Page 12

12

Bram’s pen hovered over the archery roster. Should he really be doing this? The absurdity of engaging in a childhood rivalry gnawed at him. Ought he, a grown man, allow himself to be drawn into a contest fueled by petty animosities?

He rolled the pen between his fingers, debating. Even if he won—no, when he won—Trestwell would persist in his irreverent remarks about Eva and other women. Would a victory in this competition truly serve as a defense of female virtue?

And yet he’d be hanged if he’d watch Trestwell fly off with Eva in that balloon in the dark of night, especially knowing her great fear of heights. Now that she’d been named queen, she had no choice but to take that short ride or face the social stigma of refusing such an honor. Either way, he would make sure she felt safe.

He signed his name with a flourish and slammed down the pen.

“Here ye be, then”—the registrar squinted at his writing as he held out a bow, three arrows, and a number tag to pin to his coat—“Mr. Webb, is it?”

Bram collected the items. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. You’re in the third heat. Best of luck.”

He dipped his head at the man, then strode over to where Eva stood by a wooden railing marking the archery field from the main thoroughfare. She held her tiara, bonnet, and flower bunched in one hand. The other she held to her mouth, busily nibbling at the nail on her index finger. Perhaps they ought not have come to Bonfire Night at all.

But it was too late now.

“I am proud of you, you know.” Gently, he pulled her finger from her mouth, then reset the tiara on her head. “I did not think I would be escorting a queen tonight.”

“We both know I am no queen.” Her lips twisted ruefully as her gaze drifted to the hot air balloon. “And I do not wish to go up in that awful balloon.”

Footsteps approached, and a moment later Trestwell pulled alongside Eva. “What’s this?” With a crook of his finger, he tipped her face up to his. “There’s nothing awful about a balloon ride, for you shall have nothing to fear with me at your side, Miss Inman. It will be glorious indeed.”

Eva pulled away from his touch.

Bram gritted his teeth. “That sure of your aim, are you?”

“I have won the last three years in a row, so yes.” He eyed Bram with a malignant stare. “I am very sure.”

Bram clicked his tongue. “I hope you won’t weep overmuch when I take that title from you.”

Eva stamped her foot. “It does not matter which of you wins. I cannot go up in that balloon.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I must insist.” Trestwell’s head swiveled back to her. “I look forward to collecting my kiss when I am proclaimed king of the bonfire yet again. Until then, Miss Inman.”

He strolled off with a jaunty swagger.

Scoundrel! Bram stepped after him.

Eva tugged on his arm. “Let him go. You should know by now there is no sense arguing with that man.”

“I was not planning on exchanging words.” He flexed his free hand into a fist.

Eva huffed. “Neither of you have changed.”

He white-knuckled the bow and arrows, her words hitting as kindly as a brick to the head. What was it about coming back to the place he grew up that made him revert to his old foolish ways?

“You are right.” He breathed. “I suppose I am being childish. Would you rather I withdraw from the competition? We can go get a sausage roll instead.”

“That will not divest me of this.” She tapped at the tiara, her brow pinching. “Do you think you can best him? I cannot bear the thought of being a queen to Richard Trestwell’s king.”

“Remember when you asked me about this?” He ran his fingertip over the scar on his cheek.

“Yes. You said you got it from a student, from some sport you coach.”

He nodded. “One of the underclassman’s arrows shot wild. I dodged but not nearly quick enough.”

“ You are the Trinity College archery coach?”

He grinned, the wonder in her eyes oddly satisfying.

“What other secrets do you hide, Professor?”

Just then, the rest of the Inman Manor crew clustered about them, Jonathan Barker jamming his thumb against his own puffed-out chest. “Hah! That’s the mark I left.”

“It is not a prize to be heralded, Barker.” Bram chuckled. “But if there are any prizes to be had at the moment, I should think Miss Penny would get a blue ribbon for the sheer amount of icing sugar on her coat.”

“Oh!” Dixon whipped out a handkerchief and began scrubbing off the offense.

“Archers one through ten, to position!” a bass voice belted out. “All other contestants, queue up behind them.”

“Guess this is it.” Bram strode away to the jolly encouragements of his uncle and students.

Being in the third round, Bram found a spot at the back of two men. Apparently Trestwell was in the second heat, for he stood two rows over behind a burly man nocking his arrow. The announcer positioned himself between the archers and the onlookers.

