widening. "Oh, no, I knew—your uncle—"

Eliza swallowed and looked to the side, trying to keep from tearing up. "Yes. William's death caused David and I to return to Jutland. On the way, David took ill. Shortly after we arrived—"

"Oh no," Meg said miserably. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to be such an ass, I didn't know."

"No, no, it's fine," Eliza said, not entirely lying. "I just presumed…there's been such a fuss."

She had loved David, in a way. But she wasn't devastated by his passing. She was simply drained, after taking a buffeting from the thousand questions that arise when a Viscount and his heir pass within a few weeks of each other.

In a way, she missed their uncle William more. William had been the one, after all, to look at her art and love it enough to want to meet her. William was the one that had decided she was clever, amiable, and practical enough to be a good match for his nephew and heir-apparent. William had been the one to encourage her to take more of a role in running the estate.

He's a kind boy, my nephew, and he'll treat you well. But he's…a bit of an dolt, I'm afraid. I'd rather not see my viscounty fall into disrepair after I'm gone. I have a good feeling about you, m'girl.

David had been kind, and they'd become friends. He'd been more than happy to leave the running of accounts to Eliza and enjoy the freedom that came with less responsibility. It was more power and independence than Eliza could have ever reasonably hoped for, and she had been happy enough. But she felt more unmoored by his loss, than grief-stricken.

But whatever she was looking for, she wouldn't find it here. Meg was the person she had dreamed a million dreams with, the one she had whispered love to when they had shared a room in finishing school. And Meg was the person whose heart she had broken, when she had agreed to let Lord William Falmot arrange the match with David.

Whatever comfort Eliza wanted, it would be thrice unfair to ask it of Meg.

"If you'll excuse me, Ms. Le," Eliza said with a curtsy. "I believe I need some air."

"Oh, bloody hell, Eliza," Meg burst out. "I was leaving too. Come on, I'm not going to let you walk the gardens alone all grief-stricken."

"I—thank you," was all Eliza managed to say before Meg took her by the elbow and hauled her out to the gardens.

Once they were safely away from the stifling air of the gallery, Eliza gathered her strength and tried once again to give Meg a graceful way out of their conversation. "I appreciate the company, but honestly, I am in no danger of collapsing into tears. It was merely a surprise, after all the courteous fawning I had endured earlier."

"Well, that sounds awful," Meg replied, wrinkling her nose.

"Why do you think I was hiding in an alcove?" Eliza asked dryly.

Meg did smile then, those dimples blooming at the corners of her cheeks. Eliza could weep tears of joy, knowing that she hadn't managed to ruin Meg's good cheer entirely. "Regardless," Meg said, sobering, "you excuse my shocking behavior far too easily. I do wish to tender my sincere apologies for my thoughtless tongue."

Eliza wanted to beg forgiveness in return, but she knew as well as anyone she didn't have the right. "You are forgiven, though I do not think your actions warrant a need for grace. As you said, William also passed. It was a reasonable assumption."

"Oh," Meg said softly. "I just realized, the old viscount didn't have any other heirs, did he? The viscounty falls to you. What a shocking responsibility."

"Yes," Eliza inclined her head. "Fortunately I was already aiding in its management, the transition was not as difficult as it may have otherwise been."

"Perhaps I should excuse myself, Viscountess," Meg said. This time the word didn't feel like an attack. More a shared joke. "I'm sure you can find an escort more appropriate to your station than a journeyman mechanic and part-time inventor."

"How is your business doing?" Eliza jumped on the topic of conversation. She had been aching to know the current look of Meg's life, and this seemed like the best opportunity.

"Oh," Meg waved the hand that was not tucked in Eliza's elbow back and forth. "I like the work, but it's mostly just the day-to-day grind. I still haven't had the time or funding to properly develop the projects I actually want to work on."

"Your flying machine," Eliza said. A moment later, she realized there were doubtless many other projects that may have occupied Meg's quick and clever mind over the years.

But Meg just sighed and replied, "Yes. I do have the blueprints developed, though," she added, brightening again. "I just need someone who's willing to be my patron. Or even just give me the space to have my own shop where I can build something huge and outrageous without the other mechanics yelling at me."

Excitement fizzled in Eliza's stomach as she remembered the large, currently unused stable on the property. William's father had a fondness for racing and had it installed and filled with exemplary examples of the breed. It was a tremendous money pit, but William had continued to maintain it in memory to him, rather than any interest in racing. Eliza had convinced him to close the profitless stables, and overseen the sale of the horses, and the placement of their grooms as one of her first major acts of estate management.

She'd never figured out the best use for the old stable building, though. Maybe she had been waiting, held back for this very opportunity.

"Falmont Manor has an unused stable," Eliza said, trying to sound casual. "I believe with some slight modification it could serve as a respectable workshop."

Meg tripped over her feet and glared up at Eliza, looking almost offended. "What? I—I'm not certain that's a good idea."

"Please," Eliza said in a rush. She was suddenly terrified that Meg would turn down the offer simply because Eliza was the one offering it. "It need not—I would give you privacy, of course. Just, come, please, and visit to see if the space would suit."

Meg's mouth flattened into an unhappy line, and she looked away.

Eliza felt her heart break, and started looking for a graceful way to withdraw her offer, seeing as how it was causing Meg nothing but distress.

But before she could find the words, Meg said, "I'll come visit. But—" she fixed Eliza with a fierce glare. "Have terms. Are you offering me a place to rent? Patronage? I do not want to receive your charity. It would need to be a business."

"Of course," Eliza said quickly, starting to run through reasonable terms in her mind.

"Not now. Just, have them for me when I come. When are you at Falmont Manor again?"

