Dr. Barlow complains about the delay, but nothing changes the captain's mind: they set down on a tiny Greek island before dusk. As Deryn hears it, Captain Hobbes has informed Dr. Barlow that he "would rather fly towards the heart of the Ottoman Empire when they can properly see our white flag" and "we will risk our lives just as well tomorrow morning."

Deryn heartily approves of the captain's decision, not least because it stymies the lady boffin something fierce.

Some of the airmen take the opportunity to disembark and stretch their legs on solid ground. Alek and his count go off toward the beach, carrying mysterious bundles and glowworm lanterns.

As the Clankers' unofficial minder, Deryn decides it's her duty to follow, so she invites herself along.

"A fencing lesson," Alek explains when she asks where he thinks he's going. He unwraps a corner of the bundle, revealing the hilt of a sword. "Sabers. There's no room on board," he adds.

She looks at him (and the count) askance; it's been a full day, and Alek has been every bit as busy as she. There's no sitting idle on a beastie flying into an enemy nation on the eve of war. "Aren't you barking tired?"

Alek lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and "He needs the practice," Count Volger says, as if the question is ludicrous.

This is one of those boy things, Deryn decides, that she simply can't understand because she wasn't born with a half-scrambled brain. Then again, maybe this is a Clanker thing; none of the airmen are mad enough to try for the beach.

The island is all rocks, with a village clinging to one end and, at the other, a wide, uneven sward of patchy grass where the locals usually graze their livestock (and where the Leviathan is currently moored). Volger, Alek, and Deryn clamber down to the thin strip of beach below, tucked up between sea and crags. An August evening in Greece is warmer than a July day in London, and Deryn's worked up a sweat by the time she reaches the sand.

It's a bad time to be a girl pretending to be a boy. If she was really a boy, she thinks darkly, she'd have her shirt off already.

Volger and Alek must agree, because the first thing they do upon touching sand is strip to their shirts and roll up their sleeves to the elbow – any further undressing being offensive to imperial sensibilities, she supposes. Deryn finds a perch on a rock and tries to think boy thoughts instead of noticing the muscles in Alek's forearm as he grips his sword.

Luckily, once they begin practice, she's too amazed to be distracted. She's never seen anyone use a sword, and Alek and the count know how to use them well. It's like a sort of dance – all quick staccatos and stamps and flashes. The sand is rapidly churned up around them, and then, as she watches, the count forces Alek into the edge of the waves.

She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts encouragement – "Oi, Alek, toast his bum!" – and Alek looks at her, startled, and Volger knocks him off-balance and he falls into the seawater. It must be a steeper drop-off than it seems, because he goes all the way under and comes up sputtering.

Deryn laughs at the look on his face, then feels mortified that she's to blame for his dunking. "Sorry," she calls.

"It's all right," Alek calls back. He shakes his head, shedding water, and pushes his hair back with one hand. In this light, and wet as it is, his hair's normal red-brown color shows deep copper. "I'm not used to having, ah, a vocal audience."

Volger says something in Clanker-talk that sounds derisive – but then, the man sounds derisive when he sneezes, so who can tell, really?

Alek says something back, equally tart, and Volger raises an eyebrow. Deryn feels a squick of pride, seeing her friend give as good as he's getting.

The count says, "As you wish, Your Serene Highness," and then they raise their sabers and begin again.

This time Deryn stays silent while Volger offers a running commentary of Alek's mistakes. In English, so Deryn is sure to understand how badly Alek is failing.

But Volger doesn't realize that she's not paying attention: she's distracted again. Lost in the way Alek's shirt clings as he moves, the way his wet hair is drying into untidy swirls, the look of fierce concentration on his face – tempered now and then by the flicker of a predatory smile at the corner of his mouth – all of it lit by the warm red-orange of the fading sunset.

At least, she hopes Volger doesn't realize. She's in a barking lot of trouble if he does.

She's in a barking lot of trouble anyway, judging from the way her skin is prickling all over and she has to keep swallowing against the dryness in her mouth.

She watches Alek and thinks, I want you to look at me like that.

The count wins again, but it's a closer victory this time. Deryn waits until she's sure they're done before she cheers, trying her best to mimic her brother Jaspert at rugby matches.

Alek looks startled again – blisters, has he really never had an audience cheering for him? – but quickly grins and gives a jokey sort of bow.