“The rules are simple, gentlemen. On my mark, you will draw, aim, and release. The closer to the bullseye, the higher the score. There shall be one semifinalist chosen from each round, then those three men will face off to determine the winner. Understood?”

A rousing “Aye!” rumbled through the archers’ ranks.

“Very good. Let the competition begin. Gentlemen ... draw!”

Each man took a sharp stance, feet wide—some too wide—and pulled the bowstrings even with the corners of their mouths.

“Aim!”

Eyes narrowed. Some shut one completely. All focused on the haystacks twenty yards off with a paper bullseye secured to each mound.

“Release!”

Arrows flew. One by one the metal tips thunked into the targets. Only one hit close to center.

“Our first round goes to number eight, Mr. Thomas Golightly.” Applause broke from the spectators, nearly drowning out the announcer. “Second round contenders—eleven through twenty—take your positions, if you please.”

Trestwell cut him a smirk before stepping up to the line in the grass. He nocked his arrow, then planted his feet shoulder-width apart, perpendicular to the target. Bram frowned. There wasn’t one thing wrong in the man’s form, not even when he drew back the bowstring. The real test, though, would be on his follow-through.

“Release!”

Trestwell’s arrow shot true—more than true, actually. Bram scrutinized the target. Trestwell’s arrowhead appeared to be sunk in far deeper than the competition’s. Granted, the man had tremendous upper body strength, but so much?

“The second round belongs to number seventeen, Mr. Richard Trestwell!”

Once again applause thundered. Trestwell arched a brow at Bram. Ignoring him, Bram glanced over at Eva. She stood ramrod stiff.

He smiled, praying such a nonchalant grin would ease her mind. Trestwell had hit dead center of the target, but so would he.

“Last group—twenty-one through thirty—to your mark, please.”

Bram stepped up, taking care not to inch his toe too close to the chalk line. Too many of his students had been disqualified for such a careless stance.

“Draw!”

Bram pressed the tips of his three middle fingers to the string, pulling it even with the corner of his mouth.

“Release!”

He took a breath. Held it. Narrowed both eyes on the target, shutting out the world around him. Ever so slowly, the air whooshed from his lungs, his fingers moving slightly to release the arrow—

When something clattered behind him, shattering his focus. The arrow flew too soon. Too wide. The tip of it plummeted into the target’s black dot, but not at dead center.

He wheeled about. Trestwell grinned hardly six paces behind him, stooping to pick up his dropped bow.

Immediately Bram’s students yelled all manner of complaints—as did his uncle and even Dixon.

“Foul!” Bram agreed. “That man deliberately tried to distract me.”

Trestwell held up his hands. “Untrue. All can see this divot here.” He pointed at a dip in the ground as the judges neared him. “Lucky I didn’t twist my ankle.”

“Of all the—”

“Indeed, there appears to be a divot here, Mr. Gallen,” one of the judges called to the announcer. “Nothing intentional.”

“Even so,” Bram objected, “he broke my concentration. That is not fair.”

A round of ayes raised from the crowd, the loudest of which came from Eva and the crew.

Mr. Gallen held up a hand. “It is of no consequence, for you have won the third round, Mr. Webb. And so we have our three semifinalists. Gentlemen, take your positions as new targets are posted.”

Trestwell sauntered to the far side of him, leaving Golightly between them. Just as well. Were Trestwell any closer, the temptation to knock him to the ground would be hard to resist.

“Release!”

Again Trestwell’s sank deep into the center. Bram’s hit spot-on as well. The other fellow’s tip hit an inch too wide.

“This round goes to Mr. Webb and Mr. Trestwell. Sorry about that, Mr. Golightly. Good try and all.”

The bald-headed man slumped away, the tip of his bow dragging on the ground.

Mr. Gallen approached Bram and Trestwell, speaking for them alone. “For the final round, gentlemen, you will be aiming for the same target. A flip of the coin will decide who goes first. Mr. Trestwell, being you were the better aim in the first round, you get the call.”

“Heads.”

A penny arced in the air, landing flat in Mr. Gallen’s palm. “Heads it is. You’re up, Mr. Trestwell.”

Good. Bram stepped aside. He often told his students that being the last to shoot allowed one to time his shot strategically, ensuring proper focus and concentration without feeling rushed by the pace of competition.

“When you’re ready, Mr. Trestwell,” Mr. Gallen called.

A hush came over the onlookers. Bram didn’t dare look at Eva. Better to keep an eye on Trestwell’s form and prepare for his own shot.

