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There was a light wind that afternoon, north-northwest, briefly carrying the voices of the guards at York Redoubt up to meet them as they flew, skimming above the scrub grass and granite climb to Chebucto Head, all human sound soon lost amid the call of gulls and the rumble of breakers against the shore. "Oh, I do so like this place," said Tripudio, landing gracefully and shaking out her wings before she folded them against her side; when she tilted her head into the sun, her scales flashed aqua, a touch of silver winking at every tip. "But I do not see them yet, Sheppard," she mused, looking over the wide reach of the Atlantic, pressing out toward the horizon. "You do not suppose they are lost?"

"As I told your irrepressible captain, it's far too much to expect any ship, much less one run by His Majesty's minions, to be here promptly, and our time would have been far better spent at luncheon than gallivanting around the harbour and picnicking on a hill," sniffed Dr. McKay, plucking at his carabiner with fingers undoubtedly numb. He had, as was his unfortunate habit, forgotten his gloves.

Captain Sheppard touched McKay's shoulder before he climbed down from Tripudio's back. "Yet you deigned to join us."

McKay made a dismissive splutter. "These are entirely new field conditions. A September flight, after first frost, can hardly be compared to the sorties you've flown in prime summer weather." He jangled his carabiner. "Damn these things."

Tripudio nudged her snout into Sheppard's hand as he came to stand beside her. "It is all in the interest of science," she said with perfect mock gravity, and Sheppard was forced to bite back a smile.

"And has nothing to do with his wager with Captain Dex."

"Nothing," Tripudio said. "Empirical research is his only motivation . . ."

"I heard that!" McKay called, sliding down Tripudio's flank. He landed with a thump – for all his eagerness to marry the theoretical study of flight with that of 'the practical scientific,' months in the air had not yet made him a natural aviator, nor graceful on his return to land. "And yes, yes it is, you impudent young hatchling; I have forty years and two on this earth to match against your wit. Damned rascal – five months out of the shell and you favor us with sarcasm as regularly as I am forced to eat burned bacon. I find, for your intelligence, that neither situation is acceptable."

Tripudio turned her head and nudged his face gently. "I do so enjoy your bluster," she said fondly, and McKay was driven to spluttering again.

A flock of sheep grazed on the hillside, food for those dragons patrolling the Halifax harbour, and with his satchels retrieved from Tripudio's belly rigging, Sheppard gave her leave to select her own lunch. As she fell upon her meal with relish, Sheppard found a well-set boulder at the cliff head, gestured for McKay to join him and offered him a bottle of wine.

"Spanish, I suppose?" McKay asked, reaching for the bottle. "What I wouldn't give for a mere half-glass of good French . . ."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow.

"Please," McKay said, waving his free hand. "I do not seriously regret our continuing war with Napoleon simply because of the wine." He tilted his head. "Although it does constitute the greater share of my ill will."

"Perhaps this will restore your temper," Sheppard offered, passing him a cloth-wrapped bundle before he unwrapped his own.

"A pasty?" McKay said, sounding suddenly young and eager. He sat on the boulder, pressing himself against Sheppard's side, shoulder to ankle. "I had no idea that Penberthy had returned from, oh . . ." He paused to inhale the fragrant steam unleashed as he opened his napkin. "I will never call down damnation on Cornwall again," he promised, biting into his pasty with a will. "Oh," he mumbled. "Beef, an' onion an' . . ."

It was a working man's meal, a miner's talisman against hunger in the dark, yet Sheppard favored the simple pleasure of the pasties Penberthy made and their ready portability to wherever he and Tripudio might fly. It was pleasant, very pleasant, to press a warmed brick into a satchel and take to the air, to take his ease with McKay at his elbow, the prickly but certain companion with whom he had shared adventure and delay in equal measure these two years and more. They were somewhat unlikely friends. Sheppard, second son of an English gentleman, had been sent to the Corps at the age of eight that his "rebellious and insufferable" spirit might be given vent, and managed to rise to the rank of Second Lieutenant before blacking his record and suffering exile to the dragon breeding grounds at Newfoundland. McKay, in contrast, occupied that social niche afforded the sons of merchants, especially those engaged in the Canadian trade. The newness of his money won him few friends of consequence, while his capacious intellect was both envied and mocked. Sheppard often smiled to think of the happenstance that had caused their paths to cross – one pushed, one pulled toward Newfoundland and the dragons that sheltered there.

"Am I to drink from the bottle?" McKay asked, interrupting Sheppard's reverie. He had managed to work the cork from the Spanish wine.

"Do not stand on ceremony on my account," Sheppard replied, permitting himself a small smile of indulgence, watching as McKay tipped back the bottle and made several appreciative gulps.

"Ahhh," McKay sighed happily, swallowing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I suppose the Spanish are adequate vintners when pressured – perhaps war has proven good for their habits? I swear, Sheppard, if even this avenue of pleasure is disrupted by the present hostilities, I cannot possibly be held accountable for my actions."

Sheppard nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "And what will you do?"

"Well." McKay swallowed from the bottle again. "I admit it is somewhat difficult to exact revenge against those locked in combat some 3000 miles hence, but . . ."

Sheppard eased the bottle from McKay's hand and swallowed a little of the wine, gratefully. "I have faith in your imagination."

"Indeed," McKay said with a nod. "There are certain things that cannot be borne, and wine shipped from the colonies is one of them." He sniffed. "I will be forced to take up rum."

"Heaven forefend," said Sheppard quietly, and sipped the wine again.

Lunch finished, Tripudio stood, shaking out her wings before stepping casually toward them. "I would like to clean myself," she said carefully, "and if there is time . . ."

"I saw the whales," Sheppard replied, amused.

Tripudio shivered with happy anticipation. "Might I sport with them for just a while?"

They were free from responsibilities that day, though their formation was due to patrol the Maine border next evening. Skirmishes had been few lately – the rising tide of invective from Washington had not yet translated into new naval action, saving them combat above the Atlantic, and Sheppard held the faint hope that they might yet avoid more of the volleys shared in the first flush of the Republican Embargo Acts. Still, there were the militias to consider, and the long-simmering resentments between neighbors divided by a loyalty to constitution, parliament, President or King. The quiet of this stolen day could not last long. "While we finish, of course. And should you see the ship approaching . . ."

"I will keep watch!" Tripudio called, leaping into the air, and with a solid beat of her wings she climbed above the Head, pausing for a second before she dived toward the water, wings closed behind her, as lithe as a seal.

"Do you ever suppose we shall know her full ancestry?" McKay asked.

John watched as Tripudio rose from the water, corkscrewing over the afternoon's amiable waves. "That her mother was a Siu Riu is all we can count upon," he observed. "We have too little intelligence on the indigenous creatures of the West; were her father feral or loyal to the people of that country, it would make little difference."

"He was surely suited to the sea," McKay mused. "Her coloring – she may be touched more green than blue upon her scales, but there is no earth-bound camouflage upon her."

"The traders who venture inland tell of seafarers and fishers upon the other vast coast." Sheppard licked a finger clean of savory gravy. "Even here, before illness, there were towns of great size. I imagine dragons too."

"So much we do not know," McKay said, and sipped from the wine again. "Much that we prevented ourselves from knowing by virtue of some ingrained sense of vast superiority, some presumption that. . ."

John held up a hand. "Forgive me," he said, his tone light but teasing. "Does the great Dr. McKay seek to lecture upon the virtues of humility?"

McKay elbowed him sharply in the side. "You know my feelings on these matters."

"I do." Sheppard took back the wine and drank. "And I am in agreement. But we cannot undo what was done by those before us, merely . . ."

"Yes, yes, act as gentlemen now." McKay rolled his eyes. "If only it were always perfectly clear what the act of a gentleman must be."

The remark gave Sheppard pause, his thoughts shifting to the dragon transport which they hoped to greet that afternoon. The H.M.S. Allegiance, late of the West Indies, bore many cargoes – two Yellow Reapers, a Parnassian; perhaps, if rumors were true, a Kazilik – but it was the Celestial it carried, Temeraire, and his captain, William Laurence, whose acquaintance Sheppard was most anxious to make. Gossip flourished as readily in Nova Scotia as in England, and whispers and counter-whispers had circled the covert for weeks – Laurence was a traitor, an explorer, a man of extraordinary courage; he was, said some, the natural born son of the Emperor of the Chinese; he brought dishonor to the Corps; he brought rigor; he was toasted and damned with every second breath drawn. Sheppard let silence spin out around him as his thoughts took their leave; he watched Tripudio soar and dive but truly saw little. "So some have discovered," he said quietly, at last.

"Mmmmhmmm." McKay squinted toward the sun as Tripudio finally took leave of her aquatic companions and glided gracefully back toward the Head, settling down a small distance away and shaking sea water from her scales. "You and Laurence both." He turned his head and offered a rueful half-smile. "Really, Sheppard, your thoughts are quite shockingly transparent."

Sheppard bristled. "I disagree."

McKay's smile grew wider. "That is to be expected. However, I am possessed of the far greater intellect and therefore . . ."

"You cannot always be correct."

"On the contrary, I think you'll find I can."

"McKay, you are, without a doubt, the most – "

Tripudio coughed and ducked her head to interrupt them. "Prime, Not-Prime?" she suggested, her forehead crinkled with amusement. "Unless, of course, either of you fear being proven incorrect by a dragon."

"Hmmmph," McKay offered, but he reached out to scratch her snout as she lay beside them and said only, "102,499."

So passed a pleasant hour. The previous day's dispatches eventually proved correct; it was not quite two when Tripudio spotted the Allegiance at the horizon, her observation confirmed by Sheppard's quick use of his spy-glass.

"Let me see," McKay said, reaching for it.

"You have a spy-glass of your own," Sheppard said.

McKay sighed. "In my rooms, as you well know."

"Wait one moment and I will be happy to . . ."

