Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  “Yes, but passion burns out,” Katy said.

  “That’s what makes the quest for passion so exhilarating,” Byron replied excitedly. “What if you were able to find someone or something for which you felt unending passion?”

  “As with writing poetry?” Katy asked.

  Byron shrugged. “Poetry is craft. The passion fleets when the line is done. Lust and love are easy to come by, but unending passion . . . well, that is something I quest after. And is, no doubt, the key to my bad reputation.”

  Everyone laughed, including Byron.

  “And you, Miss Stargazer, do you chase passion?” Katy asked me.

  “Madame, you’re more likely to find me chasing the green fairy,” I replied, raising my aperitif toward her in toast.

  Again, everyone chuckled.

  “But what about racing?” she asked.

  I smiled. “I don’t think it’s passion I feel when I fly. It’s my natural element. I feel at home.”

  “Then are you in disagreement with Lord Byron about the quest for passion?” she asked slyly.

  I looked at Byron. “Sometimes passion chases you.” Under the table, I slid my hand up his leg and gently squeezed his thigh. My stomach trembled with excited butterflies.

  Byron’s eyes glimmered as he laughed out loud.

  Everyone else at the table chuckled too. Soon, the diners began to depart. I was saying farewell to the others when Byron joined me.

  “We are invited to an evening ball,” he told me, motioning to Katy. “Shall we?”

  Horrified, I suppressed a gasp. I had barely made it through the dinner without humiliating myself in front of the elegant crowd. “If you want to have some real fun, why don’t you come with me instead?”

  “Where?”

  “Some of the racers are getting together at Strawberry Hall. There will be dancing, a different kind of dancing, there as well,” I said with a grin.

  Byron’s eyes twinkled. “Would you dance for me there? You look stunning in this dress.”

  “You have to buy me a drink first.”

  “Then I’ll give our regrets,” he said with a grin.

  Byron and I wished Katy farewell, thanking her for the invitation, then we left. I was relieved I had survived. Byron helped me into the carriage, but once the footman closed the door, we fell on one another in an almost a predatory way. His lips were hot and hungry. I wrapped my arms around his muscular frame and pulled him toward me, kissing him passionately. His sweet scent filled my senses. He held me by my waist and pressed his body against mine.

  “I’ve been thinking about you for months,” he whispered in my ear.

  “I thought, well . . . I was too common for you,” I admitted.

  Byron pulled back and looked at me. “You are something rare,” he said, kissing me gently on the lips. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve an honest spirit. I live surrounded by people in masks.”

  “Then you need to choose better friends.”

  “Why do you think I followed you all the way to this god-forsaken place?”

  I kissed him again, my tongue roving inside his mouth. I loved the taste of him. His mouth tasted sweet, like honey, the chemistry of his body melting with mine. I ran my fingers through his soft, curly hair. Pushing aside the collar on his silk shirt, I kissed his neck and shoulders. His bare skin was salty. We kissed until we reached the hall. When the carriage stopped, we were surprised.

  “Come on,” I said.

  “Wait,” Bryon replied as he looked me over. My hair, which had been nicely pulled up—well, as nicely as Angus could make it—hung in a rumpled mess. Byron pulled my hairpins out and shook my hair loose. With a satisfied nod, he then led me out of the carriage, passing a word to the driver before we headed toward the hall.

  There was a loud cheer from the racers when we entered. “Lily!” Tallmadge screamed. His forehead was wet with sweat, and he half-rose, half-stumbled from his seat to welcome me. “Come on, come on, we’ve been waiting for you. Who is this strapping beast? Good lord, he looks like a gentleman.”

  “I’m George,” Byron replied casually, shaking Tallmadge’s extended hand. “Congratulations on your win.”

  “Christ, you English all sound so fucking grand. Thank you, George! Come have a drink. Lily, what’s your poison?”

  “Absinthe, if there is any to be found.”

  Tallmadge yelled to the bartender and led us to the corner where Tallmadge’s team, friends, Angus and Pidge, and a number of other racers had already gathered.