Thwack.

Trestwell’s arrow once again sank deep, hitting true.

Cheers raised. Bram absently rubbed the scar on his cheek. No wonder Trestwell had won the last three years. The power in his arms had to be magnificent to plant a tip into the target like that.

Trestwell wheeled about and took a formal bow.

Of all the arrogance.

“You have not won yet,” Bram grumbled as he stepped to the mark.

“Now then, Mr. Webb.” Mr. Gallen spoke above the crowd. “You will have to split that arrow in order to win, sinking your tip in deeper than Mr. Trestwell’s, which has only been accomplished once to my recollection.”

He tested the weight of his bow by lightly bouncing it in his hand. Mentally, he calculated the trajectory and force required to split the arrow. With unwavering focus, he drew the bowstring. Filled his lungs. Held the air. Aligned the tip of his arrow just to the right of Trestwell’s.

And waited.

Sure enough, Trestwell sneezed loud and true.

Perfect.

Bram released.

The arrow flew, hitting dead center and becoming one with Trestwell’s shot.

Silence reigned, eerie for such a festivity. The judges’ shoes shooshed across the field as they strode to examine the target, Mr. Gallen being amongst them.

Time stopped as they conferred. Trestwell smirked. Bram blew out a long, slow breath. He’d done it. He’d split the arrow, even with Trestwell’s ill-timed sneeze.

The judges strode back, and Mr. Gallen angled himself so he might face Bram, Trestwell, and the crowd at the same time. “It is with great pleasure that I announce the king of the bonfire for tonight’s festivities.”

Bram met Eva’s gaze. Pride sparked in her eyes, a hopeful smile on her lips.

“And the winner is Mr. Richard Trestwell!”

Eva’s jaw unhinged. How could this day possibly go from bad to worse in such a short amount of time? And not just for her. Bram stalked away, evidently as finished with this afternoon as she was.

“That can’t be right!” one of the students grumbled.

“Professor Webb always wins,” another one joined in. “Something smells of the highest stink.”

“I don’t understand.” Bram’s uncle shook his head.

“Behold, citizens of Royston, your king of the bonfire.” Mr. Gallen placed a silver crown on Richard Trestwell’s mass of dark hair, then he singled her out of the crowd with a wave of his fingertips. “Queen, if you would come and award His Majesty with a kiss, then we shall all disperse until the lighting of the bonfire at half past five.”

“Oh dear,” Dixon whispered at her side.

Eva gripped the railing with one hand, anchoring her feet. Nothing in the world could persuade her to kiss that man.

“We are waiting, Queen,” Mr. Gallen called.

Slowly, then gaining momentum, a chant swirled like an unholy wind throughout the crowd. “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!”

Penny bumped into her. “Eva, do you really have to kiss that man?”

“Do not be silly.” Eva crushed her bonnet brim in her hand. Why had she ever let Lottie talk her into coming today?

“Your Highness.” The man next to her nudged her sideways, as did another and another. Before she knew it, she’d been shoved all the way along the railing to where Trestwell waited with open arms.

“My Queen.” A hungry smile spread across his lips.

Eva swallowed. Hard.

Just as footsteps pounded her way. “He cheated,” Bram shouted. “Disqualify this man!”

Mr. Trestwell spun to face Bram. “Absurd! You always were a sore loser, Webb.”

A low rumble thundered through the spectators, followed by a round of I-knew-its from Bram’s students. Eva sucked in a breath. Could it be?

Bram held out an arrow. “This arrow is weighted. No doubt they all were. That is why they sank in so deeply. My arrow didn’t stand a chance.”

“You’re just jealous.” With a long reach of his arm, Richard Trestwell slammed her up against his body. The cloying stink of lime aftershave clung to his skin, and his breath was overly hot. “I shall take my rightful kiss now, Queen.”

Eva wrenched from Mr. Trestwell’s grip as Mr. Gallen gestured to the three men on the sidelines. “Hold please, Mr. Trestwell. Judges?”

“Give me that arrow.” Richard Trestwell made a swipe for it. “You’ve probably tampered with it, and I should like to see.”

Bram held it out of reach, handing the disputed item to one of the judges the moment they drew close. “As you will note here”—he ran his finger along the shaft toward the base of the arrow—“this twine wraps around thin lead weights.”

“This is ludicrous.” Mr. Trestwell lunged toward Bram, who deftly stepped out of his way. “If my arrows are tampered with, it wasn’t done by me.”