McKay snatched the glass and fixed it to his eye. "Extraordinary," he said, ignoring Sheppard's sputter in favor of training the glass on the seas. "A length of 400 feet, I know, and yet she looks a great deal larger."

"The dragon deck," Sheppard offered, packing the remains of their lunch into his satchels. "Tripudio, if I may?" he asked, before stowing the bags and tightening the cinches on her belly rigging. "McKay."

"Hmm, yes, yes, we should go, I suppose . . ."

"We are precious little help as a scouting party if we do not report what we see," Sheppard offered, climbing Tripudio's harness.

"I am not a scout," she protested, pawing the ground with one foot. "My wings are far longer and wider than any of the . . ."

Sheppard laid a hand on her neck. "My apologies," he said softly. "I meant it only in the most temporary sense."

"Scout," she muttered.

"Voluntarily so, on a day with sun and whales and . . ."

"Hmmpf," she said, conceding just a fraction. "I suppose it was very good of us to offer our service when there were no official claims upon our time."

"Indeed," John said agreeably. "And if Dr. McKay could see his way clear to joining us, we might prove ourselves as useful in our hours of rest as we are in our hours of work."

McKay stood, shutting the glass with a snap, and climbed to his regular spot at Tripudio's shoulder. "Evidence gathering cannot be hurried," he said loftily, snapping his carabiner into place. "A fact which you would, if you paid the least attention to my earnest attempts to educate you on the subject, appreciate as . . ."

He fell silent as, with the tiniest touch from Sheppard, Tripudio leapt into the air.

*****

"They have come?" asked Caldwell, striding across the main courtyard of the covert at Cape Blomidon as soon as Tripudio landed.

"They will dock this afternoon if this wind holds," Sheppard said, waiting for McKay to disentangle himself before attempting to unfasten his carabiner. "Here by sundown."

Caldwell nodded. "I trust the garrison at York was notified of their – "

"Heaven preserve us," McKay said, huffing into his hands before chafing them briskly. "Do you imagine we flew back here alight with the heady spirit of mischievous schoolboys? Of course the garrison was signaled; your orders were quite clear."

"Thank you, Dr. McKay," Caldwell said tightly, his tone of voice warding off further conversation. "Captain Sheppard, if I might trouble you to stand to the tasks assigned to you as leader of your crew? The hands stand ready for your orders." He glanced at McKay, mouth tightening before he strode away.

"Do not antagonize him," Sheppard whispered, pulling off his gloves. "We have discussed this matter."

"I judge him a baboon," McKay muttered back.

"No matter what your opinion, you fly on my crew by virtue of his good graces, and it would be unfortunate if you lost your place in them."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "If he wishes to be associated with my scientific works, and gain admittance someday to the Royal Society, then he will . . ."

"Rodney," Sheppard hissed.

McKay swallowed and tilted his chin. "Very well. I will . . . send a good Spanish wine to his table tonight."

Sheppard allowed himself a begrudging smile. "Thank you." He nodded at his ground crew, gathering at the courtyard's edge, and raised his voice. "Remove the harness if you would, Mr. Campbell."

"And perhaps you might polish my scales," Tripudio put in, turning her head to look down her flank. "I think I may have picked up a barnacle."

"Will do," Campbell said cheerfully. "Jinto – run and fetch the harness master if you please; steady there Ford, careful with that chain . . ."

The orderly din of the courtyard dimmed as Sheppard followed McKay into the main garrison building, their boot heels rapping sharply on the rough stone floors. The faint smell of lye soap rose up from the laundry beneath the flagstones, the corridors growing warmer as they withdrew from the damp outside. "Will you join me for coffee?" Sheppard asked. "I am sure our comrades are eager for news, and since I did not manage proper use of my glass . . ."

McKay sighed dramatically as they swung into the officer's mess and paused just inside the door. "Two Yellow Reapers, as promised," he announced to the room. "A Parnassian; something small and blue; and no – " he said, turning to the tall, young captain who had pushed back his chair at their entering, " – I cannot say for sure if there is a Kazilik aboard."

"Useless," the man said with a hint of a smile. He sat again, sweeping his long, coarse locks back over his shoulders, tugging the lapels of his bottle-green dress coat into place. "Did you not swear, McKay, that you –"

"I would find out, yes, yes," McKay said, stalking to the serving banquet and pouring coffee into a china cup. "And had I been left to my own devices, I'm sure I would have the intelligence for you. My time on lookout was, however, cut short by the punctiliousness of your good friend, Sheppard, who insisted we return the moment a sighting was made. You are lucky I can tell you they carry a scout, and not merely their weight in military might."

"Dex," Sheppard said easily, nodding a greeting before taking the coffeepot from McKay's hand and pouring himself his fill. "Emmagan."

The female captain seated at Dex's table inclined her head. "They will be here soon enough. We shall meet them in due course."

"Well, naturally," McKay said, crossing the room to join them. He dropped into a chair and tugged with irritation at his tie. "But it is uncommonly pleasant to be first."

"I hear Laurence has been sent here as punishment," said Kavanagh from his position at another table. A newer captain, freshly stationed at the covert, he possessed an astonishing dearth of charm. "Consorting with the aborigines."

John sipped from his coffee cup, watching with some approbation as Emmagan raised an eyebrow. "Captain Laurence has been away from Australia for some time, as anyone with the barest familiarity with the Times would know," she said smoothly. "We do ourselves no favors by indulging in flights of fancy more suited to a fevered brain."

Kavanagh reddened and muttered something to his companion, a Captain Niam, late of Ireland, who showed his amusement by pursed lips and an equally low reply.

"Should I ascertain the reach of their honor?" Dex asked gruffly.

Emmagan laughed. "I am yet capable of boxing a schoolboy's ears," she said, apparently delighted and amused by the entire affair. "And I am not in need of a champion, though I thank you."

"How long 'til we dine?" McKay interrupted, having drained his coffee.

Sheppard ignored him. "How does Athos?" he asked Emmagan.

"Well," she said, showing her pleasure with a small nod of her head. "She is fully recovered and we shall join formation tomorrow."

Dex half-smiled. "Good news for us all. Sateda flies better with her at his wing."

"No doubt because your dragon is a most incorrigible flirt," McKay put in.

"Athos enjoys Sateda's attentions," Emmagan said happily. "I believe we shall have an egg by spring if he continues to pay his respects."

Sheppard frowned slightly, despite his best efforts to steel his countenance. "Should we be talking of eggs during war?" he asked, doing his level best to hide the hue of his cheek behind the china of his cup.

McKay snorted softly, and Sheppard grimaced as Dex clapped his shoulder. "I can think of no better time," Dex grinned. "Defense. Strength."

"Hope," Emmagan put in.

"Hope!" McKay said cheerfully. "That I certainly possess – hope that the offspring of a Longwing and a Regal Copper shall provide me with the opportunity to test a number of vastly important theories that will refine our understanding not only of dragons but of the greater share of the natural world . . ."

"Only that?" Sheppard asked, feigning innocence as he found his footing again. "Perhaps you should enlarge your goals, lest you be thought lacking ambition."

"The development of the hatchling's acid, for example, when married to the unusual physical size that cannot help but be a paternal gift will provide opportunity to . . ."

Dex cleared his throat indulgently. "McKay. They have barely begun to discuss books."

"I agree," Emmagan said, patting McKay's arm. "When they come to some agreement on Shakespeare's sonnets, you may consider yourself forewarned. Athos has repeatedly assured me she will not make eggs with any dragon who knows not his mind on the matter of poetry."

McKay sighed and tipped back his head to stare at the soot-stained ceiling. "My talents, hitched to the star of a long-dead playwright who is likely more myth than matter."

Sheppard smiled. "A burden to bear, indeed."

There was much that McKay could say about Shakespeare – much, almost all would concede, that McKay could say about many subjects if provoked, be they topics of his special consideration or not. With the fires of McKay's intellect and hubris duly stoked, Sheppard took leave of the table, claiming pressing correspondence to which he must attend, and ignoring Dex's eloquent glare.

It was not merely for the sport of abandoning Dex that Sheppard withdrew. There were letters to which he should reply, but of more direct necessity was the need to preserve his bearing, to sequester himself away from the sport of engaging McKay; entering into spirited debate; indulging in conversation that could do nothing but feed the ache below his breastbone. The bruise there had been put in place by birth, by the confines of English society, and the perfect understanding that two men could never be countenanced to live as one. There was much satisfaction to be taken from platonic companionship, from the fealty woven through the plain friendship McKay believed they had – but for Sheppard there had long been, on September afternoons when the wind blew fine and the flying was swift, when his fellow officers facilitated argument that carried nothing but affection in each word, when he apprehended change in the order of his small world and could not prevent himself from imagining more, then – a greater affection. Then did the bruise throb and know no consolation but that which could be spun from solitude and willpower and the scratch of a nib against precious paper. His relatives would gain from the situation, at least, and not have cause to give him up for dead.

He passed an hour at his desk, soothed by the company of a low fire and a view toward the setting sun, writing until dusk made such labor impossible. Only then did he sit back in his chair and flex the fingers of his pen-hand, studying the ink upon his fingers, listening to the distant stamp of sentry boots and the call and response of a ground crew finishing their tasks. There was the scent of wood smoke in the air, and the tang of salt laced the insidious drafts that worked beneath the sash of his window – in sum, he felt himself buffeted by satisfaction, his every sense drawing evidence of his belonging, of the sweet luxury of captaincy after so many years of exile upon Newfoundland's shores.

He had undertaken the most base work available at the breeding grounds. As a decommissioned officer, still bound to the Corps, he was made subject to the every whim of those whose shoulders still winked with the gold of a captain's bars. The stench and dirt in which he spent the greater share of his time did not concern him – he was, at least, still in the company of dragons, well-placed to discuss poetry, physics, and the philosophy of flight.

