Alek-and-Deryn

Deryn Sharp couldn't believe what was happening just now. She stared at Alek, completely dumbfounded. Had he really just told her that he had written to his mother and brother? Was he really proposing to her?! Deryn had been pleasantly surprised by his secret Huxley Ascender ride. It had been so wonderful to see the world from on high and feel the wind on her face, blowing her hair in every direction. However, she had been completely flabbergasted when she saw him using semaphore flags to ask her to marry him. Blisters! When did he learn to use barking semaphore flags! She wondered. Deryn had always thought that marriage to Alek might b...

It wasn’t a particularly dreary day. Yes, cloudy of course, any day in London was cloudy, but without rain or overall humidity. The procession began at nine o clock for a service at twelve. Some had argued that the Saint Christopher Church would be appropriate, seeing as how Mr. Sharp had attended services there with The Lady Boffin and her family every Christmas, but in the end it ruled that he would have preferred an outdoor funeral, in the open air, where attendants might feel a gentle breeze. Dr. Barlow had insisted upon a costlier casket, but eventually decided that a simple black was more suited. Dylan Sharp had detested fancy things...

"No, Deryn!" Count Volger said sharply, "You're sword point must be  up !" With a flash of glinting-silver, he whacked her forearm with the flat of his fencing saber—as if to emphasize his sincerity. Deryn couldn't help the tiny yelp that escaped her lips. She lowered her sword arm to rub the painful area. His irritation with her was more than evident. With a long, exasperated sigh he demanded, "Again!" Deryn glared at the infuriating man before her, wanting badly to whack his daft head with her own saber. The dummkopf was too meticulous for her liking. She mentally ran through the correct posture of the offensive and defensive movements...

Wildcount Ernst Volger sat in a plush leather chair in his office, his body still and comfortable, but his mind raced. He stared at the scribbled note in his hand without really seeing it, already knowing the words by heart. V. Archduke and Princess are dead. Drinks poisoned. J. He looked up and let his eyes drift, taking in the familiar surroundings. The window on the far wall allowed the last golden rays of twilight to filter through. An ornately-carved wooden desk—a family heirloom—holding important documents and correspondence, sat beneath the window. The blazing fireplace to his right chased away the chill of the advancing night and m...