Terms of Secrecy

Lord Joris van der Meer possessed eighty thousand guilders worth of diplomatic credentials, three ancestral titles from the Sunlit Marches, and currently, eight yards of singed emerald velvet clutched tight under his chin.

He remained seated on the scorched floorboards, his back pressed against the brass plinth of the writing desk. A fine dusting of golden ash coated his bare shoulders. Despite the soot smudging his aristocratic cheekbones, his chin remained tilted at an angle designed to intimidate provincial governors.

"Your presence here is concluded," Joris said. The baritone had the proper resonance, though a distinct tremor ruined the cadence. "You will exit into the service corridor. You will speak to no one. If the purser asks, you found an overheating steam-convector and adjusted the valve."

Klaasje Blaauw did not reach for the doorknob. Her quiet, predictable life on the lower cargo deck—tending docile mountain hound pups and prize drakes for modest coppers—had dissolved the second Purser Roorda pulled her into Imperial Suite Seven. Stepping into a high-ranking noble shifter's private crisis was a permanent rupture of her ordinary world; once a common handler witnessed an envoy's secret vulnerability, there was no slipping back down to the cargo hold.

"A steam-convector that sheds primary flight feathers," Klaasje said, picking a six-inch quill of spun gold from the carpet and setting it neatly on the low tea table. "And leaves beak marks on the curtain valance. The imperial inspectors will be fascinated by the engineering."

"Miss Blaauw." The gold in his irises flared, casting amber reflections against the mahogany paneling. "I am an envoy of the High Council. In the Marches, unauthorized observation of a noble shift carries a sentence of three years in an upland quarry."

"We are currently five thousand feet above Lake Zuiderstrand, my lord. The only quarry within reach is straight down through the gondola's keel." Klaasje reached into her pocket, withdrew a clean linen handkerchief, and laid it beside the golden quill. "Your pulse is still running at one hundred and forty beats per minute. If you attempt to stand, your peripheral blood vessels will dilate and you will strike your forehead against the tea table."

Joris's jaw tightened. "My vascular integrity is none of your concern."

He planted one long, pale hand against the baseboard and dragged himself upright. The heavy curtain pooled around his waist. For two seconds, he achieved an imposing posture: tall, broad-shouldered, with the sharp, predatory bone structure of a highland raptor.

Then the floor dropped four inches.

It was not a severe air pocket, only the mild barometric swell common over the Zuiderstrand basin. To an ordinary traveler, it felt like an elevator settling onto its cables.

To a compromised sun-falcon shifter, it was an earthquake.

His pupils dilated into dark pools, swallowing the gold. A hiss tore from his throat, the sound dry and shrill, and a ribbon of white flame snapped across his collarbone. The emerald velvet slipped from his grip.

Klaasje did not flinch. She had seen the preliminary tremor in his calf muscles a second before the floor dipped. Stepping inside his reaching radius, she planted her back heel against the brass floor-runner and caught his left wrist with both hands.

"Look at the carpet, Lord van der Meer," she ordered, her tone flat and firm. "Look at the pattern. Green leaves, red borders. The floor is solid."

She engaged her bio-empathic pulse.

The contact sent a searing, electric jolt straight through her palms. It was not mere warmth; it was the raw, predatory resonance of a sun-falcon shifter's inner fire, smelling of sun-baked cedar, ozone, and sweet toasted citrus. The heat prickled along her nerves, sparking an instinctive, breathless pull between human and shifter that made her stomach flutter. His avian pulse hammered against her fingers, frantic and wild, while she anchored herself and pushed a slow, heavy four-count rhythm into his bloodstream.

For five agonizing seconds, his shifter panic fought her calm, his body vibrating against hers. Then his lungs emptied in a ragged shudder. The flame at his collarbone flickered out. His knees gave way, and he slumped back against the desk, Klaasje lowering him with practiced leverage so neither of them bruised an elbow.

He sat there, chest heaving, his hand still curled tightly around her fingers as if letting go meant falling into the void.

"One hundred and ten beats," Klaasje remarked, keeping her voice steady despite the lingering hum in her veins. "Improving. But you are not surviving the passage through the High Skerries without a tether."

His grip slowly loosened as he stared at their joined hands. The mortification on his flushed face was vivid, yet the tremor in his shoulders betrayed the reality: her bio-empathic touch was the only thing anchoring his volatile shifter magic.

"The High Skerries," he rasped, his voice rough. "The turbulence there lasts for forty leagues."

"Six hours of continuous crosswinds," Klaasje confirmed. "If you enter that passage alone, you will burn this cabin to the iron ribs, boil the lift-gas cells above us, and drop eighty passengers into the pine forests."

Joris closed his eyes. The haughty facade cracked entirely. "If the delegation discovers that a Sun-Falcon envoy cannot manage high-altitude transit, the treaty negotiations with the Northern Provinces will collapse before we dock at Oakhaven. My house will be stripped of its diplomatic seals, and my rivals will see me broken."

"Then we make certain they do not discover it."

Joris opened his eyes, his gaze narrowing with sharp suspicion. "You propose blackmail?"

"I propose employment," Klaasje said calmly. She released his wrist and handed him the linen handkerchief so he could wipe the ash from his brow. "I hold certifications from the Guild of Healers and a provisional route endorsement from Purser Roorda. If you fail, the ship crashes and I die with you. If I keep you grounded and sane, you sign my route logbook upon arrival at Oakhaven, granting me the imperial clearance for my own independent practice."

Joris dabbed at his forehead, the linen coming away gray. "Roorda knows?"

"Roorda knows you were setting fire to the silk. She does not know why, and she is too professional to ask questions that might compromise her ship's charter." Klaasje stood up, brushing down her skirts. "You cannot keep me hidden in a wardrobe for three days. You need a legitimate cover for a specialist to remain inside Imperial Suite Seven day and night."

Joris wrapped the velvet securely around his chest again, leaning his head back against the paneling. A faint, wry smirk touched his mouth. "And what title do you propose for a handler of common beasts who attends a Sun-Falcon lord?"

"Confidential Dietary Secretary," Klaasje said without missing a beat. "You have developed severe, acute sensitivities to standard gondola catering. You require specialized herbal infusions and precise bio-caloric monitoring at all hours."

Joris looked down at the scorched carpet, then back up at her. "Dietary secretary."

"It explains the locked door, the constant tea trays, and why I must remain at your side whenever the weather turns foul." Klaasje met his gaze evenly. "In exchange, you will sign my logbook at Oakhaven, affirming that your passage was conducted with exemplary decorum."

Joris let out a short, breathy exhale that was half-groan and half-laugh. "You are remarkably mercenary, Miss Blaauw."

"I am practical, my lord. Pride is an expensive luxury on an airship."

Before Joris could deliver whatever haughty rejoinder was gathering behind his teeth, the heavy brass latch of the outer suite door rattled violently.

Two sharp, peremptory raps echoed through the chamber, vibrating against the reinforced oak.

"Lord van der Meer?" A smooth, oily voice carried through the keyhole, dripping with false deference. "It is Attaché Bram van Vliet. Several passengers in the salon noted an odor of scorched plumage. The purser claimed all is well, but as your junior colleague, I felt duty-bound to verify your safety in person. Open the door, if you please."

Joris froze, every muscle in his neck locking as his eyes darted from the scorched curtains to his bare chest.

Klaasje did not hesitate. She picked up the tea tray, stepped between Joris and the entrance, and leveled a warning finger at the envoy.

"Stay behind the dressing screen," she whispered. "Let the secretary handle the junior attaché."