A judge wearing spectacles gave him a stern look as he pulled out a pocketknife. Carefully, he slit the twine and, sure enough, long thin weights fell into his hand. He glanced at the other two judges, who nodded in unison, then faced Mr. Gallen. “Mr. Trestwell is disqualified.”

Mr. Trestwell threw his arms wide. “I am most certainly not! You cannot prove I modified that arrow.”

“Regardless, the arrow in question is the one you shot. You would have felt the difference. And so...” He plucked the crown off Mr. Trestwell’s head. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is highly unprecedented, and yet I give you your new king of the bonfire, Mr. Bram Webb.”

As he set the crown on Bram’s head, Richard Trestwell stalked off, growling, “You’ll get yours, Webb. I’ll see to that.”

A great cheer went up from the crowd. Mr. Gallen nudged her with a light touch to the small of her back so that she was face-to-face with Bram. “And now, Queen, you may kiss the rightfully reigning king.”

Her gaze shot to Bram’s, her heart racing out of control. The thought of kissing this man was entirely different from that of kissing Richard Trestwell. Part of her wanted to run into his arms and give in to his embrace, to know what it felt like to have his mouth pressed against hers, breath to breath.

Egad!

She stiffened. What sort of woman was she? She couldn’t do this. There was no way she could do this! Especially not in front of Bram’s uncle and students, and her cheeks fired even hotter when she thought of Dixon watching such a spectacle.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the crowd chanted.

Bram leaned close and whispered for her alone. “Just put your cheek near mine. No one will know the difference. Trust me.”

Trust him? The boy who’d played pranks on her as a lad, teased her, and yet ... while Bram had been a wild stallion no one could pin down, he’d never done anything with ill intent. She knew that now. Perhaps it was time to give him a second chance.

Swallowing hard, she rose to her toes and lifted her face so that her cheek was close to his. The heat of him radiated onto her skin.

Instantly he swept her up in the air, swinging her around and around so that his overlong hair flew about. Indeed, no one would be able to tell if her lips were truly on his cheek or not at this speed.

At last he set her down, her breathless, him grinning, the crowd roaring with delight.

“Ho ho! Very good!” Mr. Gallen laughed, then faced the onlookers. “One and all, gather near the brush pile at half past five when our queen and king shall rise above the fairgrounds and shoot the flaming arrow to start the bonfire.”

Bram pulled her toward the dispersing crowd, stopping when they reached their friends and family.

“Well done, nephew. I see what you did there. Very gallant.” Professor Pendleton clapped Bram on the back.

Instant relief loosened the knots in Eva’s shoulders. At least Bram’s uncle didn’t think untoward thoughts about their display, though judging by the pinch of Dixon’s lips, she hadn’t caught on that the kiss had been faux.

Penny didn’t care in the least. She bounced on her toes. “I want to go on a hot air balloon. Take me with you!”

Eva shook her head. “Not a chance.”

“But you have to. You’re the queen.” Penny sulked. “At least allow Professor Webb’s students and Dixon to take me for a ride.”

Just the thought of Penny floating away into the sky made Eva’s stomach flip. “No, absolutely not.”

“You never let me have any fun!” Penny stamped her foot.

“That icing sugar still stuck to your collar says otherwise, sister.”

Penny huffed, her lips flapping with the burst of air.

“What’s this?” Bram stepped near after suffering countless congratulatory pounds on the back from his students. “Why such gloom when I just won a contest?”

Penny scrubbed her toe in the dirt. “I wanted to go on a balloon ride.”

He fished some coins out of his pocket and pressed them into Penny’s hand. “Here. This is your payment for the days you have helped on the dig. I am certain you and the fellows can find something else to do.”

She fingered the money, her face lighting as she turned toward Dixon. “We can buy more fritters!”

“But...” Eva let the reprimand die on her tongue. Her sister deserved to have something to enjoy. “Do you mind, Dixon?”

“Not at all, miss.” The housekeeper glanced at the students. “How about it, gentlemen? Another go-around at the food tent?”

“You don’t have to ask us twice, eh, fellows?” Mr. Barker cuffed his friends on the back.

“I could go for a piece of taffy,” Bram’s uncle chimed in.

“Off with you, then, sister.” Eva grinned. “At least we will know where to find you.”

As the crew sped away, Bram nudged her with his elbow. “I am hungry as well. We could join them, but there is a sausage seller right over there. Shall we?”