"The exhibition runs for two more weeks," Eliza said. "I plan on staying here through then, and returning to Falmot for the fall and winter."

Meg inclined her head. "I'll call on you then. Sometime. When Anne can spare me."

"Wonderful," Eliza said. A thousand questions crowded in her throat—who was Anne? What structures underlay the flying machine blueprints? Had she tried out any models? How had her studies in Chat Vang gone? Had the transfer to Amesmoth University gone well?

Now was not the time to ask these questions. There would never be a time for Viscountess Eliza Falmont to ask those questions. She had given up that right when she'd said her vows, and tied her future to the Falmont family.

"I should return to the cloying courtesy," Eliza said, deciding to exit the conversation with some grace. "I thank you for your company, and anticipate your visit gladly."

Meg looked surprised, then glanced back to the gallery. "Good luck with that," she offered with frank honesty.

"It's not so bad," Eliza said. After a moment she decided to indulge herself in a bit of silliness, and winked at Meg. "After all, there are people in there willing to pay a great deal of money for paint on a canvas."

Meg offered a grin in response. "Take the windbags for everything they've got." Then Meg seemed to remember herself, and took a step back, fumbling into a half-curtsey. "I'll be taking my leave, though. M'lady."

Eliza wanted to protest the formality, but she knew she was lucky for what intimacy she had received. So she settled for responding softly, "It has been a pleasure, Ms. Le. I hope to see you soon."

Meg looked up, and Eliza wondered if she was imagining the slight red across Meg's cheeks, barely there in the dim lights of the university garden. Eliza inclined her head, and retreated back to the gallery.

Chapter Text

Hullo Papa,

I know you're worried about me going off to finishing school, but you really musn't fret. I'm eleven now, and it is time for me to set out on my own.

Besides, everyone here has been very nice, and said they like my hair and think my drawings are pretty. I've already made a friend! Her name is Meg, and she is the smartest person I've ever met.

We had to design our own kites. Mine was a silly rectangle, and hers was shaped like a falcon! She talked about wind turbulence and lift and tension and helped me get my kite off the ground. I drew feathers on hers in return—she's a bit rubbish at art.

(Don't fret, Papa, I didn't tell her it was rubbish. I know better now.)

School is brilliant, thank you again for saying that I could go! I promise to become a proper young lady in return, so you can have me at dinner parties and everyone will say, "Why Baron Mottshire, what a lovely daughter you have," and you can be very proud indeed.

Love,

Your Eliza

Meg stared at the massive front gate in front of Falmont Manor and regretted everything. This was stupid, it was the stupidist idea she'd ever had. She couldn't rent a space from the woman who'd broken her heart.

Even if, Meg had to admit, the university gardens hadn't been all that bad. Eliza, wearing her widow's blacks with dignity, graciously pardoning Meg's obscene social blunder. How's your husband? Meg had been giving serious thought to dying of embarrassment. And then somehow Eliza had brought the conversation around, got Meg talking, laughing even—

And that was the whole problem! Meg had been left behind but one wink from Eliza and her body forgot entirely about the ten years of separation and just wanted to throw itself into her arms again. So clearly, the thing she should have done was to tender her apologies, leave, and never, ever see Eliza again. But! Instead! Meg had agreed to visit Eliza's manor house and consider making her workshop there.

Well, she was here now. It wasn't as if she was actually going to hop back in a coach and go all the way back to Amesmoth instead of proceeding through the gates.

But she didn't have to say yes. That was the important thing to remember. She could look at the stable, politely declare it unsuitable, and bid Eliza goodbye forever.

Meg would be more confident of her plan if her chest didn't ache so profoundly at that last thought.

When she finally did gather her courage and make her way over to the servant's entrance, the housekeeper opened it and looked confused. "Oh you'll be Ms. Le!" she said, fluttering a little. "We weren't expectin' you until tomorrow! And we were certainly expectin' you round front. The lady doesn't really hold much to the different entrances when it's just us around. I'm glad you came this way, though," she added with a sudden sly brightness. "It means I got to meet you before Mr. Brooks did, and won't he be upset about that one, hm?"

"Ah," Meg managed in response.

"Indeed, I am all in a tizzy," a grave, deep voice answered from the kitchen door. It was the butler, who bowed and said, "Ms. Le, a pleasure. Lady Falmont is in the sunroom, I'd be happy to take you there."

"Fast," the housekeeper said with a grin. "I don't know how you're so fast! You go on then, dearie, you're in good hands with our Mr. Brooks."

At a loss for what else to do, Meg followed Mr. Brooks.

"Forgive Mrs. Whittlespoon," Mr. Brooks said once they were well clear of her earshot. "She is amiable company, but a bit prone to chatter."

"People have said the same about me," Meg said, feeling a little offended on Mrs. Whittlespoon's behalf.

"It is an admirable nature to have," Mr. Brooks demurred gracefully.

Meg grew more and more uncomfortable as Mr. Brooks led her through the halls. It was a big, old building, and it echoed. Meg felt small and out of place in this grand house. She couldn't imagine even Eliza, in all her stately grace, being able to fill it properly.

They walked through a large entryway, a receiving area, through to the dining room, deeper into the ornate house that felt more and more like a mausoleum. How on earth could Eliza live here? It seemed at odds with everything Meg knew about her.

Well, at least this grim atmosphere would make saying no to the stable that much easier.

On to the side of the dining hall, Mr. Brooks approached a wooden door, and knocked. "Lady Falmont? A Ms. Le to see you."

"Oh!" came Eliza's voice, bright in contrast to the gloomy hall. "Come in, of course!"

