Silver and Stone

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeMatilda and I flew onwards in quiet contemplation punctuated by the hiss and whoosh of the engine, the irregular clunks of the propeller, and the occasional bang as various non-essential pieces of the craft fell off and made new black scorch marks on the wicker. Since we didn’t crash, explode, or fall through a new hole in the carriage, the journey was progressing nicely.

‘I fear Patrick may claim we haven’t taken appropriate care of his hot air balloon,’ Matilda shouted to me above the noise.

‘If he’s going to go and get himself arrested at a moment’s notice, this is no less than he deserves,’ I shouted back.

‘Where’s Ballarat now?’ she asked, and I pointed northwest, surprising myself with the different angle.

Matilda stood, checked the wicker side for structural integrity, and leaned over it to scan the horizon for a tell-tale line of iron across the grasslands. The area was lush compared to the copper-coloured zone around Melbourne that had been emptied of water and foliage in the frantic push to industrialise the colony. I had a feeling Matilda and Patrick were more concerned about Victoria’s supply of edible foods than its thrilling new advances in metal and magic.

‘Anything?’ I asked Matilda.

‘May I borrow your goggles?’

I realised my brass goggles were still on my forehead and passed them to her, pausing to scratch off the dried ink with my thumbnail. She put them on and closed her eyes, letting the brass adjust to her before she opened her eyes again.

‘Railway ahead,’ she said. ‘It’s not far now. No sign of Ballarat, I’m afraid. Your heart was perfectly correct in its directions.’

‘Naturally,’ I said, and used the axe to break the connection between the propeller and the engine.

We hadn’t exactly reached our destination, but we’d made excellent time.

‘You don’t happen to have any ideas about how to catch a moving train?’ I asked.

‘There’s always a first time.’

‘Things usually explode the first time,’ I pointed out.

‘We’ll be extra careful,’ she said, pulling on the line that released air from the balloon’s upper vents so we could descend.

Cooling the engine was a tricky business, but we managed a relatively steady descent and didn’t set ourselves, the balloon, or the brush on fire. We landed with our vents open, and laid out the varnished silk as the balloon continued to expire. Once that awkward task was done, we waited for the engine to cool completely before drinking a little of the smoky water and then folding up the empty silk.

I had followed the construction of the railway line with great interest, and knew that the train would not depart Ballarat until three o’clock in the afternoon.

‘After all that, we’re hours ahead of schedule,’ said Matilda, re-pinning her hair after the journey.

‘I hate to put the carriage before the horse,’ I said, ‘but once we’ve acquired the O’Connells, where do we go? And how?’ I remembered her vow to kill Officer Dry and added, ‘Mr O’Connell will not be pleased if we harm the police, even Officer Dry.’

‘If I have to shoot someone, I will,’ said Matilda, drawing my attention to the derringer pistol in her trouser pocket. ‘But I’d prefer not to. Not even that Dry cully. Although it would be a treat to see his face when yet another young woman draws a gun on him.’

I smiled at the memory of threatening Officer Dry into submission, although I certainly hadn’t smiled at the time.

‘What if we don’t stop the train at all?’ I said. ‘What if we simply hopped aboard and took back our boys along the way?’

‘Excellent,’ said Matilda. ‘Except aren’t trains awfully quick?’

‘We could really do with some horses,’ I admitted. ‘Or Patrick, to steal some horses for us.’

Matilda replaced the goggles over her eyes and turned in a slow circle. I tried to breathe quietly so I didn’t distract her.

‘That way,’ she said. ‘I smell smoke. It’s either a sheep station, natives, or a bushfire.’

We unpicked some of the silk balloon and removed the precious aluminium, giggling as it made us feel like balloons ourselves, and then covered the carriage as well as possible with brush. Matilda drew a wide circle around it punctuated with symbols, and I knew she was writing some kind of native message for passers-by. I waited for her to explain it to me, but instead she simply took my hand and started walking.

It was no idle stroll, and I was jealous of Matilda’s ability to walk barefoot over any kind of terrain. My own superior-inferior heels caught in small holes, snapped into different positions without my say-so, and generally made a nuisance of themselves. I wished I’d never invented the blasted things.

After some time I saw a light shimmer of grey blurring the sky ahead, and was much encouraged. We traversed a ravine that would have been picturesque from any other angle and finally drew near enough to see a structure of wood and tin ahead of us, merrily smoking and emitting the usual clinking of minor household machines.

‘Where are all the sheep?’ Matilda asked. ‘Where are the fences?’

‘Perhaps on the other side of the house?’ I said, but there were no pens to be seen. There was a small home, a slightly larger stable, and an outhouse—nothing else.

We paused and hid the sheets of aluminium under our corsets where they wouldn’t be noticed. The aluminium proved surprisingly flexible, but it still felt like wearing a metal chemise. Our corsets were valuable too, but they weren’t on the same order of magnitude. Matilda confirmed that she smelled horses, so we continued on toward the house.

There was a small but established vegetable garden under the left-hand window, and as we walked down the hill I smelled something delicious baking. My mouth watered, and I tried to ignore the growling of my stomach.

‘Something’s off here,’ said Matilda, ‘but given our circumstances I’m not sure I care.’

‘Do we steal their horses or buy them?’ I asked her.

‘Let’s knock on the door and see what happens.’

‘Very well,’ I said, and rapped on the weathered wood.