It was Tripudio who altered his fortune, the hatchling of an egg brought east by the Indian trade, viewed with some suspicion by those who considered the worthiest bloodlines to be rooted in European stock. For weeks he had tended to her needs, stoking fires and speaking to her shell, recording the egg's weight and measurement as instructed by McKay during the long midnight hours of their increasingly forthright conversation. With perspective afforded by hindsight, Sheppard could not help but wonder if McKay had known the likely effect of his work – for when Tripudio hatched, she looked upon the face of First Lieutenant Kenmore, said, "Oh, I do not think you will do at all," and searched Sheppard out, declaring, "This is who I want."

"Name her, goddamn you," Keeper Landry had snapped.

And Sheppard had offered, "Tripudio," with his hands balled into fists that they would not shake.

"Oh! Delicious!" she had exclaimed, seemingly well pleased as she shook out her wings, which was when McKay had slapped him on the back, suggested it was time for a hearty celebration, and told Landry where he might send Sheppard's papers of reinstatement by sundown, if he were a man who knew his worth.

With Tripudio thus brought to mind, Sheppard stood and pulled on his topcoat and located his gloves. In mere moments he was crossing the courtyard, empty now of bluster and toil, and he lowered his head against the evening breeze as he wound a path toward the great stone shelters built against the province's winter storms. The air warmed as he drew close, heated by braziers installed at the Crown's command, that no dragon should feel the bite of Nova Scotia's bitterest seasons; warm too were the bursts of conversation that ebbed and flowed toward him, the dragons gathered in before nighttime maneuvers, exchanging gossip and conversation, flirting, arguing, and holding court just as their human companions were wont to do over an evening meal.

"I should have thought they owed some loyalty to the Crown they threw off," said Tripudio as Sheppard entered the shelter. She licked at her claws, her main meal already done. "By mere fact of past association, if no stronger tie."

Athos chewed thoughtfully upon the remainder of a sheep before replying. "I do not see how any tie might survive Revolution," she offered. "Surely that is the point of such an uprising – to choose actions without the oppressive constraint of history?"

"Is Napoleon not oppressive?" Sateda asked, his voice a bass rumble in the enclosure. "Do they not choose an association that is more detrimental than allegiance to a past master?"

"But to choose one's oppressor," Athos said. "That is perhaps all the freedom they require."

"Freedom," Tripudio sighed. "What a perplexingly complex subject, folded inside a small word." She finally noticed Sheppard, who had drawn closer to her pen. "We are discussing the Americans!" she said brightly. "As they are most distressing creatures who took potshots at Wilberforce earlier this evening."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow – he had not heard the news. "Is he badly hurt?"

"A small scrape," Sateda replied. "His second lieutenant is shaken, but Captain Lorne is unhurt."

"And it was nothing but sheer luck that the American made mark!" Tripudio said, ruffling her wings and tucking them back against her side. Sheppard laid a hand on her flank and hid a smile – her pride in the Corps was quite fierce.

"I am sure you are correct," he offered. "Still, I should consult with Major Lorne about the nature of the confrontation before we fly on the morrow."

Tripudio lowered her head and nudged his face affectionately. "I should not like to be shot by a Republican," she agreed. "Although I am much faster than Wilberforce."

Sheppard nodded solemnly. "Is there anything I should ask of the crew in preparation for our flight?" He had swiftly learned – by Kavanagh's contrary example as much as by instruction – to consider Tripudio the best oracle of her own needs; guessing at her wants when she was capable of instructing her crew as to the best measure of help required was a foolish waste of time.

"I have already asked Campbell to see to the loose links on my right hind chains," Tripudio replied. "All is in hand. We mean to pass our evening with Paradise Lost, and perhaps cause Decus to rant at our disrespectful nature as we hypothesize as to why the text has only one devilish dragon, and how the inclusion of more, of greater nobility, might have improved it."

Sheppard laughed softly. "I do not doubt that Milton could have learned much from you all."

Sateda crunched on a bone. "Truth," he offered, as taciturn as his Captain.

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a flurry of activity in the courtyard outside. "The newcomers," said Athos, quivering with excitement. "Oh, how splendid!"

"Let them first find their bearings before you pounce," Sheppard counseled.

"Of course!" she replied, tossing her head, but the glint in her eye spoke of mischief and no small amount of glee. "There are many hours yet to the evening – we shall have time for all things."

"That is exactly what I am afraid of," Sheppard confessed to Tripudio, who nudged his face again.

"Perhaps you should go make welcome," she suggested. "So that we might all become acquainted."

Sheppard ducked his head, and scratched a heated spot at the back of his neck. "My manners are rusty," he said. "You are right, madam. I stand in error. Thank you for the reminder."

Tripudio watched him with approbation. "And perhaps tomorrow morning you could tell me what you discover at the dinner table, tonight?"

"It will be done," he acceded with a smile. "I take my leave, friends. I trust you will have a pleasant evening." He was almost sure he heard Athos snicker as he headed to the shelter's west side.

The garrison's five new dragons stood patiently in the courtyard, still and watchful as their crews dismounted and first attempts were made to remove their great plates of armor. In the courtyard's center stood Caldwell, consulting with a man Sheppard could only presume to be the most senior of the captains new-arrived. Around them was bustle and noise – the clang of metal, the rattle of chains, the fractured ring of carabiners snapping shut after their owners disconnected from their dragon's rigging.

"What, ho, there!" yelled Campbell, directing a team of young groundsmen to help the crews. "You'll have someone's eye, there, master Jinto. Caution if you please. Grodin – heave to, heave to . . ."

There could be no mistaking the dragon standing closest to the west doors of the shelter – Sheppard had seen Celestials only in books, but Temeraire's dark scales and regal spikes would have communicated his uncommon heritage had Sheppard been ignorant of all dragonlore. The brazier flames reflected in the deep gold of his chest plate, and despite his years and the scars on his flank, he had the air of a young hatchling still, apparently fascinated by the commotion around him, sniffing the Nova Scotian air. Sheppard shook himself – he was staring – and made his way to the man who could be none other than the infamous Laurence. With the polish his Great Aunt had so industriously insisted he perfect, he made his leg. "Captain Sheppard at your service, sir. Most glad to welcome you."

"Sheppard." Laurence made his leg in return, and nodded as he stood once more. "Captain Laurence, late of the South American expedition."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "We understood you to be coming from the Antipodes."

"We have had many adventures since we left those shores," said Temeraire, lowering his head to gain a better vantage point. "Hello."

Sheppard made his leg again. "Captain Sheppard."

"I am Temeraire. It's very nice to meet you."

Sheppard smiled – he could not help but respond to the warmth in Temeraire's voice. "And you also. It is a great honor to meet you both."

"Oh! How nice of you to say so," Temeraire replied. "Sometimes people do not give Laurence nearly as much praise as he deserves. I do not mind for myself, but . . ."

Laurence laughed softly and stroked Temeraire's snout. "My dear, please. I am all sea-legs, yet already you cause me to blush."

"Nonsense," Temeraire said with a huff of warm breath. "Perhaps, Captain Sheppard, you could show Laurence where he might eat? He has dined mostly on biscuit this . . ."

"It would be my honor if you would join the table I share with those captains of my formation," Sheppard said, interrupting before Laurence could wish too hard to be swallowed whole by the cobbles of the yard. "And I would be glad to see you back here after we dine, that you might check on the arrangements made for Temeraire and his crew."

Laurence acknowledged the invitation with a courteous incline of his head. "If that suits you?" he asked Temeraire.

"It suits me very well," Temeraire said happily. "Do I smell cod? I hear the fish in the grand banks are uncommonly large . . . "

They were very clearly dismissed.

*****

Despite his disdain for Spanish wine, McKay had already uncorked two bottles by the time Sheppard and Laurence reached the dining room. "Sheppard!" he called cheerfully. "Sit down, sit down, there is honest to God beef on the menu and I have heard tell of port-wine sauce. Unfathomable blessing, you'll agree. And – " he squinted at Laurence then rolled his eyes and stood, waving a hand in apparent dismissal of his own backwardness. "Of course, you must be Laurence." He extended his hand. "Dr. Rodney McKay."

Laurence bowed his head and shook his hand. "Of the Royal Society?"

McKay grew an inch in height and smiled in triumph at Emmagan and Dex. "I am he."

"I have read your work. Temeraire will be most pleased to make your acquaintance – we have debated your theories at length on past voyages."

McKay grew another inch. "I would be honored to discuss anything you or he chooses," he said, a flush creeping up above the collar of his shirt. He sat down, all but glowing with good cheer. "My word."

Sheppard did not tease him, though the want was very great; instead he gestured to his other companions as they stood. "Captain Dex, Captain Emmagan, partners to Sateda and Athos respectively."

"Captains." Laurence made a short bow and sat as John gestured to a chair, Dex reaching to fill a wine glass and set it at Laurence's right hand. Laurence sipped. "This is very pleasnt," he said at last, risking a small smile. "After much time at sea – it has been some time since we could spare wine for anything but medicinal purposes."

"Barbaric," McKay said, filling his own glass, then Sheppard's too. "I hope it was the least of the inconveniences incumbent upon your journey?"

Laurence's countenance underwent a series of swift changes before he mastered his expression. "I fear not," he said slowly. "But if it please you – perhaps you might tell me of this place, that I could share details of our voyage at some moment when the memory is not so pressing?"

Emmagan raised an eyebrow and shot John a look weighted with significance. "You are tired," she said generously. "We should not tax you after such a journey. And McKay is tolerably fond of holding court so . . ."

McKay tilted his head and offered a quelling glare that had no effect upon Emmagan at all. "How very droll."

Emmagan smiled. "I am entertained."

"What would you know?" Sheppard asked, leaning back from the table a fraction as one of the housekeeping staff laid a plate in front of him. Beef, as McKay had predicted, in port-wine sauce, with vegetables picked before the frost. The cook was liberal in his use of butter – the potatoes, in particular, swam under its effects.

