“What good am I?” Hartmann asked him, coming closer to the bars.
“I’m sorry, old chap, I don’t follow—” Melliagraunce hid behind British reserve.
“Without wings, I’m as good as dead! Without flight, I’m less than a man! The feeling of speed, that nothing can harm you behind metal—”
Melliagraunce saw himself on the jousting field, his greaved legs guiding his charger; the world sliding by as leisurely as the Thames, though he hurtled at full-speed.
“I know what it is to be grounded.”
“Knight, Thomas!” a Sergeant bawled, banging into the prison. “Ye’re outta here, mate. They come for ya from Biggin.”
Melliagraunce didn’t move as his cell door opened. The Sergeant’s pig eyes narrowed, and he saw he had no choice.
“Pilot Officer.”
Melliagraunce stopped before Hartmann’s cell.
“I wish