Mr. Brooks opened the door, and Meg stopped breathing. All the sunlight missing from the rest of the house had collected here, streaming in through massive windows set along the back wall. Before Eliza, it had probably been the back drawing room, maybe the solarium. But now it was clearly an art studio. Dustcloths covered the ground, flecked with paint. A large cabinet that probably once held fine porcelain was stuffed to the gills with art supplies. A collection of rolled raw canvas was tucked in one corner, along with a framing station.

But none of that was really what took Meg's breath away. Sitting in the sun, her blond hair nearly shining in the light, was Eliza as Meg knew her. Not laced and formal in mourning blacks, but loose, a brush in her hand and paint smudged on her cheeks. Meg finally remembered to inhale, and stepped into the room.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow," Eliza said, standing and grabbing a cloth to wipe off her hands. "I'm afraid you've caught me at my most informal."

Meg realized that Eliza was actually wearing trousers. They seemed to be made out of a lightweight linen with floral embroidery around the hem. It was an outrageously foreign style, very similar to one Meg herself was secretly very fond of from her time in Chat Vang. She had never worked up the courage to wear those sorts of clothes in conservative Amesmoth, and she found herself getting ridiculously offended that Eliza had managed it first.

Meg shook her head slightly, trying to focus. "No, it's my fault. The place I had intended to stop over seemed alarmingly full of mice. I opted to continue travelling instead. I sent a message ahead…"

"Ah," Eliza said with a sigh. "It will probably arrive midway through next week. We've been having difficulty with our mail. Still! That sounds like a wise decision. Are you in need of food? I'm afraid we're not ready for formal dining, but we could take refreshments in the garden?"

Meg, who had intended to firmly insist on seeing the stable and being done with it, was betrayed by her stomach rumbling. "A meal would be lovely," Meg admitted, blushing.

The garden was a beautiful space, mostly filled with edible plants, but laid out like the finest ornamental plots—a central fruit tree would be ringed with herbs and edible flowers, with twining berries and beans making a stunning backdrop.

"I've been eating out here nearly every day," Eliza admitted. "I can feel winter's chill coming, and I'm not looking forward to being shut in that house."

Meg remembered the mausoleum feeling she got while walking through it, and nodded sympathetically. "Your studio is lovely."

Eliza smiled. "There is that. My one bearable island in that dim, lonely place." Eliza shook her head. "I'm sure I'll grow used it in time. And to be fair, the library is a pleasant space as well."

"Oh really?" Meg tried to sound casual, and failed miserably.

Eliza laughed. "I'll show you," she promised. "It's always made me think of you."

They arrived at a little table, just in time for the housemaid to finish setting the drinks out and murmur about being back with food. There was a chill in the air, Eliza was right, winter was creeping in day by day. But it was still warm enough, and the birdsong and all-to-rare sunshine made the day a delight.

The conversation was easier than Meg had expected. It wound from Eliza's art to Meg's work to other topics. They talked about the Darton season and how glad they both were to avoid it this year—Meg by virtue of being buried in a pile of work, and Eliza escaping for more tragic reasons.

"I am wondering how long I can hold off on entertaining," Eliza admitted, wrinkling her nose as she looked back at the manor. "I've already given in and started re-opening the house for matters of business. The idea of throwing an event is simply exhausting, though I suppose I will have to, sooner or later."

"I think your excuse"—Meg still hadn't figured out how to address that topic gracefully—"will stand for years, at least."

"I am not so certain. Everyone who knew us knew that it was not…" Eliza fell silent and looked away.

"Was he cruel?" Meg asked, because she had to know, more than she loathed speaking of the man that had stolen Eliza. Perhaps he was, and she could hate him. That would make things simpler.

"No," Eliza said quickly, because the world was never simple. "But it was practicality and friendly affection that underpinned our marriage, not love."

You loved me, once. Why did you marry him?

Meg couldn't bring herself to ask it. She was worried, once she knew the answer, she wouldn't be able to hold onto her anger, which had kept her miserable company for so long. She didn't know who she'd be without it.

Instead, Meg cast frantically about for a safer topic, and wound up blurting out, "It's so big."

"I know," Eliza said, sounding exhausted. "There's this horrible room that's filled with portraits of the past Lords and Ladies Falmont past, and I hate going into it. I feel like such an imposter. Prettied up second child of a minor baron here in their hallowed halls."

"Don't be ridiculous," Meg said without thinking. "Go back far enough and they're all pirates or invaders or criminals, anyway. You're worth five thousand of them, and if those dour faces have any sense of loyalty to the viscounty, they should count themselves lucky it's in such conscientious hands."

Eliza didn't seem to know what to do with that outburst. She looked down at her lap and twisted her fingers together. "Thank you," she said softly.

Meg knew, then, with a flutter of emotion that both sank her stomach and raised her spirits, that she was going to say yes to the stable. She couldn't imagine leaving Eliza alone in a cast echoing house, with her only company a room full of judgemental faces.

She left you, the bitter, bereft voice in the back of her mind said, as familiar as worn shoes. But there was a new voice, too, that said, This is still your Eliza.

Meg's seemingly preordained decision was made all over again when she stepped into the big, airy stables, and looked at the terms Eliza offered for their use. Rent, at a reasonable rate, with a three month grace period to let Meg build up business in the area. Room and board could be added, for less than Meg would pay for a backroom at the village pub. Or, Eliza had also laid out the terms for full patronage, which included the space, a salary, and compensation for materials in exchange for fifteen percent of the profits of anything designed while in residence.

"These are ridiculously generous terms," Meg couldn't help but protest.

"I don't think so. I do ask you to take over the maintenance on the horseless carriage," Eliza pointed. "That will save me some money."

"A salary and a materials cost? I'll spend you into bankruptcy!"