"Wonderful," Volger says, sheathing his sword and slowly, mockingly applauding. Each clap is as sharp as the man's tone and echoes off the rocks. "You can perform on the streets of Constantinople and earn our supper."

Alek stands there, breathing harder than normal and looking as if this sort of insult has lost most of its sting through age. "I'll consider that possibility," he says.

"Well, I think it was brilliant," Deryn says, hopping down from her rock. She takes care to sound like an indignant friend and not like a girl thrilled by the display. "If you do go playing for your supper, Alek, you'll make a million."

"Thank you," he says. "I think."

"How long have you been -?" she asks, miming swishing a sword about.

"Since I was ten." He turns the saber in his hand, making the glowworms' light slide up and down the blade.

"And with five more years' practice," Volger says, derisively of course, "he may remember not to drop his point in tierce."

"Thank you, Count Volger," Alek says. He cuts Deryn a fast, sneaky glance, full of mischief, and adds, "You're dismissed."

A laugh pops out of her, and she claps her hands over her mouth before the count decides she needs skewering.

Volger ignores her, bows with a dry (and not entirely unamused), "So I am, Your Highness," and collects his discarded things before picking his way back up the rocks.

Deryn waits until she's completely certain that Volger's out of earshot, then says, "That was a barking daft risk."

"Yes," Alek agrees. He's in a jolly mood for someone who just tweaked the nose of a man who might, without much fuss or bother, kill them all before breakfast. But perhaps that's the point.

"Seems effective, though," she says, looking at the spot where Volger disappeared.

Alek makes a noise that's neither a laugh nor a hum, but somehow manages to send heat skittering low through her belly. "If he expects me to be an emperor, he'll have to get used to taking orders. But I'll pay for that one in the next lesson."

His saber gleams softly in the lantern-light, like a bioluminescent lure some clever sea-beastie might use to swallow up other fishes. And God help her, she drifts closer.

"Let me see it," she says impulsively, holding out a hand for the saber. "If it's all right, I mean."

"Of course," he says, and puts the saber into her hand. It's heavy, but not as heavy as Deryn was expecting. Their fingers brush and it makes her breath catch.

Barking wonderful. She checks his face, hoping he hasn't noticed, and finds him looking back at her, very puzzled indeed.

"It's… it's heavy," she says. Daft, daft, daft. She gives the sword back and steps away quickly. Her skin is white-hot where they touched, and she has to make a conscious effort not to rub it against the leg of her trousers.

"If we weren't leaving the ship in Constantinople," he says, "I could have Volger give you lessons, too."

"No, thank you!" she exclaims, momentarily forgetting how much she would like to run her fingers through his untidy hair. "Not for all the tea in –"

But he's grinning. That spark of mischief is back in his eyes, and in the darkness, he looks like a pirate, not a prince.

I want you to look at me like that. Now he is, and she's struck dumb.

She should laugh. Should retaliate with a clever insult. But she can't.

If the saber is a lure, then she feels like a fish, pulled in and bitten clean in half – but no fish would want so badly to be bitten again. And again, and again.

She wants him to keep looking at her like that. She wants to step in closer and press her mouth to his, see what he tastes like with sea-salt on his skin, and she wants him to kiss her back and hold her close and take all the most shocking liberties, as her aunties would describe it.

She wants him.

Alek.

"Dylan?" he asks, frowning. "Are you all right?"

No. No, she is not, and the hopeless truth blows suddenly through her, colder than any wind aloft. Cold, hollow, and lonely.

Once again she's left wanting something she can't have. This time, however, she won't be solving the problem with a made-over airman's uniform and a dodgy haircut.

"What? Oh, aye – just tired. Busy day and all that." She forces a yawn, trying to pretend her heart isn't breaking into a million daft pieces. "Better get back to the Leviathan before I fall down."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea." He stifles a genuine yawn, slides the sword into its scabbard, and picks up his jacket, shaking out the sand. "And there's Constantinople tomorrow."

"Another barking disaster to look forward to," she agrees, fetching the lantern. It hurts to speak; it hurts to swallow; and damn him for still looking so handsome in the feeble light.

"It could be fun," he says, smiling at her. Cutting her in half again.

"Aye," she says without enthusiasm. Too wounded to pretend.

She waits until she's safe in her cabin, blanket over her head and all alone, to let the tears come.