33. Pippa
PIPPA
We’ve spent the last three days much like that first full day on the airship.
Always together, touching, fucking, laughing, whispering stories of our pasts.
The only thing we’ve avoided talking about is the future.
I’ve felt healthier than I have in years.
More energy, less achy. It seems Noah’s theory about Mavarri venom thinning my blood might be working.
And that beast called Hope rests in my heart like a butterfly, fragile, but alive.
This morning, the Starburst landed at New Caldon Port. I’m standing on the observation deck, trying to see down to the platform below us where a group of children wait to board. The captain has secured us turnaround passage, so we don’t need to disembark.
“I can’t see them.” My dainty handkerchief bunches between my fingers. I’ve wanted to be reunited with my son for so long, yet this waiting feels worse than every day before. He feels so close, but he’s not yet in my arms.
“They’ll board soon. Come.” Shemaiah leads us to a bench where I can see the doorway. But sitting still is difficult.
“A little longer.” Shemaiah squeezes my hand.
I find his gaze, then grasp his face between my palms. “Thank you, Maiah.” I kiss him, unconcerned that anyone might see.
No one from that first dinner has bothered us again or dared to speak ill of either of us.
At least not to our faces. They can say whatever they want behind my back.
I couldn’t care less. Not when I know how much Shemaiah feels for me.
It might not be love—not yet—and it might never be, but what we’ve carved out together these past few days is special and real.
A ruckus from the doorway draws my attention away from Shemaiah.
Children stream into the room, their eyes wide with shock as they take in the luxury of the space.
They look like vagabonds, in mismatched clothing, some with patched knees and elbows, but all of them are neat and clean, taken care of as much as funds allow, it would seem.
My gaze bounces from one child to the next.
While I was at The Sanatorium, they would bring Toby to visit me every week, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen him I’m unsure if I’ll even recognize him.
Will he recognize me? I can picture his curly blond locks, his bluer than blue eyes, his small face sprinkled with freckles and bright pink cheeks.
I catch sight of a child with light blonde hair, and my heart beats a little louder, but when I rise on my tiptoes, I see it’s a girl. The boy next to her pulls her braid and is promptly scolded by the woman accompanying them.
“Pippa?” Shemaiah asks. “Do you see him?”
I shake my head, my hope landing on a cold branch inside me, wings dipping with dread.
My hand still in his, Shemaiah leads me toward an official-looking man in a drab suit and bowler hat.
“Excuse me. Sir?”
The man turns. “Afternoon.”
“I’m Shemaiah Roan, and this is my wife Pippa.” Shemaiah draws me to his side and wraps an arm around me.
The man hastily takes off his hat. “Roan? As in the philanthropic Roans?”
Shemaiah’s jaw ticks. “Yes.”
“Caspar Gebhardt,” the man says, holding out a hand, which Shemaiah takes. “We weren’t told there would be guests on board with us.”
“I think we’re the only ones. I begged the Captain to allow us to return to New Essik with him, rather than wait.
” Shemaiah stalls a moment, glancing at me, but I can’t find words to ask Mr. Gebhardt what I want to know, afraid of his answer.
“We do have a self-interested reason,” Shemaiah continues.
“One we think you might be able to help with.”
Mr. Gebhardt dips his head slightly. “How can I be of service?”
“We’re looking for a boy,” Shemaiah says.
“My son.” I finally grab hold of words that make sense. “Tobias Willoughby. Is he here?”
Though it’s clear he’s confused, Mr. Gebhardt opens his booklet. “Willoughby, you say?” He scans the contents.
“Tobias Willoughby.” My heart falters, the beast inside it racing.
“I don’t see him, but…” Mr. Gebhardt hums a note, his eyes scanning down and down before he turns one page, then another, gently shaking his head. “We don’t have a Willoughby. Would he be under a different name?”
“No,” I answer, my stomach lurching. “It would be Willoughby.” I spell it out for him.
Mr. Gebhardt looks up, his book snapping shut. “I’m sorry, but Tobias Willoughby was never in New Caldon’s Children’s Home.”
“That can’t be right.” I make a grab for the book to check myself, but he pulls it away.
“Trust me, Madame. My records are meticulous.”
“But the New Essik home said he was sent here.” I spin in a circle, taking in the crowd of children now filling the room. “You had children come from New Essik, didn’t you?”
“Five children in the past six months. None of them boys.” Mr. Gebhardt holds the book to his chest.
“Is there somewhere else he might have been sent?” Shemaiah’s voice is too calm, a complete contrast to the pounding in my head.
The man answers, but I can’t understand. My ears are ringing. “He has to be here. He’s nowhere else.” Fat tears spill down my cheeks. “Please. He has to be here.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Roan,” Mr. Gebhardt says. “Your son was never here.” His gaze tracks a tear down my face. “I do hope you find him.”
“Where is he?” I sob, turning my head into Shemaiah’s shoulder.
He kisses my temple. “We’ll find him.”
“Maiah.” I take comfort in his strength, but it’s not enough to quell the ache in my chest.
He kisses the top of my head. “I’m here, little flower. I’ve got you.”
I lean back, looking up through the haze of tear-filled eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
Shemaiah frames my face with his hands. “I told you, you’re a Roan now—my wife—and I take care of what’s mine. We’ll do this together. Every resource I have is yours. We’ll find him.”
“But how?” Tears slip down my cheeks. “We’ve already checked everywhere, and he’s nowhere to be found.”
“Then we’ll tear the world apart until we find him.
” There’s a cold determination in his words.
He’ll do it. I can see it in his eyes. He’ll rip the world apart to find my boy, and he’ll do it all for me.
My kind, sweet-hearted Shemaiah, who loves quiet days in the library, would go on a rampage to find my boy if I asked him to.
And I’ve never loved him more.
My throat clenches with new tears because I can never tell him. We promised we wouldn’t fall in love. And I’d never want him to think I was trying to manipulate him, rush him, or just get a bite out of him, using him for my own purposes the way Vivienne did.
I can’t tell him. But I can show him.
Drawing his face to mine, I kiss him. “Thank you.”
He kisses me back, sighing into the contact.
When we pull apart, I ask the only question still clouding my mind. “But where do we start?”
“Where it all began.” He presses another kiss against my temple and wraps his arms around me. “At The Sanatorium.”