"First," Eliza chided, "it is a budget for materials cost. Second, I am quite wealthy now, and can afford this even if it were to bear no profit. But, Meg," Eliza's voice softened. "I know what you are capable of, and given the time and space to invent as you please? I anticipate a substantial return."

Meg looked up at Eliza, and a helpless adoration surged in her chest. It was a remnant of a younger time, a Meg who hadn't been hurt yet. Eliza had been the one that always believed in her. That had burned bright in Meg's chest—careful, measured Eliza had judged Meg and found her worthy.

That was before the horrible news of Eliza's engagement had come on innocuous parchment. In addition to every other loss—Eliza's company, the taste of her mouth, the bright hope of their shared future—the flame that burned because of Eliza's faith had guttered and died. Meg had had to learn how to go on without it, to grab to her ambition for her own sake, and not just because of Eliza's solid certainty.

And she had! She'd found her path: despite her own doubts, despite her family's polite inquiries about whether or not she'd be happier in a more lucrative profession, despite a world that ill tolerated eccentricities in woman. She'd rebuilt the hearth inside of her and lit a fire with no more kindling than her own confidence, and pushed forward into the future.

She built herself into someone who didn't need Eliza's esteem.

But here was Eliza, still careful and measured, looking at Meg again and saying, 'substantial return.' Meg hadn't lost Eliza's faith after all. She had no idea what she'd be able to accomplish, with her own bright burning ambition now fed by the fuel of Eliza's belief. To say nothing of the funding.

She had no idea, but she certainly wanted to find out. Grabbing her future with both hands, she looked at Eliza and announced, "I'll take the patronage."

Chapter Text

Meg,

I dearly wish I were standing in front of you, that I could say this in person. But you are half a world away, and there isn't time to go find you. So this missive must do in my place, but please know that I do not believe it in any way a substitute for the conversation you deserve.

I am to be married, three weeks from the date I write this. By the time this reaches you, I shall be Lady Eliza Falmont.

I know this is a surprise to you. It is a surprise to me as well. The engagement was finalized this afternoon.

I wish dearly to explain myself, explain the circumstances. However, I will not spill ink in self-serving justifications. If you wish to know the details, write me and I will tell them gladly. If you wish no further correspondence, I will honor that as well.

I hope to not lose your friendship, but I understand

I hope someday you will forg

Sincerely,

Lady Eliza Mottshire

It was truly amazing, Eliza thought in wonder, the difference one friendly face could make.

Not to say that Mrs. Witherspoon and Mr. Brooks were not friendly. Or her lady's maid, or her other staff. They were extremely amiable. Maybe, Eliza had to admit, the thing that made such a difference was that the friendly face was Meg.

It was awkward, at first, as Eliza had always known it would be. She was prepared to accept whatever boundaries on their relationship Meg wished to place. Eliza had been braced for Meg to shut herself in her workshop and never wish to speak to Eliza again, collecting her salary through Mr. Brooks.

Instead, Meg had joined her for supper as the movers prepared her workshop, and had followed Eliza up to the library study after, to choose some reading materiel. They had talked for hours, until a yawning grimace from Meg had Eliza insisting she go get some sleep.

It had continued from there. Meg would join her for suppers, then she started showing up for tea, and now Eliza could go downstairs and count on seeing Meg at her breakfast table, yawning into her newspaper as she idly chewed on a marmalade slathered slice of toast. Meg had even started coming into Eliza's art studio when she was diagramming her inventions. She claimed the light was better.

It warmed Eliza's heart, reminding her of their uncomplicated days in finishing school. Meg diagrammed in the art studio while Eliza painted, and Eliza sketched in the garage while Meg yelled at machinery. They had enjoyed being in each other's space, once. With every shared meal and moment, Eliza had hope that they were learning to do so again.

In a fit of nostalgia-fueled daring, Eliza grabbed her sketchbook and went back to the stable-turned-workshop. She hadn't actually invited herself back to the workshop yet, and she hoped she was not overstepping her bounds. Still, she had faith that Meg would kick her out if her company was actually unwanted.

Meg answered the door to her workshop with a smudge of oil above her right brow, and black staining her fingers. Eliza had to fight down the wave of desire to have those hands touching her, marking her skin. Meg had liked getting Eliza ruffled, and Eliza enjoyed her joy.

Eliza held her sketchbook in front of her like a flimsy shield. "Would you mind some company?"

Meg smiled. "Not at all, but I'm warning you, this boiler and I have gone four rounds already, and it's going to get loud in here."

"I've always worked well in chaotic environments," Eliza said, nodding seriously.

She found a safe corner and watched Meg start back in on the boiler, brandishing a wrench menacingly in its direction. Poor thing didn't know what it was in for. As Meg's stream of indignant commentary edged further and further toward profanity (it had been a game, in finishing school, to see how creatively they could wield language without actually landing them in trouble, and it seemed the habit had stuck) Eliza let her pencil trace aimlessly over the page.

In graphite, Meg's sweet features started coming to life. Eliza looked down and sighed, before giving into inevitability and starting to sketch Meg in earnest. Round apple cheeks and an elfin chin, bright intense eyes narrowed as she glared at obstinate machinery Her cupid's bow mouth was creased in frustration while her black silken hair was only barely contained in her bun.

Eliza could always tell how frustrating the days work had been by the quantity of hair Meg had absent-mindedly tugged free in frustration. This had apparently been a very rough day.

Eliza's pencil kept drawing, down Meg's long elegant neck to her working dress—a sturdy cotton number that couldn't quite hide the strength of her shoulders. One arm extended, pointing the wrench in accusation while the other sat perched near her toolbelt, strong fingers splayed along her hip.

