Copper and Pine

The floating city of Aetheria hummed with the deep, rhythmic vibration of its colossal gravity-engines, a sound Elara Vance usually found comforting. Today, however, it only served to amplify her headache.

Inside the cluttered expanse of her brother Silas’s cog-workshop, the air was thick with the scent of ozone, machine oil, and the sharp, incongruous tang of pine needles. Elara leaned over a disassembled aether-manifold, her grease-stained fingers expertly coaxing a stripped copper threading back into alignment. Outside the frosted, leaded-glass windows, the "Yuletide Frost"—Aetheria's annual, artificially generated winter—whipped into a fierce blizzard. The atmospheric scrubbers were working overtime, dumping thick, synthetic snow across the brass rooftops of the Lower Tiers.

Silas was supposed to be here. Silas was supposed to be helping her recalibrate the pressure valves for the local merchant fleet before the holiday shut everything down. Instead, a crackling transmission over the brass-horn radio an hour ago informed her he was grounded off-grid, his air-skiff frozen to a mooring mast three sectors away.

"Always the sky for him," Elara muttered to herself, wiping a smudge of soot from her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. "Always the grease for me."

She was reaching for her hydro-spanner when the heavy iron door of the workshop blew open.

A gust of freezing wind and synthetic snow roared into the room, scattering a stack of schematic blueprints across the floor. Framed in the doorway, illuminated by the flickering amber gaslight of the street, stood a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a penny-dreadful romance novel.

Captain Julian Thorne.

He kicked the door shut behind him, shaking a thick layer of snow from his heavy, dark leather aviator coat. He smelled of winter frost, expensive sandalwood cologne, and danger.

"Silas!" Julian called out, his voice a rich, resonant baritone that always made the tiny hairs on the back of Elara’s neck stand at attention. "Tell me you have a hot cup of engine-tar passing as coffee, because I am freezing my very valuable assets off."

Elara slowly stood up from the workbench, tapping her hydro-spanner against her palm. "Silas is stranded in Sector Four. You're out of luck, Julian. Both on the coffee and the company."

Julian spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the brass-handled heavy revolver at his hip before he realized who it was. The sudden tension melted from his broad shoulders, replaced instantly by a devastating, roguish grin. His dark hair was windblown, framing startlingly pale blue eyes that always seemed to hold a secret joke.

"Well, now, that is a tragedy," Julian purred, sauntering toward her with the fluid grace of a man accustomed to shifting ship decks. "Silas missing, I mean. Not the company. The company is a distinct upgrade."

Elara rolled her eyes, though she couldn't stop the treacherous flutter in her chest. Julian Thorne was Silas's best friend. He was a sky-corsair, a rogue, a man who broke hearts as easily as he broke atmospheric speed limits. He was also, inconveniently, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

"Save the charm for the port-side tavern wenches, Julian. What are you doing here? You've been off-world for six months."

"Six months, four days, and roughly ten hours," Julian corrected smoothly, leaning against her workbench. He picked up a delicate brass cog, rolling it between his long, calloused fingers. "But who's counting? I came back for the holidays. Can't a man miss the Yuletide Frost?"

"You hate the cold."

"I do," he conceded, his eyes dragging slowly down her oil-stained overalls, pausing for a fraction of a second too long on the curve of her hips before snapping back to her face. "But I realized something while I was out there in the black, Elara. I realized that life is short, the Syndicate is boring, and I desperately need a date to the Grand Winter Gala tonight."

Elara dropped the spanner. It hit the workbench with a loud *clatter*. "Excuse me?"

"The Grand Winter Gala," Julian repeated, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out two gleaming, gold-foil tickets embossed with the crest of the Aetherium Hall. "The most exclusive, disgustingly wealthy party in the city. Silas and I won these off a remarkably drunk Duke three months ago. Since Silas has rudely stranded himself in a snowbank, that leaves you."

"I am not going to a gala with you, Julian." Elara gestured wildly to herself. "Look at me. I have grease under my fingernails that has been there since Tuesday. I don't wear silk. I wear fire-retardant canvas."

Julian stepped closer, invading her personal space. The scent of sandalwood and cold air surrounded her. He reached out, his leather-gloved fingers gently brushing a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. His touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to her toes.

"You," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, "could wear a burlap sack and still be the most breathtaking woman in that ballroom. But, as it happens, I had a dress delivered to your upstairs quarters about an hour ago. Velvet. Midnight blue. Assuming you haven't burned it for fuel yet."

Elara stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You were that sure I'd say yes?"

"I was that sure I wouldn't take no for an answer." Julian’s grin returned, sharp and challenging. "One night, El. Just you, me, and enough free champagne to drown a dreadnought. Put down the wrench. Let me give you the sky for a night."

She knew it was a bad idea. Julian was temporary. He was the wind. But as she looked into his eyes, the heavy, lonely quiet of the workshop pressed in on her. She was tired of being left behind.

"Fine," Elara breathed. "One night."