"Whatever you might tell me," Laurence said before drinking again. "I know little of this place. Halifax was considered as refuge for the King early in these present hostilities, I recall, but it was my understanding that such an undertaking would require the significant restructuring of His Majesty's forces. I did not know such a large garrison as this existed for the Corps."

"Expansion," Dex replied.

"Newfoundland was the primary locale for Corps activity after the Peace," Emmagan explained. "With the colonies newly organized into a Republic, and their internal affairs so . . ."

"Disorganized?" McKay suggested between a mouthful of green beans and peas. "Disastrous? Unimaginably complicated and wholly directed by ruffians, lawyers, and slave-mongers?"

Sheppard narrowly avoided spitting wine into his lap, and held his napkin to his mouth until he was sure the moment had passed.

"Disorganized will suffice," Emmagan conceded. "The Crown felt it had little to fear from border raids or expansion – and with the debts it had itself accrued, there was nothing to be done but to maintain the minimal presence that could be afforded. The breeding grounds at Newfoundland provided an excellent tactical location from which to monitor the situation and . . ."

"The Americans got rich," Dex interrupted. "Napoleon. Sold them half the country."

"Sold them his promise not to interfere in that place," McKay corrected. "The land does not belong to France any more than it belongs to England, America, or Spain. Natural title still resides with the indigenous groups of the continent, and any attempt by a nation to expand into the interior must necessarily be accompanied by negotiation to extinguish that title if the nation in question wishes to lay claim to honor." He stabbed at his potatoes.

Laurence blinked.

"You will find our conversations regularly embrace . . . " John tried to think of the proper way to describe McKay's discursive practices. "Segues. Of imaginative character."

"Please," McKay said. "He brought up Louisiana."

"And so," Emmagan said smoothly, "the Crown found itself in the position of needing new defenses, lest the Republicans find their appetite for an increase of country swelled further yet."

"The fort had five, perhaps six dragons in oh-five," Dex said. "A dozen by oh-seven. We stand at four companies now."

Laurence nodded. "We anticipate war?"

Sheppard pushed a spear of carrot across his plate, a frigate amid an ocean of port-wine shallows. "We do," he said simply.

"And isn't that a terribly uplifting topic of conversation?" McKay asked. "I rather think we should turn our attentions back to a full consideration of how my work was read by this gentleman on his voyage across the globe, in the company of a most excellent Celestial."

Emmagan laughed softly. "It seems there is always something new we might discuss in relation to your work," she observed.

"As it should be," McKay nodded. "There is so much of it, and it is so very superior to all the other material published."

Laurence laughed – and John was glad to hear it; he would fit in well if attuned to the humor innate beneath McKay's soaring words. "Surely you have more questions?" he asked, refilling Laurence's partially empty glass.

"Tell me anything," Laurence said, and Sheppard noted that his shoulders had lowered a fraction – he was finding his ease. "Tell me whatever you think I should know."

"An excellent approach," McKay said. "First – "

"McKay." Sheppard raised both eyebrows and tried to telegraph his thoughts with nothing more than a look.

"The good captain has asked, and I stand ready to answer his call," McKay said smoothly. "Do not worry, my dear Sheppard. I will not recite the tale of your much-maligned undergarments at this first meeting. Oh! Oh, except . . . oh, I am sorry . . . " He grinned mischievously.

Sheppard considered flicking a potato at his head.

Laurence coughed, apparently choking on a pea. "I am quite all right," he said, waving a hand as Dex moved to pound him on the back. "Merely unprepared."

"As are we all when Captain Sheppard's undergarments are involved," Emmagan said, setting Laurence off into a fresh wave of coughing that could only be quelled by the application of more wine.

"We," McKay said, talking over Laurence's respiratory distress, "are quite the best formation within this branch of the Corps. We are also unabashed misfits and social outliers of the first water."

Laurence eyed him over the rim of his wineglass. "Oh?"

"Yes, quite," McKay said, leaning back in his chair. "If you would rather cultivate relationships with those destined for a career in Parliament, or a hope of making it to the Admiralty, you will find them sitting as far away from this table as possible. Here sit the intellectual interlopers," he gestured to himself, "the Captains brought in from the West Indies," he gestured to Emmagan and Dex, "and the Captain possessed of the second most impressive black mark in Corps history, saving your own, of course."

Laurence's mouth twitched. Sheppard revised his plan for flicking potatoes at McKay; actual cutlery might now be required if he were to create a blessed quiet.

"Forgive me," Laurence said, addressing Sheppard directly. "I was unaware of your situation. Yet I know how these things can often arise from . . ." He gave a rueful half-smile, "complex circumstance." The effects of his own rebellion against the Crown were readily apparent in the tanned hue of his skin and the grey hair at his temple.

Yet already the whistle of night-air was too loud in Sheppard's memory, the snap of twigs and scrape of branches still raw upon his skin. He nodded politely at Laurence. "Exactly so," he said quietly.

"Please," McKay protested. "There was nothing complex about your act." He leveled his gaze at Laurence. "Second lieutenant, 1805, a scouting expedition as Napoleon regrouped his forces after Austerlitz. A French Fleur-de-Nuit came close enough to board, and in low-flying battle . . ."

*****

"Aboard!" Mitcheson yelled, as if there was need when the Fleur-de-Nuit was close enough to touch, to smell – carbon and remnants of fresh beef; blood at his claws – the air thick with battle cries in French and answering curses in every dialect of the Isles. Sheppard slid a hand beneath the leather straps of Honestius's rigging, prepared for what must come next – a mid-air spiral, the dragon turning over and about, French and English tumbling from Honestius' back where carabiners were not secured or straps had been cut.

"Giles, Martin, down," came a shout, then the welcome cry of "pow-dah!" as Bates launched the flash that would enable them to see their enemy. Sheppard readied himself, his pistol primed, and squinted into the midnight sun of their advantage, downing the first of many French who had their sights upon the captain. Above them, the Fleur-de-Nuit shrieked in pain as her eyes burned from the light – she bucked her captain's commands, straining toward darkness, but she would level and return, Sheppard knew, trained to overcome pain as every man, woman, and dragon among them. He holstered his gun, climbed Honestius' harness, clipping and unclipping his carabiners in swift progression. "More powder!" he yelled. "Bates, again!"

But there was no answer, no rapid-fire reply, only a fainter call after one moment, two had passed – Ford's voice, shaken but determined. "Powder, sir!" A pause before a flare shot once more into the dark.

It was only then that Sheppard saw the tussle at Honestius' right shoulder, Sumner's sword drawn, his footing unsteady as he fought, an eager Frenchman meeting each thrust, though his coat already showed a quantity of his blood. Sheppard growled low and reached for his second pistol, took good aim and fired while the flare grew dim in the heavens. The Frenchman fell – harnessed yet, he thudded into Honestius's side; the dragon groaned and shuddered, hauling left as he corrected for the swinging weight. Sheppard pulled a knife, his shot spent, and lunged as more of the French crew pushed forth. In darkness all was imprecise, certainties few save for the location of the captain at Sheppard's back, the man he must protect. Above the howls of fighting men, the roar and clarion call of dragons engaged, the backwash of wind from the Fleur-de-Nuit's wings there was yet the exchange of order and accession from dragon and captain, flying low to the ground, close to village and farm where light might yet provide advantage against their foe.

The shot that took Everett in the shoulder flew by Sheppard's ear, and there was barely a second to consider for whom the bullet had been meant, or whether Sheppard might have anticipated the shot and shifted to take its brunt. Everett collapsed against Honestius's neck, the dragon roaring with anger as he craned his neck to try to see his captain's injury, flying at such an angle as to dispatch more French into the pastures below and cost Lieutenant Sumner his footing. Sheppard moved quickly, securing himself at Everett's side, probing his wound; he was much relieved to hear the old man groan and realize there was life here that could yet be saved; the French would not take this man, nor Honestius. "Fly low, as he bid you," he called to the dragon. "Fly low, and we might yet save those of our men who have fallen."

There was a violent curse to Sheppard's right – Sumner, cut across the shoulder, one arm rendered useless and his other tiring as he fought a new interloper, come from the rear. "Home," he yelled. "Fly and damn them, Sheppard!" His face, illuminated by the dim lights of a village Sheppard could not name, contorted with determination as he hacked at the Frenchman who had engaged him. It was a chance of timing that Sheppard saw Sumner's dismay as the Frenchmen slashed at his anchor-rope, his expression frozen in the split-second before he fell. By instinct Sheppard responded, pulling Honestius into a steep right-ward dive dispatching the Frenchman and his sword to the air.

"Powder!" yelled Ford from the rear – another round; likely their last – and the echo of shot, the shout and bellow of man and beast, all became a thunder to accompany the wind that buffeted their progress toward the earth. Sheppard looked behind him, saw combat but no close intruder, set his boot-knife between his teeth that he might use it if there was need. "Set down," he yelled to Honestius. "Circle and set down!"

But the first flush of horror had passed and Honestius shook his head, sensible yet of the crew still aboard. "Home," he called back, and there was grief in his voice.

"Sumner may yet live," Sheppard called. "You saw where he fell!"

Honestius shuddered with the burden of his loyalties. "My captain . . ."

"Is well! He is injured but well and we will carry him home, see to his needs, bind these wounds, but we cannot, we cannot, Honestius, leave our men behind when . . ."

Honestius roared some deep, reluctant agreement, some desperate misery, and circled back to retrace his route, skimming treetops, searching for the men he might save. His descent was unsteady, his energy all but spent, but the lights of the village kept the Fleur-de-Nuit at distance enough to make the journey almost practicable. Sheppard peered into the darkness, heart and soul engaged, barely hearing the "Pour L'Empereur!" behind him, turning by luck, swift enough to see his attacker, to throw his knife and hear the gurgle of blood rushing into lungs.

There was a tug at his sleeve – Everett, injured but conscious. "Home, Sheppard."

But Sheppard, eyes locked upon the Frenchman who had sought his life and was losing his own, could not turn.