Down further still, capturing the plain cotton skirt and working apron, all the way down to her sensible shoes. One foot was lifted, mid-tap in frustration. A portrait of a mechanic at work. Eliza went back and added in the oil smudge above her brow, the black smears along her fingertips.

"Ha!" Meg shouted triumphantly as the boiler gave a hiss and the sound of churning steam started up. "There you are!"

"Bravo," Eliza called, looking up.

She was surprised when Meg set down her wrench and trotted over with a grin on her face. "Time for a break," Meg explained as she sat down on a nearby stool with a huff. "I need to make sure the boiler gets up to the right pressure and can maintain it. So! What's the next great masterpiece?" she asked, peering over Eliza's shoulder at her sketchbook.

It was far too late to cover the image and claim secrecy, so Eliza resigned herself to embarrassment and said, "A live-figure study, I must admit," as she tilted the page so Meg could see.

Meg gave a little squeak of surprise. "Oh no, do I really look like…" her hand went up to her hair, to the grease smudge, before she winced in consternation and pulled back to look at the oil captured in the whorles of every fingerprint. "I'm a mess."

"You're working," Eliza corrected. "I've missed this terribly. Getting to see you fully involved in a project—you're captivating."

Meg's mouth flattened and she looked from the page. "You could have stayed, if I was really all that captivating," Meg burst out in a rush of words

"I—" Fresh pain rolled over Eliza, at the fresh reminder of how badly she had hurt Meg. She flipped the cover closed on the sketchbook and stood. "Forgive me, I overstepped," she said as she fell back into formality that at least wouldn't make things worse. But the thought of Meg thinking that this was in any way her fault, led Eliza to add, "It was nothing you did or did not do. I wanted—"

"I just don't understand why!" Meg cried, launching herself to her feet and glaring up at Eliza. "Why, if you were captivated, if you missed me, if it wasn't anything I did, then why did you marry a man you didn't even love?" Meg was shouting by the end of it, not at Eliza, but at the universe. It was a howl of unfairness. Eliza knew, because she had kept the same locked within her.

"It was the only choice I could make," Eliza said, swallowing hard, the old panicked feeling of being backed into a corner rising again.

"There is always another choice! What—your family would have been angry? You might have had to experience actual hardship for once?"

"I would have gone to the poorhouse for you," Eliza cried, unable to keep the decades old emotion trapped any longer. And then, with firm finality, she added, "But I would not condemn my sisters to the same."

"Your family wouldn't have let—"

"My brother died," Eliza said, cutting her off. "Five weeks after you left we got the letter. Captain Reginald Mottshire, Eighth Regiment, killed in the line of duty. And then three weeks after that, the bankers came. Turns out dear Reggie had a passion for cards that was unmatched by his talent. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he promised rather more than he could cover. We came very close to losing the manor. I started moving from gallery to gallery, selling pieces where I could to help pay down the debt. Really, I was hoping for patronage so at least there would be one less mouth to feed."

Meg frowned. "I always liked Reggie," she said, sounding lost.

Eliza sighed. "I still like him, may his foolish soul know peace. But liking someone doesn't stop them from ruining your life. Makes it rather easier, as it turns out."

Meg seemed to deflate, taking a step backward, then rocking forward again. When she didn't say anything else, Eliza continued, "It was at one of those desperate sales events I met the Viscount William Falmont. He bought a piece straight away, and then spent…oh, I don't even remember—two, maybe three hours just talking with me. We talked about education, interests, my plans to develop my art into a full career. So many people don't like the fact that I'm not some willowy romantic artist, unmoored by reality. I think William rather liked that about me. He said he had an offer to take to my parents, at the end of it. I was floating with the clouds on my way home. I thought he was going to offer me patronage."

"But instead," Meg said, her voice full of glum foreboding.

"Instead," Eliza agreed. "Instead, he announced to my parents that he was looking for a spouse for his nephew, once his ward, now his heir. He thought I was a perfect match!" Eliza shook her head, still remembering that dizzy, impossible sense of doom when her parents had brought her in to announce the very generous marriage offer. "It was a bit more complicated than that, of course. The reason for the quick wedding was that David had managed to make friends with a gaggle of radical anti-monarchists in college. If William didn't find a way to get his sweet, trusting nephew away from Darton and those dangerous influences, there was every chance he was going to wind up clapped in irons within the year."

"And your family wanted you to marry him?" Meg protested.

"Come, Meg," Eliza gently chided. Meg may not have been in the peerage, but she knew how things worked as well as anyone. "The heir-apparent of a viscount is a better match than my parents ever dreamed any of their daughters could make, even without the scandal of Reggie's spending. My parents would have marched me to the cell and had me wed him through bars if needed."

Meg made a dissatisfied noise.

"Besides, he was not a dangerous man, just a foolish one, who gave his friendship without discernment. Hardly a villian. So I agreed. And I—I am not sorry about it. Lord Falmont paid off Reggie's debts as a part of the engagement. My family has been able to rebuild, and my sisters are now safe. I do not think I chose wrong. But I will forever grieve the cost. I burned our dreams of a shared future to ash, and gave you no warning and no chance to object. It is the cruelest thing I have ever done, and I cannot regret it."

Eliza looked away, high and to the right. It was an old trick she had learned to keep tears from falling. She took deep, steady breaths, and awaited Meg's justified anger.

Instead, warm hands touched the corner of her jaw, and guided Eliza's head down, until Meg's face swam in her slightly watery vision.

"I never asked," Meg said softly, "because I think I always knew you had a reason. And I didn't want to hear it, because I wasn't ready to be done being angry at you. And I was right," she continued glumly, glaring up at Eliza. The glare was undercut by the way her fingers were still pressed lightly at the corner of Eliza's jaw. "I do not think you would have been the woman I loved, if you had made a different choice."