  “My Lord!” Pidge yelled, raising his mug to Byron.

  Byron smiled at him, and we pushed in beside Angus.

  “Survived, did you?” Angus whispered to me.

  “I guess.”

  “Looking a wee bit rumpled,” he said with a laugh then shrugged. “You could do worse.”

  I punched him in the arm.

  A tavern girl set down a dusty bottle of absinthe, a plate of sugar cubes, and a decanter of water in front of Byron and me.

  “I don’t know how you drink the stuff,” Tallmadge yelled to us even though he was sitting close by. “It makes me see the fucking boogeyman.”

  “That’s the pleasure of it,” Byron said. “You never know where the green fairy will take you.” He then prepared us both a glass.

  “To passion,” I said slyly, lifting my drink in toast.

  “To passion,” he replied, clicking his glass with mine.

  In the corner, an Irish band was playing their fiddles furiously while a circle of dancing couples tried to keep pace. Byron pulled out a vial of laudanum, sharing with me, then we finished two drinks each. I noticed the others, who had been drinking far longer than we had, we already starting to drift into blissful forgetfulness.

  “Now, let’s see you dance,” he said, taking my hand.

  “Lily? Dance?” Pidge, who had been nursing the same mug of ale since we got there, said with a laugh. “Watch your toes, my Lord.”

  “I’m already a limping devil,” Byron said with a laugh, tapping the heel of his bad foot. “What difference can it make?”

  I smiled wryly at him, shook my head, then we took the floor. With a spin, Byron and I joined the other couples. They had just started a group dance. The racers started clapping and cheering us on.

  I laughed loudly. “I admit it. I can’t dance.”

  “Watch me, honey,” a comely looking girl with spiraling blonde hair and wide blue eyes said. Then, very slowly, she showed me the steps. After a few embarrassing tries, I finally got it down.

  My fingers lightly resting in Byron’s hand, we soon began dancing, weaving between the others. Byron, so refined and sophisticated, looked a bit out of place amongst the rough crowd, but his cheerful enthusiasm brought him welcome. They probably didn’t know who he was, but Byron had fun all the same—perhaps, because he had anonymity for once.

  We were there for a couple of hours, mostly drinking and dancing a bit. When I noticed Byron’s foot was paining him, I feigned tired. By then, most of the crowd had dispersed anyway. Angus and Pidge had left an hour before. Tallmadge was passed out in the corner with some half-dressed woman on his lap. Byron and I were just getting ready to leave when I overheard a heated conversation between a couple standing near us.

  “Let me go,” a young woman told some bloke who had ahold of her wrist.

  “I think not, girl. You’ve been looking for it all night,” a drunk man twice her age replied.

  The hairs on the back my neck rose as the ghosts of my past whispered from the grave.

  The man yanked on the girl’s arm. “You’re coming with me.”

  “The hell I am,” she replied and struggled to pull free.

  He didn’t let go.

  “Let her go,” I said, grabbing the man by the arm.

  “Fuck off,” he replied.

  “I think not. She said let go.”

  “And why the fuck should I listen to some English tart? Fuck off, I told you,” he said th
en shoved me.

  I saw Byron make a move, but I was faster. Reeling back, I punched the man in the face. I heard something snap. The drunk yelped then clutched his jaw, letting go of the girl who made a break for it. The door banged closed behind her as she fled. Before Byron could intervene, the angry man swiped, catching me on the mouth. I felt the sting as my lip broke open followed by the taste of blood.

  The bartender grabbed the drunk.

  I grabbed Byron. “Let’s just go,” I said, pulling him toward the door. “It’s not worth it.”

  “You fucking whore,” the man yelled at me as he held his jaw.

  Byron, who had reluctantly gone with me, turned. He pulled a knife from his boot as he crossed the room. He grabbed the man’s hand and slammed it down on the bar. Raising his knife, he stabbed the drunk’s hand, pinning it to the bar.

  The drunk let out a scream.

  “Never touch anything that’s mine again,” Byron said. He turned, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and handed it to me.