"John. The Fleur-de-Nuit leaves – she will call for fresh forces. We must . . ." Everett coughed, pulling in an agonized breath.

"We will fly with all speed," Sheppard murmured, watching as the Frenchman slumped to his knees, then fell in awful rest upon the leather of Honestius' harness. "As soon as – "

"You should not need my order," Everett said, his voice low and words clipped despite his wounds. "You should not need to be told to leave those who have fallen. You will – "

"I see him!" Honestius called.

They landed in moments, Sheppard's conscience burning painfully as he slid down Honestius' flank and ran to the figure lying broken amid a peasant's portion of trampled wheat. The remnants of dinner rose to Sheppard's throat but he swallowed, willed the acid taste of failure back to a likely resting place, and bent to gather Sumner's body, his greatcoat staining with the officer's blood.

*****

". . . they found Bates, however, alive, not far from where Sumner had fallen, and quite well save for bruising and the conviction that he was to have been abandoned. Their . . . " McKay circled a finger to suggest the convoluted spinning of a battle in-flight. "They had passed over the same portion of country, again and again. Everett recovered; there were proper burial rites for Sumner. No one else was hurt and the intelligence gathered by the journey proved useful to our defense after Austerlitz, I believe."

John let out a breath and pulled steadily from his wine glass.

"It was foolhardy," said Dex, but his tone of voice was warm. He would, John knew, have done the same for one of his men, despite the risks and terrible consequences courted by such behavior. The stiffness in his shoulders relented by some small amount.

"It was also well done," Emmagan said gently. "We are of a mind." She offered Laurence a smile. "And so we sit here together, and fly beyond these walls as one. We are not the companions that many of our colleagues seek, whether because our skin speaks to a guilt many gentlemen's sons would like to forget, or because our ethics are . . ." She tilted her head. "We are troublemakers, perhaps."

Laurence turned his wineglass between his fingers, studying the wine within before lifting the cup and draining the larger part of it. "A captain and his dragon are commodities not to be squandered in time of war," he said quietly.

Sheppard saw Dex stiffen.

"And yet – and yet, friend," he said, holding up his hand in Dex's direction, "I strongly believe in the power of a man's conscience to act as check and balance upon the strictures of command." He held up his glass toward Sheppard. "I would be honored to fly with you at any time," he said, tipping his glass in deference before he drank.

"You have yet to hear the most astonishing portion," McKay offered, his cheeks ruddy from the vigor of his storytelling and possibly the quality of his wine.

"Rodney," Sheppard said, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.

"No, no. You were wrongly condemned, you know this is my belief, and that your exile should reap such a reward is all that restores my faith in . . ." He frowned. "I do not believe in God, so – I forget in what my faith resides." He stared into space. "Tricky."

"Perhaps you might finish your own tale," Emmagan suggested to Sheppard, refilling the glasses of all.

Sheppard clenched his jaw to keep his words tightly bound for a moment. "I was . . ." He pulled in a breath and smiled awkwardly at the tabletop. "A tribunal decided my – " Another pause. "I was sent to the breeding grounds in Newfoundland, to do what work they would bid me," he said at last, summoning determination. "I was, at least, among dragons."

"And there hatched Tripudio this April past," Emmagan said, deflecting from his discomfort with the ease of her own words. "A hatchling who would not be harnessed by the man selected for the task, but who chose the groundskeeper who had spent long nights in halting conversation with her egg."

"You?" Laurence asked Sheppard.

Sheppard nodded. "There was fury and wailing and the gnashing of teeth." He could not help but smile at the memory. "But she is half Native to this continent and none could predict the consequence of forcing her to chains."

"Which is how, against all their better judgment, they made him a captain again," McKay finished cheerfully. "And here he is. And here we are. Very satisfying all around. Of course I knew he was wasted as a groundskeeper upon first meeting him – few men born to the rank of shelter warden can calculate velocity in their heads. But then I am exceptionally intelligent, which is why I insisted he aid me in my scientific endeavors when first I visited the breeding grounds these two years past. And once he became captain, it stood to reason that I should accompany him as a member of his crew, albeit under extraordinary circumstances, because . . . " He broke off as a serving boy came into the room. "Oh, my. Is that treacle pudding?"

There was a moment of silence, and then laughter enough to heal a fracture or two of the many that lingered at Sheppard's core.

*****

It was unsurprising to Sheppard that Emmagan and Dex should volunteer to escort Laurence to the dragon shelters after they dined. Notwithstanding Emmagan's protestations that it was only for reason of monitoring Athos' continued health that she had business there, both she and Dex were transparently eager to see an Celestial for themselves. What did surprise him was that McKay did not join them, nor express a wish to follow in his own time. Instead he walked with Sheppard toward their rooms, demonstrating a talent for inconsequential conversation far beyond anything Sheppard had previously known.

It was not until they reached Sheppard's door that McKay first seemed discomfited. "I hope you do not feel anger toward me," he blurted, seemingly in earnest.

Sheppard blinked, his mind utterly blank. "Do I have cause?" he asked, baffled.

"Dinner," McKay said, waving a hand. "I know it cannot be easy to listen to that particular tale, and . . ."

Sheppard silenced him with a shake of his head. "It is nothing."

"No. No, I beg to differ," McKay replied, and his expression was laid so utterly bare that Sheppard felt himself quite unequal to meeting his gaze. Gone was the bluster and cheerful mockery of their table – here, McKay was sincere. "I know I placed you under the most awkward circumstance by plunging into that chapter of your life. But I also knew that Laurence's opinion would carry weight with you, and I trusted that he would see the matter as we have done."

Sheppard frowned, confused and strangely unsettled. "You gambled that he would . . ."

"It was no gamble," McKay said, spine straight, his breath a fraction unsteady. "None who are of character still hold that occasion against you, John. None but you."

Sheppard ducked his head that he might think.

"I hoped that his knowing and his approbation might soothe the sting that yet troubles you." McKay sighed. "If I did wrong, it was well meant."

"Rodney." Sheppard shook his head again and looked upon his friend. "I . . . find it disquieting to be so well known by someone other than myself. That is all."

McKay's countenance stayed blank for a moment, and the evening, it seemed to Sheppard, trembled on a precipice. But then he smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet in the manner of one much younger than himself. "You should not have befriended a genius, then," he said wickedly.

Sheppard laughed, conflicted but relieved, and set his hand upon his door. "I take my leave of you, sir," he smiled.

"And I you." McKay nodded sharply, his face still reflecting light. "Sleep well. I hear tell that our mission tomorrow is routine, which as you well know . . ."

Sheppard groaned. "Means only mischief."

"Exactly," McKay said, pointing one finger. "Store up what rest you may." And he turned on his heel, whistling off-key as he strode toward his own rooms at the far end of the hall.

Sheppard could not help but watch him go.

*****

Routine settled swiftly upon the garrison, the new dragons and their crews absorbed into the steady patrol of the seas and skies. With increased numbers came increased strength; the share of American vessels brought to port, their men impressed, their cargoes confiscated, rose through fall, and there was prize a-plenty for each formation to share. A heady jubilation took hold of the covert, men and dragons both buoyed by ease of action and portioned wealth. It sat ill with Sheppard, who could not find it in himself to trust that such days of ease would last, nor that their actions would go unanswered by the Republic. Where Kavanagh and Niam argued for periods of great rest between fights, Sheppard drove his crew to longer practice, more particular attention to each link and buckle of Tripudio's rigging, and greater attention to defensive maneuvers he hoped he might never have cause to employ. In such labor he found solace for the tactical bent of his mind, yet also for the sentiment of his body, gripped by an affection that troubled him to his core. His dreams disturbed him, rousing him to wakefulness of late, sticky and spent, shivering with the consequence of thoughts he should not allow. But he could not avoid the subject of his mind's nocturnal bent, so resolved instead to seek McKay's company, to attempt, by application of his considerable will, to master the press of his feelings. By inches he felt his efforts take root, found it easier to fall into ready banter and quell the pitch of his stomach, the reach of his nights' heady web. Without a doubt McKay could not be more than his firm and fast friend; would not consider more, even if God and country did not dictate the proper course of action in such matters. In that knowledge Sheppard took refuge, and shut away the part of himself that wished for more.

"These early hours are quite intolerable," McKay offered one morning over breakfast. He clumsily filled his coffee cup, having drunk one full portion before attempting speech, and drank again. "Do you hate me, Sheppard? Did I sin in a previous life?"

"I believe the concept of sin and previous lives do not necessarily occupy the same theological ground," Emmagan said blithely. She helped herself to a greater share of bacon.

McKay tipped back his cup and filled it again. "You are scarcely to be borne at such an hour," he said plaintively, dragging a dish of eggs closer to his plate. "Dex. Sheppard. Laurence." There was a general murmur of greeting amid the more serious business of stomachs being filled. "And still, I beg an answer – why do you drag my body from bed while the sun is still at slumber?"

It was greatly to Sheppard's credit that his mind did not slip to dangerous places at such a question. "I wish to test the new maneuvers Banks suggests," he said simply.

"So that we may what? Avoid the calamity of a mid-air collision with – oh, that's correct, there is no such danger, since the dragons located in Boston have not ventured north in months."

"We shall be prepared," Sheppard said calmly. "More coffee, perhaps?"

McKay grunted at him, and gestured with a fork.

"I believe Dr. McKay has been kept from repose by our dragons," Laurence put in, a half-smile visible behind his coffee cup.

"Oh?" Sheppard asked.

"Last night it was a debate on the principles of gravity, I hear." Laurence wiped his mouth upon a napkin. "Temeraire would like to know what gravity is, rather than rely only upon the observation of its effects. Dr. McKay was voluble in his dismissal of the idea that such knowledge is necessary as an immediate prerequisite for the advancement of further scientific study. And Tripudio wished to know at what height she must fly to best escape the effects of gravity, yet still breathe her fill."

McKay shifted in his chair. "I could not simply leave the conversation at such a point," he said churlishly.

"Did you sleep at all?" asked Dex.