Eliza's eyes fell shut, and she let the brush of fingers at her jawline anchor her. It was the only steady touch in a swaying world. "I've never condemned your anger. It is far too justified."

Meg's hand shifted, her fingers tracing up Eliza's cheek until her palm fit around Eliza's jaw. Eliza leaned in, almost involuntarily, her face turning toward the palm.

"Perhaps," Meg said softly. "But I think it is time to let it go. It seems ill-suited to the present moment." Meg's hand dropped away, and after a moment, Eliza opened her eyes again, to find Meg looking up at her, eyes glistening with emotion. "I've missed my friend," Meg admitted.

"I have too," Eliza said. "I've missed you so much."

"We found each other again," Meg said, giving Eliza a lopsided smile. "Let's do better this time."

"Agreed," Eliza said, and then a moment later Meg's arms were wrapped around her waist. Eliza hugged her friend back, resting her chin on the crown of Meg's messy hair, and thanked the universe, for giving this companionship back to her.

Chapter Text

To Ms. Anne Addlesbrook,

Anne! You perfect wretch of a woman, yes, of course you must visit. How else am I supposed to show off my luxurious workshop space and generous patron. A space and patron that I have earned, by the way, with hard work and ingenuity, and not, as you so carefully insinuated in your last letter, with my head between anyone's thighs.

I'll have you know my designs for an improvement on the boiler-engine have already been purchased for such a sum that I have earned back my salary and then some.

But beyond that Eliza is a friend. Yes, perhaps we were more, once upon a time, but that feels lost to history now. There is such rawness between us, it seems a miracle we've managed to rebuild even our friendship, much less anything else.

And that is where I would leave it, except you'll have the truth out of me anyway, as soon as you visit, I'll go ahead and admit that she is still so lovely she drives me to distraction. The fact that I've been nowhere near her thighs is, in fact, a tragedy most profound. She'll make a little gesture and I'll be struck by desire so fierce there is no escaping it, and I burn until I can retreat to my bedroom and give myself some little relief.

She has artist's fingers, Anne. It's awful. You'll understand when you get here. Make it soon, I miss you most desperately.

Please burn this letter after you've finished reading and gloating.

Yours even in suffering,

Meg

"You're sure I can't convince you to stay a little longer?" Meg pleaded with a little laugh, as Anne shook her head and packed her bag.

"Unlike you, I do not have a wealthy patron who will indulge my idleness," Anne said, snapping the blouse she was packing into her bag like a whip in Meg's direction. "If I don't work, I don't eat."

"That's why you have apprentices," Meg protested.

"For some reason they all seem to grow up and leave me," Anne said kindly, reaching over and cuffing Meg's shoulder. "Now, that engine of yours is promising, but I think you're going to need to rethink your materiels for the wings. Your bird is too heavy."

Meg wrinkled her nose, as that dilemma confronted her again. "Everything durable is heavy, and everything light isn't durable."

"That is probably why nobody else has made one of these yet," Anne agreed. "If anyone's going to crack it it's you, though. Maybe more cork in the frame?"

"I will write and let you know," Meg promised. "But if you insist on departing, I should probably stop taking advantage of your knowledge."

"It's not taking advantage if I offer it freely." Anne turned toward Meg, and her eyes softened. She smiled, and the soft wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth folded into happy lines. "You're on the right track."

"Thank you," Meg said, meaning every word. Anne was in her fifties and everything Meg wanted to be when she got older. Sure of herself, sure of her work, living and breathing confidence. Anne was the steel to her knife-blade, always honing, always challenging. She had taken Meg's work from good to great to truly excellent, and it was deeply settling, to have her mentor and friend look around and approve of Meg's life.

The one dark spot on her visit had been Eliza. Or rather, the Viscountess Falmont. Because that's who Eliza had been through Anne's whole visit. Polite, dignified, and largely absent, aside from a few shared meals. She had begged the excuse of business and had vanished off into the countryside to check the state of her tenant's farms.

Important work, but terribly timed. Meg was beginning to put serious thought into the idea that Eliza was actually shy. She had never thought of Eliza as particularly shy, but she seemed so ill at ease with having a visitor, it was the only excuse Meg could imagine.

Their parting was just as awkward as the rest. Eliza had returned, and greeted them reservedly, back in her full formal mourning she so rarely bothered to put on in the house.

"Thank you for hosting, Lady Falmont," Anne said with a slight curtsy.

Eliza returned it in kind. "It is a pleasure. Please, consider our house open to you. I know Meg appreciates your company."

"You are very gracious, thank you. And on a more personal note, thank you for your support of Meg. It is a joy to see someone I care for so well contented."

Meg blushed, and sort of glared at Eliza. See, she thought fiercely, Anne's being nice. You can do it too.

"Of course," was all Eliza said, glancing over at Meg. "I am glad the position suits."

Meg gave a faint sigh as she walked Anne out.

"She never quite warmed up to me," Anne murmured as they strolled.

"I promise, she does actually have a sense of humor. I'm not sure where it slunk off to."

Anne hummed. "I have an idea."

"And that is?"

"This is one of those things you need to figure out for yourself," Anne said with a wink. She looked back at the house, and then leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Meg's temple.

Meg raised an eyebrow as she looked up at Anne. Anne's affection was usually displayed in barbed comments and late-night alcohol, not whatever this was. "Stop being odd," she chided, stepping around Anne and opening the door of the carriage.

Anne took her free hand and used it to enter. "You'll thank me later," she said, kissing the back of it.

"I don't like these new mindgames!" Meg called after her, as the carriage rattled its way down the road.

She turned around, and saw the shape of Eliza vanish from one of the front windows.

"Right," Meg muttered, and turned to go chase her friend down.