  I blotted my lip as I got into the carriage. After that, the drink and the laudanum caught up with me. It all became a haze. I remembered riding across town in Byron’s carriage, stopping outside an enormous mansion, and him carrying me though the hallways to his bedroom. He gently lay me down on his bed. I helped him pull off his shirt while he helped with the hooks on my dress. Soon we were both naked.

  “Your lip,” he said, gently touching the wound.

  I pulled him into a passionate kiss. The pressure caused my lip to ache, but something about the marriage of the pain and pleasure made my heart beat quickly.

  “Lily,” he whispered aghast, pulling back. He touched his mouth where my blood stained his lips.

  “It’s all right,” I said with a sigh.

  Astonished, he smiled at me. He then kissed me all over my body. His touch was skilled, unlike mine. Despite growing up being over-exposed to sex, I was still inexperienced. I had been waiting, not for marriage, but for someone . . . special. Byron was certainly that. And at least my first time would be with someone who knew what they were doing. When Byron moved between my legs, I wanted to relax into it, but I felt momentarily shy.

  “Haven’t you . . . ?” he whispered.

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he reassured me

  But that wasn’t what I wanted. I kissed him hard. “Don’t be.”

  He looked inquisitively at me then our bodies moved together. The pain amplified the pleasure. Byron seemed hesitant at first, but seeing I enjoyed it, he did not hold back. Soon we were in the heat of it. I wanted to devour him. I bit him hard on the shoulders, tasting his sweat and flesh. He savored my aggressive embraces, pushing me to do more. His salty skin smelled divine. It went on like that for I don’t know how long. More than once, we reached the pinnacle of pleasure. Finally exhausted, we fell into a tranquil bliss, Byron’s arms wrapped around me.

  “Passion,” Byron whispered in my ear. “You bring me passion. You’re so . . . natural . . . honest . . .”

  “Not as much as I pretend,” I said in a drowsy haze. It felt very important that he was not deceived about who I was. “My real name isn’t even Lily. I’m just a worthless orphan from Cornwall. But I try,” I sighed, “I try to do the right thing. To follow my instincts. To do right by everyone.”

  “Then you are the most honest person I’ve ever met,” he replied, stroking my hair. “What is your real name?”

  “Penelope,” I replied without hesitation.

  He kissed the back of my head. “Penelope,” he whispered. The name sounded sweet on his tongue. “At least you found a way to fend off your demons. Mad Jack’s lame son . . . I try to feed mine with anything, everything. Nothing satisfies. Nothing. It just burns. Sometimes I feel like it’s consuming me.”

  “Then maybe you should try something different,” I replied sleepily.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

  We fell into a deep sleep. When I woke the next morning, my head was pounding, and my lip ached. I opened my eyes to see the morning sunlight slanting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It cast its cheery glow on the ornate rug, which was decorated with embroidered dragonflies. I rolled over, expecting Byron would be gone, but found him sleeping beside me. As I was gazing at him, he woke groggily. He pulled me close, kissing my shoulder.

  “Penelope,” he whispered in my ear.

  I closed my eyes. A tear streamed down my cheek. In my heart, I felt, all the while knowing that it was fleeting, passion.

  THE MORNING I ARRIVED IN Greece upon the Aster, the mist was rising slowly from the still waters around Missolonghi, a lagoon city in a swampy wetland. The entire place was draped in a pall of dreary gray. Not even the first rays of morning sunlight could penetrate the thick fog. The air was uncomfortably humid. My skin, though chilled with terror to goose bumps, felt sticky. Somewhere in the distance, loons called. Their voices echoed through the dismal, hollow space.

  While there was an airship tower used by the military nearby, the captain piloted the Aster to the roof of the mansion where Byron was staying. He lowered the ship over the roof and dropped a ladder for the secretary and me to debark.

  Even before we got down, Byron’s Italian valet, Giovanni, met us on the roof.

  Giovanni called to us. “Is that Lily?”

  “It is,” I yelled back.

  Once I landed on the roof, I helped the secretary gain his footing. “Is he still alive?” I asked, turning to Giovanni.