"Some?" McKay answered. "And once we are done with a morning of freezing our extremities into attitudes of rigor aboard the back of a dragon who wishes to go into space, well – then I shall take to my room and study the inside of my eyelids until called for dinner, and none shall say a word."

"Quite so," Emmagan nodded.

"We shall guard your silence with our honor," Sheppard added.

"Oh, do quiet yourselves," McKay grumbled, and cut into a sausage with relish.

The morning's practice was, as McKay had predicted, devilishly cold, November having pushed into the province with a fearsome bite. Though he would be struck down as an American before admitting such, Sheppard conceded to himself that it might be of benefit to the health of his entire crew to forgo first-light practices in favor of midday runs for at least a portion of the coming months. He resolved to discuss such with Campbell and Tripudio as soon as a toddy had thawed him from the inside out.

"Sheppard?" Tripudio called. "A commotion below, do you see it?"

His attention called back from anticipation of a warm fire and hot meal, Sheppard did – a bustling in the main courtyard; a readying of two companies of dragons at once; a Pascal's Blue tearing into animal flesh by the far pasture, ravenous as though from a long and grueling flight. "Defensive positions!" Sheppard called, not knowing the precise cause of what stirred the garrison, and he was gratified to feel the shift of men, the readying of arms, the call of, "Watch – clear!" from west, east, and south.

"The Americans?" McKay shouted, pistol cocked.

"I cannot guess," Sheppard replied, and had Tripudio circle before landing on bare earth at the covert's furthest reach, out beyond the business of armored dragons and readying men.

"Captain Sheppard!" called Jinto, running out from the inner sanctum of the garrison, flushed with exertion and the wind that swept in from the sea. "Indian attack – Harrison's men in Indiana. The Americans are to arms."

Sheppard made brisk work of his carabiners and slid neatly to ground. "Plainfolk, or the army?"

"Hard to tell – Is all confusion, says the courier," Jinto panted. "Been here but half an hour – militias raised in the border country, and p'haps more if the big men agree to it. It will take them time to march."

"Unless they are carried by dragons," McKay said, still sitting at Tripudio's shoulder, his mouth twisting.

Sheppard shook his head. "They have swift, light, battle-ready creatures at Boston," he said. "Not carriers of men."

"I am battle-ready," put in Tripudio, "and could carry more than my crew if I were called upon to do so."

Sheppard nodded. "Indeed. But we need not fear the wooden carriers of Napoleon's army. And it will take time to outfit any dragon with the means to carry soldiers into this frozen north." He looked past Jinto as Campbell and the rest of the ground crew began to arrive. "Should we stay in harness?" he called.

"No, sir," Campbell said, drawing closer. "Two companies aloft soon enough – we're under orders to rest and be ready for evening maneuvers." He offered Sheppard a significant look. "We'll know more by then. Know something worth knowing, I expect, as opposed to this."

Sheppard nodded. "Very good." He turned back to Tripudio. "You will rest and warm yourself?"

She nudged his arm with her nose. "And eat. I will be ready." She shivered, the movement of her scales causing McKay to yelp and hurry his carabiner loose. "It has been some time since we saw a real fight."

"And I would have us not see battle yet under these circumstances," Sheppard said, stroking her flank, a hand at the ready to steady McKay as he plummeted gracelessly to earth. "McKay, if you'd join me – I would like to know more about these circumstances, and your interest in the interior nations would . . ."

"They were probably provoked," McKay said waspishly. "I would certainly see fit to shoot whatever was at hand at an American who blundered into my territory."

"And have we done better as the King's men?" Sheppard asked.

"Absolutely not. We are equally convinced of our own superiority and therefore just as grievously stupid on this score," McKay said, striding past him. "Come, come. Let us hear first-, second-, or possibly third-hand what disaster has been now been wrought."

"Campbell," Sheppard said, nodding as he made to follow.

"Captain," said Campbell, and Sheppard swore the man was amused.

*****

"We have intercepted communiqués from Fort Harrison and Fort Wayne," said Caldwell, tracing the path of the British scouts across a map. "With each successive transfer of information, we have witnessed an increase in hyperbole – the dispatches sent to Washington and other locales to the east assert Tecumseh was aided by British forces."

"As if he needed our help," McKay said witheringly.

"We have proved friend to his people before," Emmagan countered gently. "And have encouraged him in forestalling American expansion. It will not prove so hard for Madison's generals to presume to see our hand."

"Or to use this as excuse," Dex offered. "Truth or not."

"My concern exactly," Caldwell said. He straightened and looked toward Sheppard, to Kavanagh, Niam, Laurence, Lorne and their seconds. "I anticipate our border patrols will return with news of militia movement. I pray that the seas might prove too rough for vessels to be directed north, but cannot count upon that fact."

"And they will surely send dragons," Laurence put in. "Across land. There are farms enough across the north to supply their needs. If they believe this a concerted effort, the first shot in a larger war . . ."

"We must hold the borders," Caldwell said. "If ships enter Her Majesty's waters, we must repel them. We will not give them cause to see this as opportunity. They must be convinced to hold."

"How many died?" asked McKay. His tone of voice suggested the information was of little consequence to him, but his expression said otherwise to those who watched slant of his mouth. Sheppard eyed him cautiously, anticipating sharp words and an assault upon the chain of command.

"At Prophetstown?" Caldwell asked.

McKay nodded.

"Some five dozen Americans – considerably fewer of Tecumseh's men."

"A waste," McKay said to the tabletop he now studied. He looked up when silence met his remarks. "I am ready, gentlemen; I stand ready, ma'am."

Caldwell eyed him for a further moment, then nodded. "Make preparations," he ordered. "You fly at first dark."

*****

A waning moon shone overhead as they took to the air that night, still six days from the lunar darkness that would have rendered them blind, save for stars. The night was crisp and cold, each man and woman aloft wrapped in layers of silk and wool and leather, scarves about their face and aviator's caps pulled low. For once McKay had not forgotten his gloves – Sheppard could hear his low curses as he fumbled with his compass, fingers made clumsy by leather and cold; someone was, apparently, "the son of a festering marsupial's behind."

"Speed?" Sheppard called as Tripudio angled over Brown's Bank, Sateda in the lead, Athos at his right flank, Tripudio at his left.

"Thirty-five knots and rising!" Lieutenant Levine yelled back.

"Hold steady!" ordered Sheppard as Tripudio leaned into a turn, the formation sweeping west-by-southwest to the open water beyond the Seal Isles. He turned his head to look behind them, to the rear guard provided by Temeraire and his crew. With his ink-black scales the color of night, Temeraire flew hidden, an absence of stars the only mark of his position to those forewarned to look. "Signal the rear!" Sheppard ordered, and watched for the answering winks of light from Temeraire's back. Only then did he turn back into the wind, with a final order for his crew. "Stay alert!"

Below them, His Majesty's ships Guerriere and Shannon each sailed full-armed with thirty-eight guns. Sheppard hoped there would be no cause for them to open fire, that the sortie would reveal no ships of the U.S. fleet bent toward St George's Bar. Yet his instinct told him that the energies of the Republicans were unpredictable; that the long blockade of trading ships sailing to U.S. ports had fallen hard upon the influential merchants of Boston; that the incursions of a resistant Shawnee leader spoke of insecurity to an immigrant people convinced that their destiny lay West. The British were an obstacle to be resisted, molded by broadsheet and pulpit into monstrous, despotic form, bastion of aid and comfort to the enemies of all whom liberty might reach.

Light flickered ahead, and Levine signaled an understanding. "Two ships of the line, aerial support," he called.

"Goddamn," McKay swore, and Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "I feel your judgment, Sheppard!" he called, tucking his compass inside his coat along with a notebook and pencil. "But I did not imagine myself armed and in battle when first I laid eyes upon you as you shoveled waste!"

Sheppard smiled behind the folds of his thick wool scarf. "Just so!" he called before raising his arm. "Make ready!" he ordered, and the metallic echo of carabiners, swords and guns brought satisfaction and a certain clarity of mind. "Tripudio," he said, laying his gloved hand on her neck. "We are in your hands. No prizes, my dear – merely drive them back."

"With pleasure," she replied, and in the next moment she spun, turning to her side and skimming past the bulk of a Chanson-de-Guerre, flicking her tail like a whip to strike the creature on its side.

"Where the hell did they get that?" McKay called. "Those pox-ridden French!"

There was no opportunity for Sheppard to reply – the Chanson circled back, and the dim report of gunfire sounded from the ships below; all was action, defensive motion turned to offense, the tight crack of harness leather and the distant rumble of Sateda's roar. "Take aim!" yelled Levine as the Chanson bore down, bullets whistling from above, curses following, hurled at King and Country with all deliberate speed. A monstrous set of claws ripped at Tripudio's rigging, severing Markham from his hold, tearing at leather, scales and flesh, the night air ringing with Markham's falling cry. Tripudio roared in dismay at her own hurt, at her crew's, and twisted, lithe with fury, soaring above the Chanson that her men might launch their bombs.

So the battle howled, pepper and musket-fire, the acrid smell of smoke, the shriek of man and beast. The Chanson bled from a slash across its belly, its rigging laid open and tangling at its feet, Sateda giving chase, a Parnassian already dispatched, clubbed insensible by the Regal Copper's claws. From Athos there was acid to burn the decks of Boston's best ships, setting the vessels to stagger through heavy water. Temeraire swooped from the fight, right leg bleeding, and beat his wings while he drew in breath to turn the Americans home.

They were tired, and deafened, and Sheppard's eyes watered from the thick-with-pepper air. There were wounded men at his back, and lost souls in the ocean below – his attention fractured, Sheppard did not hear the angry breath of the Chanson as it made one final pass, its much diminished crew opening fire before fleeing back toward Massachusetts' shores. He felt, instead, the shudder of Tripudio beneath him as a bullet found purchase in her hide; felt the tension of the harness at his right as though a weight pulled at him, beseeching his attention. Only then did he turn and see McKay with a hand splayed on Tripudio's back, and another at his shoulder, his glove black with blood.

