Chapter Twenty-Three
Somewhere over the Eastern States, 13 March 1871
The airship steward swore to Henry that they kept the passenger compartment at a steady temperature no matter how cold the air outside was, but Henry didn’t believe him. The further north they flew, the more he felt the chill to his bones. His leg, although better from Radcliffe’s treatments, ached around the wound.
After Henry complained about the chill for the third time, Radcliffe put a hand on Henry’s forehead.
“You’re not feverish,” he said. “How are you feeling otherwise?”
“Fine.” He had to admit that he was peevish at the methods by which Radcliffe had been delivered to him and the threat that still hung over him. Should he go back on his word to the neo-Pythagoreans or should he risk his own life and career?