  He nodded sadly. “But worsening. You’ve made it just in time. The doctors have been arguing all night about what to do next.”

  “Come, Miss Stargazer, let’s make haste,” the secretary said, and we headed toward the stairs.

  As I hurried across the roof, I heard a familiar sound call from overhead. It was the trumpet of a swan. I looked up. One swan flew over the building then disappeared into the mist.

  “Lily?” Giovanni called.

  I trembled.

  We wound down the stairs into the mansion. Giovanni led us down marble hallways and through chamber after chamber. The place was utterly silent. I was surprised, then, when Giovanni opened the door to the last chamber to find the room filled with people.

  “Vultures,” Giovanni whispered under his breath.

  It seemed like everyone who had ever been even remotely connected to Byron had assembled. Edward Trelawny, Mary Shelley, Tommy Moore, several Greek soldiers, and other of our friends were sitting in a small, closed alcove just off the salon. In the main chamber were relatives of Byron, cousins on his Gordon side, his half-sister Augusta-Leigh, Byron’s ex-wife Annabella who still kept the title Lady Byron and her family members. When Giovanni had opened the door, everyone looked up.

  “Oh no! Absolutely not!” Annabella said, aghast when she saw me. Outraged, she stood.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” Giovanni told me then crossed the room to enter the bedchamber.

  They all began arguing with me, though I wasn’t actually speaking to anyone, with the secretary, and with one another. I cast a glance toward Edward who nodded to me in acknowledgement.

  “This is absurd! He won’t see any of us. Not even his own family! Don’t tell me that he is going to let her in,” Augusta-Leigh shouted.

  “That is for my Lord to determine,” the secretary replied.

  Annabella glared at me with such anger that it startled me. “He won’t even see his own child, but he will see that opium eater? He must be out of his mind,” she cursed.

  The others started shouting, voicing their agreement with Lady Byron or arguing their own claims. They cursed about how Byron would only see Trelawny, his Greek slaves, or his other dogs, which I suppose included me, but not his proper family. Perhaps, I wanted to tell them, it was because Byron knew who was there for him and who was there for his estate. I was surprised, however, to hear he had not seen his daughter, Ada. I scanned the room. I had not seen her at first. Ada Byron, Geor
ge’s nine year old daughter, sat silently in the corner. Her eyes were glued to her hands, her bottom lip trembling.

  The argument in the room grew very loud. People started pointing fingers in one another’s faces. Edward and some of the others came into the salon and inserted themselves between the warring vultures. They were so loud that when Giovanni opened the door to motion me in, no one even noticed.

  Quietly, I moved away from them. As I neared the door to the interior chamber, Ada Byron looked up at me. Her sad eyes were brimming with tears. And those eyes were just as clear, blue, and rich as her father’s. Two large tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “He won’t see her?” I whispered to Giovanni.

  “Lady Byron won’t let Ada go without her. George will not see Lady Byron.”

  I gazed at the child who was staring at me. Behind me, a war raged on. Across from me, however, was a lonely little girl who was afraid she would never see her father alive again.

  I held out my hand to her. “Come on,” I whispered.

  She cast a worried glance toward her mother who never looked back at her. She then took a deep breath, mustered up her courage, and came to me. She put her small hand in mine.

  “He will be angry with you,” Giovanni whispered to me.

  I looked down at little Ada. Giovanni might be right. This one decision might cost me, but in Ada’s eyes, I saw the reflection of myself standing at the door to the Charity School in Southwark. I wouldn’t wish that experience on any child. “I know.”

  “There isn’t one of us who hasn’t thought of doing the same,” Giovanni said then led Ada and me into the small antechamber between the rooms. “Wait here,” Giovanni told us, disappearing into the bedchamber.

  Ada drew a deep, shuddering breath. I knelt down to look her in the eyes. “What is it? Are you frightened?” I asked, pushing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear.

  “Is my father a bad man?” she asked.

  I was startled by her question. “A bad man?”

  “My mother says he is wicked and that he will burn in hell. I should not like my father to burn in hell.”