"If you didn't want Anne to visit, you could have just said so," Meg said, when she finally found Eliza in the garden. The winter months were breaking, and spring was starting to show in the little green shoots up from muddy brown dirt.

"This is your home. You may invite whatever company you like," Eliza said, that formality lingering on her like bad perfume.

"I know that," Meg said, exasperated. "But I invited Anne because I wanted her to meet you. And you were practically a statue the whole time she was here! Do you not like her?" Meg bit her lip, suddenly worried. "She was the best possible master I could have ever been apprenticed to, and I adore her. If there's some reason you don't like her, I'd really rather know—"

"She loves you," Eliza said, the words tumbling out tight and too fast.

"She does," Meg affirmed. "And that's a problem?"

"She loves you, you adore her, it's all very good. Meg, what do you want me to say?"

"I don't know!" Meg threw her hands in the air. "But you're being strange, and I don't like it when I don't understand my friend."

Eliza brought her hands up and curled her fingers into claws. It looked, for all the world, like she was about to wring Meg's neck. Meg frowned. She didn't think she had done anything all that annoying recently. Aside from inviting Anne over.

Did Anne and Eliza have a history? Were they old rivals or something?

"If you insist on being obtuse…" Eliza sighed. "Fine. Just know that I was planning on ignoring this with dignity before you forced the issue."

"What issue?"

"I love you," Eliza said, the words falling like crystal in an empty ballroom, shattering and chiming around Meg's mind. "I have loved you always and love you still."

Meg shook her head slowly, trying to make sure she had actually heard the words she thought she'd heard. "Uh, I—"

"I know," Eliza rushed on, "I know I gave up any right to your affection long ago. Still, it is painful to watch you love someone else. I beg your forgiveness, if I can't quite summon any warmth for the woman. Yet. Maybe I'll manage it in time. I do—I do not wish to lose your friendship over this. I will try harder."

"You're not losing my friendship!" Meg said quickly, because that was the part of the conversation she felt she had a firm handle on. She tried to find a dignified way to reply to the rest, but instead, all she could manage was, "You love me?"

The words came out soft and hesitant and all wrong, except for the way they made Eliza smile at her.

"I never stopped. And having you here, being able to spend time with you…it's only grown deeper and stronger still. You are a truly remarkable woman, Ms. Margaret Le, and it is my great joy to share my time with you. Please know, regardless of my affection, what I want most sincerely is your joy."

Eliza loved her. Eliza loved her and wanted to share her life with her, and Eliza thought that— "Wait, you think that Anne and I—?"

"Your affection for each other is obvious."

"No!" Meg blurted, slightly horrified. "No. She's, ahm, she's wonderful, she's my big sister, my terrifying mentor, and the person I want to be when I grow up all rolled into one, but she's not the person I—no."

"Oh," Eliza said, flushing red and looking down at the ground. "I'm sorry, I—I was terribly rude. Do you think Ms. Addlesbrook would accept a formal apology?"

"Hang Ms. Addlesbrook, that is not the most important part of this conversation," Meg said, stomping closer to Eliza. One advantage of being short, it was very easy to put herself in Eliza's line of sight as Eliza tried to study the cobblestones. "You love me."

"As I said. But if you need to hear it again, yes, I do."

"I'll need to hear it again," Meg said. "And again, and again, for the rest of our lives. I love you too, Eliza."

Eliza's eyes widened, and she took a jerky step toward Meg, one hand reaching out. "You—?"

"Eliza," Meg said, feeling excitement fluttering in her chest. "I thought you knew. I thought you must know, what you do to me. My body has never been a good liar. You captivate me, entrance me, for a word you could have had me, long before now."

"There is a difference," Eliza said, and she did reach forward then, one hand curling along the back of Meg's neck, the other resting at her waist. "Between the body and the heart. Attraction does not mean love, and I would not indulge the one without the other."

"You have both," Meg promised, and went up on her toes to kiss Eliza.

It had been so long since they'd kissed that it felt like the first time. They fumbled a bit, shifting awkwardly. But the thrill of love and the safety of their affection were far stronger than any missed steps. Eventually, Eliza remembered where to put her hands, and Meg remembered how to brace herself along Eliza's shoulders. Then it was like nothing so much as coming home.

Their love had not been lost. Simply waiting.

"I love you," Meg said again, whispering against Eliza's neck, her collarbone, her shoulder.

"Marry me," Eliza said in reply.

Meg broke apart, looking up at her. "A little fast!"

Eliza gathered Meg's hands and kissed them, first the right, then the left. "Long overdue," Eliza countered, low and steady. "There is no rush, but my hand is yours and no one else's."

Meg felt a swelling of love, but this was all so new, so different from what came before, that she felt the need to delay. At least long enough to know she was thinking clearly. "And you'll wait for my answer?"

"As long as it takes," Eliza promised. "I shall wait in chaste devotion until the end of my days, if that is what you desire."

"Hm," Meg made a show of considering, before leaning up and in close to Eliza's ear. "What about decidedly unchaste devotion?" she whispered.

Eliza turned, and captured Meg's mouth in a wicked kiss. "That can be arranged," she said, as her hands drifted low, starting to edge down the swell of Meg's hip.

"Yes please," Meg moaned into Eliza's mouth, before breaking away and pulling Eliza in the direction of her bedroom, before they could scandalize the gardener anymore than they already had.

Chapter Text

Ms. Margaret Le,

It is our pleasure to announce we have accepted your entry into our exhibition. You will be presenting on the South Downs field, at 4pm. Please bring your entry, as well as your signed waiver of liability forms, next March.