"Home," yelled Levine as light winked again from Sateda's signalman. "The Americans retreat."

It was Tripudio who answered the call, turning beneath Orion's watchful sword and gaining height enough to fly toward home. It was not until the dissolute lights of Shelburne burned warm upon the horizon that Sheppard could find his voice, his will, or his command, and sit as captain, knowing his duty, while his crew and dragon bled their loyal gift.

*****

In the bustle of landing, there was much to distract Sheppard from the growing sickness at his core – surgeons to direct, men to assist, Tripudio to soothe. His hands might have shaken had he not inwardly chastised himself, focusing on the comfort he could offer as he smoothed reassurance over Tripudio's scales. He excused himself from the task only once, when McKay was lifted to a stretcher, allowing himself one rough squeeze of McKay's left wrist. Peculiarly, McKay smiled. "Save me your guilt," he said with exasperation. "It is a mere scratch, which will make a fetching scar. I shall be rakish ever after." He winced and coughed as the ground crew lifted him. "Although I expect French wine as I recover!"

Sheppard closed his eyes as the carriers left, and saw Sumner's broken body behind them. He had not felt then what he felt now, though McKay's wound was less grave and his person more infuriating; the thought made him tremble for the reckoning he must face within himself. He could be Captain or man, but it seemed not both, and though some vital part of him strained toward the affection he felt for McKay, he could not risk his place among the Corps for a flippant wish that could not be realized, nor put a single soul in jeopardy for want of his attention in the air. How he might further discipline his unruly imagination, his bruised heart – he knew not, and returned to Tripudio's side to press his forehead against her neck, stroking the fine scales beneath her chin.

"Are you hurt?" she asked; her concern was unmistakable.

"No," he said quickly, meeting her gaze. "No, no, please do not worry. Do your injuries trouble you greatly?"

She frowned and studied him carefully. "They are not serious," she said at last. "Hastings has already washed my cuts; the bullet is not lodged deep." She nudged at Sheppard's face. "I wish you would be honest with me."

Sheppard smiled sadly. "And I wish I were at liberty to talk of this matter as openly as I do all other things."

Tripudio nodded and nudged him again until he was forced to sit upon her leg and lean back against her body. "I think perhaps you should sit here a while," she said. "The surgeons will need time to work. We shall talk about . . . music," she decided. "Temeraire tells me that in South America there is music played on pipes. Is it so very different from the bagpipes in Scotland, do you know?"

Sheppard rested his head back against her chest and let out a long breath. "Quite different, I believe." And he told her what he could.

*****

McKay proved to be the most difficult patient with whom the garrison's surgeons had ever dealt, and it was of little surprise to Sheppard to find himself called to McKay's berth on the third day of his rehabilitation, only to discover McKay waiting for an escort to his rooms. "You see a man discharged," McKay said cheerfully. Sheppard steeled himself against his smile. "I am to rest as much as feasible for another week, limit my meals to milk-bread and honey, and refrain from yelling at those who come to check my wound." His left arm was bound to his body in a sling – Sheppard was struck, ridiculously, by the thought of pirates. "You are named my aid and right-hand man," he grinned. "Escort me to quarters, would you? The aides-de-camp are driving me to distraction and we shall all end up dead from boredom or attempts to relieve the same if you do not assist me." He stood, a mite unsteadily. "Would you believe that Hitchens has never heard of Leonhard Euler?"

"Hitchens is the son of a pig farmer," Sheppard pointed out, gathering up McKay's effects and draping a coat over his shoulders with brisk efficiency. "I doubt that he has great use for hypotheses concerning flight. Do you need assistance to walk?"

"If I might lean on your arm?" McKay said, gesturing with his good hand. "Highly inconvenient, I know, but I am somewhat weakened, much as it pains me to admit. And Hitchens is in the employ of the Aerial Corps. Hypotheses of flight form the backbone to his wage."

"He empties bedpans and has a strong stomach when aid is needed in instances of amputation," Sheppard said, offering McKay his elbow. "He is not so much as an ensign on a ground crew, much less a man with ambitions to go aloft."

McKay hooked his good arm through Sheppard's, leaning hard. "Yes, well. He has been my primary company between visitors, and it has been a great trial to me that viscosity is not a word in his vocabulary."

Sheppard snorted, breaking into a smile at last. "By God, sir, no wonder they release you to my watch."

"Anything to get a better pillow," McKay remarked.

Their progress toward the officer's quarters was somewhat ponderous, though McKay showed great joy in being outside. "Tripudio does well?" he asked, looking heavenward, where Athos and Sateda flew for no other reason than joy, and a modicum of flirtation.

Sheppard nodded. "She rests. There is muscle weakness to her flank, but it will strengthen quickly – you will be back in service at almost the same time."

"Huzzah," McKay said sarcastically. "More night battles and skirmishes with vampiric republicans lusting for my blood."

"Vampiric?" Sheppard repeated, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

"I pretend no affection toward any of them," McKay said firmly. "Except for Ben Franklin, whose loyalties it is easy to excuse, because he is dead."

"You think fondly of him flying a kite in a storm," said Sheppard. "I am not fooled."

McKay affected innocence. "A tolerably good myth," he sniffed, and turned his face back to the skies.

The cobbles of the courtyard made for uncomfortable walking, but it was the stairs that came close to proving McKay's undoing. By the time Sheppard opened the door to his quarters and helped him to sit upon his bed, McKay's face was pale and beaded with sweat. "Rather more tired than I knew," he said weakly. "I think perhaps I shall rest after all."

Sheppard eased McKay's coat from his shoulders, bent and made short work of his boots before McKay could adequately protest. It troubled him deeply that he stood able while McKay inched carefully beneath his bedcovers, that McKay did not snap or remark upon his suitability as a nurse. "Just a nap," McKay murmured, eyes already closed. Sheppard watched him for a moment, then touched his forehead and crossed the room, leaving McKay to his slumber as he shut the door.

There was correspondence in his rooms, and news to relate to his Great-Aunt lest she read of the border raids in the Times. The rhythmic scratch of his nib against paper did much to quell the tumult he held within, but it was not the solace it had proven in other times. His letter finished, sealed with wax, he stared into the courtyard, absent of certainty as to what to do. He could not fly – would not insult Tripudio in such a fashion – and did not wish to disturb his friends. The youngest of his crew were at their lessons, and the eldest at work with rigging and hide. A walk seemed weakness; bridge an embarrassment; conversation with whomever he might find in the officer's mess an act requiring manners he did not presently possess. He tapped his letter against the windowpane, wishing desperately for some ease, some means to release the frustrations and wants at his core. That there was no such remedy, that he was trapped by circumstance and the lingering effects of bodily hope, did not remove the power of his wishing.

He resolved at last upon the library, returning to Sun Tzu's Art of War and the several chapters related to dragons. It was a refuge of sorts, the familiar philosophy of another land, welcome in all its angular difference to the conventions of England and her colonies. Sheppard read with abandon, musing over the utility of tactics from half a world away, and it was not until the lamps were lit around him that he realized how long he had escaped.

"I did not wish to disturb you," said Laurence from a wing chair beside the fireplace. "But I see you read Sun Tzu. Have you been to China?"

Sheppard blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face. "No," he said, gaining his bearings. "But it holds great fascination for me." He stood, tugging down his jacket, and crossed to sit at the opposite side of the fire. "I understand you spent no short amount of time in that country."

Laurence smiled. "True. A vexing trip, though I would not for anything have missed the opportunity to see a country where dragons and men walk side by side."

"It is hard to imagine," said Sheppard, setting his book upon a table. "Despite the reforms of these last years, I cannot imagine walking with Tripudio through the streets of Halifax, much less London."

"We may see it yet," Laurence offered. "Would you, when you entered the Corps, have imagined shelters for these creatures? Or companies flying under a dragon's command?"

"No." Sheppard stared into the fire. "Forgive me, Laurence. I do not mean to play hope's adversary. You merely find me weary in ways I cannot express."

There was quiet for a moment. "You worry for your crew?"

"I do." Sheppard met Laurence's even gaze. "I worry that I have not yet learned the wisdom of command, that my mistakes may . . ." He shook his head. "These skirmishes will become war."

"As much else has."

"And we have much to defend."

"And will." Laurence leaned forward, studying Sheppard's face. "Sir, come eat."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "Eat?" he asked.

"Indeed." Laurence stood. "Much becomes unthinkable when a belly stands empty."

Sheppard laughed, surprising himself. "First, I should . . . " He thought of McKay, of bread and milk and honey.

"You should feed yourself, then look to others. Visit your dragon. Speak to your friends," Laurence counseled. "Speak to my dragon, if you wish it. Temeraire is accomplished in the art of conversation, and regularly operates upon my temper with a surgeon's precision." He smiled again. "Will you dine?"

Sheppard's stomach growled loudly and he startled at the sound. "I think perhaps the decision has been made," he said with some amusement, and stood, covering his stomach with a careful hand.

*****

So passed two days and nights of tolerable comfort. Sheppard dined, and read, and studied the dispatches gathered by the scouts; debated with Caldwell the wisdom of dragons deployed; visited his men; spent hours at Tripudio's side. What time he could manage without descent into guilt he spent with McKay, playing cards before the fire, debating science into hours become dark. He left whenever his longing grew noisy, when McKay grew tired, when the fire grew low. But a third night came with dreams of a scar upon McKay's shoulder, and his own lips pressed there, a benediction sworn to precious, injured flesh. He woke with a start, sweating and aroused, and groaned aloud to imagine this his future – he could not readily believe that these feelings might fade. Sleep was impossible – he threw back his sheets and fumbled for his clothes. Shirt and breeches, boots and coat; he dressed with haste and no thought for appearance, caring only that he manage to shut out the cold.