She glanced across the lane, where a huge grate of smoked sausages sizzled over orange flames. The savory scent rumbled her stomach.

“Good idea.”

He led her to the booth, but before she could pull a coin from her pocket, Bram was already handing her one of the pastry-wrapped treats.

“Bram, I have told you that you need not—”

“Tut-tut.” He wagged a finger at her and chewed a huge bite before continuing. “I know you do not want me to buy you anything, but I wanted to.”

Well. She couldn’t refute that.

“Thank you.” She sank her teeth into the flaky crust, which warmed her as the chill of evening settled over the grounds. It would be dark soon. Unbidden, her gaze drifted to the balloon glowing like a dragon with a fire in its belly at the far side of the grounds. No one was riding the thing now. No doubt the balloon master was preparing it for the king and queen’s voyage— her voyage. Her stomach clenched, the sausage inside it rebelling.

She handed her roll over to Bram. “Here. I cannot take another bite.”

“You are worried.”

She lifted her chin. “Maybe I am just full.”

“No, that crease in your chin always deepens when you’re anxious about something.”

Bother! He knew her far too well. “We should finish looking at the stalls.”

She strode to the next booth, feigning interest in a pair of perfumed gloves. The dyed-green leather was soft and the embroidery lovely, but all she could think of was being stuck up in the air with no ladder to the ground.

Bram pulled out his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes left. Perhaps we ought to start making our way to—”

“That watch.” Choosing to deny the minutes ticking away until her doom, she pointed at the silver treasure in his hand. “I notice you always carry it on you. Even in the field. In fact, there is not a day I do not remember you pulling it out. Is it so very special to you?”

“Indeed.” He rubbed his thumb over the engraved little swirls on the front. “This watch saved my life.”

Setting down the gloves, she scrunched her nose. “How could such a small thing accomplish that?”

“Remember when I went away all those years ago?”

“You know I do.”

A faraway glimmer lit his grey eyes. “I was fourteen when I arrived at my uncle’s flat. My mother sent me off without the knowledge she was about to die, which would have been nice to know at the time.” His jaw hardened.

Her heart squeezed. How hard that must have been for him.

“Still, looking back, she did the right thing. Uncle Pendleton was a bachelor. I was a delinquent—in most people’s eyes. Certainly in his, though he never said as much. On that very first day he took me to the worst part of town. I had never seen such poverty or so much despair. It was there my uncle presented me with this watch and said, ‘Mark the time, lad. Your life changes now. I will not ever see you living for one minute on these streets. Understood?’ And, quite surprisingly, I did. I knew this would be the only second chance I would get, so I tucked this watch away, just as I am doing now.” He dropped the silver disk into his waistcoat pocket. “And with God’s help, I started a new life that day.”

Eva’s throat closed. “Your uncle is a very special man.”

“That he is.” Bram grinned, the effect warm as the golden glow spilling from the freshly lit lamps and torches.

“It is getting dark,” she murmured, dread creeping over her shoulders.

“Eva, listen.” Bram guided her from the stall, away from the crush of shoppers. “I want you to have a choice in this matter, but there will be nothing I can do to stop the gossip that will surely spread if you do not honour your position as queen. Believe me when I say there is nothing to fear. I will be with you the whole time.”

She fiddled with the bonnet in her hand, feeling the weight of the tiara on her head. It was sweet of him to protect her like this, just as he safeguarded her from having to kiss him in front of all of Royston. If she was brave enough to set foot in that basket, surely he’d let no harm come to her in a tethered balloon. It was, after all, her social obligation.

Once again her gaze drifted to the orange glow of the big teardrop in the darkening sky. “It is not going to go so very high, is it?”

He turned his face toward the floating menace. “It will rise maybe twenty-five feet. Thirty at most. I will shoot a flaming arrow, and then we will descend right back to the ground.” His eyes once again met hers. “But like I said, you do not have to do this. You have nothing to prove to me. You’ve already shown yourself to be a strong and capable woman.”

And just like that, much of her fear melted from the sheer light of admiration burning in his gaze. He was right. Despite expectations, this was her choice. Yet if she never took the chance to change like Bram had, she’d never get over this fear of heights—and all because of Richard Trestwell trapping her up in an apple tree. Well, no more. She would not be controlled by the past. Bram had beaten the man at archery. Wasn’t it about time she bested him as well?