Sincerely,

The Darton Society for the Advancement of Science and Technology

The day dawned bright and sunny, and Eliza had resigned herself to dying of anxiety before noon. She was doing her best not to show it, though.

"Relax," Meg said, squeezing her hand. "You were there for the tests."

"I'm relaxed," Eliza lied.

"Uh-huh." Meg did not sound convinced, but all she did was use Eliza's hand to tug her down, and then went up on her toes to press a kiss to Eliza's cheek. "Promise you'll watch?"

"Of course!" Eliza replied, not lying at all. She may cover her face with her hands, but she'd be sure to peek through her fingers. Meg squeezed her hands, and then darted away, across the green and up the hill where her remarkable invention sat.

The flying machine was a gleaming beast, all copper and brass joints over hardwood and canvas. It looked like a Roc—the fierce monster bird out of the stories. It also looked far too fragile to hold Eliza's love and take her soaring.

The crowd gathered as the engine started up, spluttering and hissing to life. Above the hunting-bird body of the flying machine, a large balloon started to inflate. Meg's very clever boiler was the secret behind the whole thing, something about the steam providing both power and lift…

Truth be told, Eliza didn't quite understand it. What she did understand was the feverish gleam in Meg's eye, her joy every time she looked from her invention up to the clouds. Meg had been chasing the sky since she was eleven years old with a clever kite, and she'd keep chasing it until she found it. It seemed that today, at least, she was close.

Meg cut a dashing figure through the crowd, clad in embroidered trousers and a thick leather jacket. Meg had admitted offhand jealousy of Eliza's continental-style trousers, and regret that she'd not thought to bring any of the beautiful silk trousers from Chat Vang back with her. Eliza, always happy for a chance to indulge Meg, had quickly bought Meg an entire wardrobe of whatever she pleased.

Meg didn't often wear the silks, preferring the hardier leathers and canvas for her work. They cut quite the scandalous image these days, with their international wardrobe and unmarried romance. But they were fabulously wealthy, and both renowned successes in their respective fields. Society consensus had decided their romantic affection and sartorial affectation were charmingly eccentric, rather than troublesome.

Meg blew a kiss toward Eliza, and Eliza made a show of catching it and pressing it to her cheek. She could see across the field Meg's shoulder-shaking laugh, and then Meg vanished into the belly of her craft.

Eliza took a slow, deliberate breath, and forced herself to be calm. Meg knew what she was doing. Meg knew—

The big propellers along the back of the bird spun to life, and Eliza pressed her fingers against her mouth, shivering with nerves. They spun, faster and faster, crafting their own wind that had the closer onlookers giggling and clutching their hats. And then, slowly, the craft began to wheel forward. Slowly, then faster, and faster, as the balloon started to ripple, and then the liftoff happened, so smoothly it was barely visible, on the ground one moment, hovering the next.

The craft gained height quickly after that, spiralling up to the astonished cheers of the onlookers. Eliza spared a glance from the craft to look around the crowd. More and more people were flocking, murmuring amazement as they pointed to the sky.

Eliza looked back up to where Meg was taking a lazy lap of the field. Eliza caught sight of a trio of swallows soaring alongside, dipping under and over the machine, examining the strange bird in their midst. A profound satisfaction settled into Eliza's bones. Meg had always belonged among the birds, and here she was, flying with them.

Eliza's anxiety receded as the demonstration went on. Her practical side took over, and she started to scope out the onlookers that were watching with the eye of an investor. Not that any would approach today, but it was good to know who was looking.

Eliza stayed focused on business until Meg started to make her descent, spiralling low again. Eliza's nerves spiked in prickly fear. The landing was always the trickiest part. Eliza tangled her fingers together and watched the descent like a sea captain in the dark, peering for a lighthouse and fearing the rocks.

Eliza watched with growing relief as the machine's height went from, 'It would be a miracle to survive a fall from here,' to, 'A crash would wreck Meg's body but she'd probably live,' to, ''perhaps a broken arm but perfectly survivable.'

And then Meg hand landed, with only a slight shriek of protesting metal. As soon as the jolt of the landing shook the machine, Eliza took off running toward it.

It wasn't dignified, but hang dignity anyway. There were far more important things. Like being able to catch Meg as she stumbled out of her craft, bracing her as her knees threatened to give out. A second later, Meg caught her balance and launched herself at Eliza, wrapping her arms around Eliza's neck.

Eliza stumbled back, absolutely delighted to suddenly have an armful of happy engineer. She swung Meg around in a triumphant circle, until she felt her balance give, and both of them collapsed down onto the grass of the field laughing brightly.

"Did you see the birds?" Meg asked.

"You were flying with them," Eliza agreed, squeezing Meg's hand. "Utterly beautiful, exactly where you belong."

Meg sat up, shoving the loose strands of hair out of her face and looking down at Eliza. "Yes."

Eliza blinked up at her, vaguely aware of the gathering crowd, and distantly thinking they should probably get up off the ground and deal with that. "Yes?"

"I'll marry you," Meg said, her eyes bright with excitement. "As long as you're still offering."

It was the only thing that could have possibly made this moment better. Eliza felt a giddy excitement grow, and she couldn't help but throw her arms back above her head, laughing happily. She stretched out on the grass, answering, "Yes, my love, a thousand times yes."

Meg leaned over, and headless of the gathering crowd (or perhaps, because of it), kissed Eliza. Meg kissed her cheek, and then the tip of her nose, before clamoring to her feet. "I'd best go tend to my scandalized, adoring public."

"Enjoy the adoration," Eliza said, shooing her off. "I'll be here."

Eliza got to her feet and went over to the machine. She was only half paying attention as she inspected it for damage, most of her mind wondering where they could find the nearest vicar.

By Meg's side, in her life. For as long as they both shall live. Finally.