In contrast to the courtyard, the dragon shelters were pleasantly warm, and Sheppard shivered as he stepped inside. Athos and Sateda slept together, curled as though a mended whole; Tripudio dreamed and murmured happily, a foreleg twitching, her imagination climbing to some unspeakable height. Decus snored, a bass rumble that spoke to his gathered years, and beneath the soaring beams of the shelter, all were safe, all warm, all well-kept.

Temeraire yet sat awake, painting unfamiliar characters on paper with ink that had adhered to one claw. "Oh, hello," he said, pleasure in his voice as Sheppard reached his pen. "You are up very late."

"Or early," said Sheppard. "I hardly know which."

Temeraire tilted his head and watched him thoughtfully. "Do you read Chinese?" he asked, and nodded toward his work.

"No," said Sheppard, crouching to look at the neat rows of characters with greater attention. "What do you write?"

"Letters," Temeraire said, exceedingly pleased. "My mother is Chinese, and I have a particular friend at court. They like to hear of my adventures, since it is so rare that I can see them face to face."

Sheppard smiled just a little. "Correspondence soothes me," he said, standing, finding ease of conversation within him as he once had with Tripudio's egg. "The sounds, the smells. Ink, and paper."

"I quite understand," Temeraire replied. "At first I wrote in sand, as many Chinese dragons do. But this is much better now that I have learned how to gentle my claw." He waved his foot before setting it down. "Would you like to sit?" he asked. "Or do you have business elsewhere?"

"My business pursues me," Sheppard said, and sat on an upturned vegetable crate that was likely Laurence's sometimes seat. "I welcome your company, if I do not disturb."

Temeraire shifted, sitting also, wrapping his tail around his body and holding his head very high. "You seem sad," he observed.

"It is nothing."

"Yet you are awake."

"It is . . . something," Sheppard conceded awkwardly. "But I cannot articulate its reach."

"Do you worry still for Dr. McKay?" Temeraire asked. "Tripudio worries for you both – she says you do not seem well when apart."

Sheppard colored deeply, and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Oh."

"Is she wrong?"

Sheppard hardly knew how to answer. "I . . . value McKay as my most particular friend, but . . ."

"Perhaps you should share quarters," Temeraire said.

Sheppard almost fell off his stool. "I beg your pardon?" he managed. "I fear I misheard . . ."

"Athos and Sateda are happiest when they sleep as you see them now," Temeraire observed. "And Laurence is always happy after spending his midnight with Admiral Roland." He lowered his head. "I call her Jane."

Sheppard cleared his throat and grasped desperately for words. "We do not – that is . . . McKay and I are not . . ."

"You are not?" Temeraire asked, tilting his head. "Are you quite sure?"

"Gentlemen do not share beds in quite the manner Athos and Sateda, or your Captain and his partner might," said Sheppard.

"Why not?" asked Temeraire. "That is a very stupid rule."

Sheppard stared at a stray tuft of hay upon the floor for want of anything to fill his mind. "It is – the way in which we . . . Society does not . . ."

"Society," said Temeraire scornfully. "Society did not give dragons rights until we complained. In Edinburgh, dragons often slept in the streets, with refuse and rain and most irritating rats. Society did not pay us, or reward us, or let us fly without a harness because that is how it had always been done. It did not make it right."

Sheppard felt quite dizzy. "There are penalties," he said slowly. "Penalties for . . . " He met Temeraire's gaze. "Were no sailors caught in carnal acts upon your voyages around the world?"

"None that I recall," Temeraire said. "Would I have noticed?"

"Oh, yes," Sheppard said softly. "When they were hanged."

Temeraire blew forcefully through his nose. "For liking other men as Sateda likes Athos and Laurence likes Jane?"

"Yes," Sheppard said. "For exactly that. Were I to . . . were we to . . . And this is all beside the point since Dr. McKay is not – does not feel as . . ."

"I am sure you are wrong," Temeraire said. "I would wager a very small trinket on the matter. Small, but pretty and particularly shiny, you understand."

"It is a wager you need not make," Sheppard said, with a small smile. "It is all impossible."

"And thus you are sad," Temeraire observed, "when you might be happy and spend your midnight with Dr. McKay, and sleep as Athos and Sateda do. Society has much for which to answer."

"Without doubt," Sheppard replied. "But that is as it is."

"Perhaps not," came a voice.

Sheppard stood up with a start, the wooden crate that had been his stool falling behind. At the entrance to Temeraire's pen stood McKay, leaning on a walking stick, bundled against the night.

"Good evening, John."

Sheppard took a step back, but Temeraire's bulk blocked further movement. "You overheard."

"I did."

Sheppard sighed very softly and closed his eyes. "Do not say more, I beg of you. I will . . . remove myself from your company and . . ."

"You are only as intelligent as Hitchens on occasion," McKay said blithely. "Remove yourself from my company? Are you quite mad?"

"You know my feelings," Sheppard said in a rush, spine straight, face turned away. "I cannot ask you to continue our friendship when you understand my particular problem, nor ask you to condone my sin when . . ."

"Oh, do be quiet," McKay said briskly. "I have walked a great distance, considering my condition, and I am in no mood to tolerate a swoon. Your sin? What incomprehensible nonsense is that?"

"I do not believe he yet understands you reciprocate his feelings," Temeraire said, then coughed very delicately, and looked up at the ceiling.

Sheppard slowly raised his head. "I . . . " He swallowed to clear his throat. "Your pardon, Temeraire, but . . ."

"Damnable dragon," McKay grumbled. "Far too intelligent for your own good. But in this instance I suppose it is well you are here to speak sense to this man's stupidity. Yes," he said to Sheppard. "I do. Reciprocate." He ambled slowly across the pen. "Are you deaf, dumb, and blind?"

Sheppard blinked, agog. "I believe it possible," he said, quite stunned.

"Not dumb, apparently," said McKay, close enough now that Sheppard could clearly see each wrinkle nestled at the corners of his eyes, the creases worn by laughter that ran from his nose to his mouth.

"There is no one else awake," Temeraire said airily. "And I will keep watch if you would like to . . ." He coughed again.

Sheppard's heart stuttered, then clattered noisily in his chest. "If we would like to?" he repeated.

McKay stepped so close that Sheppard could feel the faint heat of his body, see the brilliant color of his eyes. "If we would like to," he whispered, and his gaze flickered to Sheppard's lips.

"Well," said Sheppard, and without forethought or understanding leaned in, eyes closing, and his mouth met McKay's in a kiss.

For a mere brush of lips it was more than Sheppard had imagined, the spark to some incandescent hope taking up lodging where nothing but heartache had lived. His hands moved to clasp McKay's elbows – and McKay winced and pulled away, mumbling, "shoulder?" before he leaned in to kiss him again.

When they parted some moments later, breathless, mouths wet and tongues alight, Temeraire hummed his satisfaction. "With dragons it is different," he said. "We do not show our affection with the touching of snouts. But I do think it seems a quite pleasant way to pass the time."

Sheppard glanced at Temeraire, then back at Rodney's wide-open face. "Might I touch your snout again?" he asked, and McKay began to laugh even as he agreed.

*****

Theirs was not an easy courtship. For all that they enjoyed a perfect understanding of each other, they could not reveal themselves to their friends, nor steal the moments vouchsafe to most embarked upon a journey of such discovery. Circumstances large and small stood arrayed against them – custom, law, religion, and family; the ominous storm clouds of impending war. Halifax harbour became crowded with His Majesty's ships; new works were undertaken; four thirty-two pound cannon found home at Cape Blomidon; six more were installed at York Redoubt. The diplomatic corps threw balls for the military, and the military threw grave doubt upon the abilities of the diplomatic corps to do more than entertain. Above it all flew the dragons; amid this was affection left to grow.

Yet a conspiracy of dragons grew around Sheppard and McKay – dragons who knew the behavior of each human at the covert; dragons who knew the island's thickets, caves and spurs; dragons who, with Tripudio first among equals, considered themselves duty-bound to act as lookout and keep ceaseless watch. Thus were quiet words exchanged and kisses pressed to gladdened mouths, fingers twined and promises kept. There could be, as yet, no complete fulfillment, but bewitched by chance, Sheppard felt equal to the wait, and McKay enquired of all who might know what opportunity there was of redeployment within the Corps. "The Pacific is littered with empty beaches," he confessed, and Sheppard did not know whether he should laugh or burn up from the sly want curled at the base of his spine.

His dreams had not grown less capable of making him sweat, but the situation seemed well in hand.

By May, war was certain, though formal declarations had yet to be made, and the hours Sheppard stole at Chebucto Head came fewer and further between. But the tenth of that month dawned warm and calm, and when Tripudio landed on the Head's fresh, green plains, it was with deepening pleasure that Sheppard watched McKay struggle to release his carabiner and slide to the ground with a modicum of grace.

They ate pasties as they had before, shared wine that McKay found only passable. Tripudio took to the air when her lunch was done, but though she swept and turned, corkscrewed and dove, Sheppard knew her ambition – she was keeping watch.

"Were it not for the damnable inconvenience of this limitless waiting, I would send my paper back to the Society with befitting haste. But it would be my luck," McKay said, gesturing emphatically at the wind-whipped ocean, "to dispatch my findings and have the carrier captured by Americans because of war."

Sheppard frowned, nodding thoughtfully. "You believe you would tempting fate?"

"I do. I do," said McKay.

"In different words, then – you believe you could cause war by attempting to share the fruits of your intellect?" Sheppard turned his head to study McKay's face.

McKay grimaced, blinked, and wrinkled his nose. "I . . . what? Sheppard, by God, I believe you to be . . . " He paused, and pointed toward himself. "Why do you stare? Have I gravy upon my chin?"

Sheppard smiled, and felt humbled by the freedom to do so – lifted his hand to cup McKay's jaw and dragged a thumb over his lips. "No," he whispered, and leaned in to press his mouth to McKay's.

Above them Tripudio spun and soared. With dragons in the world, much was well that had been ill.