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she lifted her chin. “I think I can manage a quick up-and-down ride that is controlled, as long as you are with me the whole time.”

“I will be there every second.” His brows gathered into a line. “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” she admitted, “but let’s do it anyway.”

This time she grabbed his hand and led him on a merry chase along the lanes. Better to do this now while she still had the courage. Yet the closer she drew to that hellishly lit canvas, the more her bravery waned, especially when she pulled up breathless in front of the balloon master.

And Richard Trestwell.

Bram stepped in front of her. “What are you doing here, Trestwell?”

“As last year’s king, it’s my duty to hand you the bow and arrow to start the fire.” Reaching behind him, he picked up a modified bow—shorter than the one they’d used earlier—and an arrow with a ball of wicking near the tip.

Bram immediately inspected both, and while he did so, Mr. Trestwell sidestepped him to face Eva. “I hope you have a memorable ride, Miss Inman. I daresay it would have been were I to accompany you.”

The balloon master clapped his hands. “All my rides are memorable! Now, my dear, if you please. This way.” He held the basket gate open, the glowing fire from the balloon painting his hair a devilish red.

“I—em.” She pressed her lips flat. How could she ever do this? “I would prefer if Mr. Webb went in first, thank you.”

“As you wish. Mr. Webb?”

Bram shouldered past Mr. Trestwell, and once inside the waist-high basket, he held out his hand for her. Encouragement sparked in his gaze, and his arm didn’t waver in the least as she tentatively reached for his fingers. He guided her inside, the thick wicker beneath her feet feeling a bit lumpy against her shoes.

The overhead fire hissed like snakes as the balloon master shut the door behind her.

She whirled. “Is it very secure?”

“I’ve never once had anyone fall out of one of my balloons, so yes, my dear. There’s not a thing to worry about. My stalwart assistant and I will be managing the rope the entire time.” He pointed at a beefy man on the other side of the balloon, manning a thick tether that was mostly coiled on the ground.

“Now then, King, just place the tip of your arrow close to the overhead fire. You needn’t put it all the way in for it to light. Once you shoot, my assistant and I will bring you down. Ready?”

Bram gazed at her. “Are you?”

Her breath stalled. How would she ever be ready for this? What a rash decision she’d made!

But there was no easy way to turn back now.

Biting her lip, she nodded.

“Right, then.” The balloon master retreated several steps. “Ease her up, Mr. Hagethorn!”

The rope gave way. The basket tipped as it left the ground. Not much, but enough to cause her to clutch the side of the basket and face inward. There was no possible way she’d look over the edge.

Bram steadied her with an arm about her shoulder, and though it was rather immodest of her to do so, she leaned into him, soaking in his strength.

“How’s the speed?” the balloon master called from below.

“Perfect,” Bram shouted downward, then turned to her. “This is not so bad, is it?”

“As long as I do not look or move around, it is fine.” And surprisingly, it was. God had blessed them with a calm night, and with the cloud cover, it was hard to tell how high they floated. If she set her mind to it, she could imagine being only a few feet off the ground, close enough to jump to safety, which was a calming thought indeed. “Actually, it is not as awful as I thought.”

“That’s my girl.” He grinned as the balloon master’s voice carried up to them.

“That’ll do, Mr. Hagethorn. They’re high enough. Have at it, O King!”

Bram gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “I am going to let you go now.”

She gripped the top ridge of the basket a little tighter as he pulled away. The flooring beneath her canted to one side as he lit the arrow, and it took everything in her not to yelp. The flame caught, and with impossibly smooth moves, he drew the bowstring and released the fiery projectile down into the enormous woodpile at the center of the grounds. Cheers rose as red and orange began to lick over the smallest of branches, spreading into a bonfire that would light the night.

He turned back to her with a huge smile. “There we have it. Shall we return to earth, milady?”

“We absolutely sh—”

A curse belted out from below, overpowering the revelers near the bonfire. “It’s loose! The rope has broken.”

“But that’s impossible!” the balloon master bellowed.

Eva froze. Surely she hadn’t heard right. “What is he saying?”

Bram looked over the edge. “Hey! We are ready to come down.”

“Ease the flame!” the balloon master shouted. “Lower the flame!”

Eva’s legs shook, her knees threatening to give way. “Wh-what does that mean?”

But she didn’t need Bram to answer. The clench of his jaw and the upward movement of the balloon told her all she needed to know.

And what she knew was that she was going to be sick.