Chapter 13 - Jailbreak
Tom raised his head from the stone shelf on which he lay. He watched the door of greasy, opaque glass. A face-hole on the upper half gave a barred view beyond his cell. Tom had vision by an ever-present, faint, molten glow, slipping between the bars from the hall beyond. Now, also coming from the hall, he heard ceramic wheels rolling over a ceramic track.
A faerie cart, rolling towards Tom’s cell. Tom strained his eyes and watched for a shadow’s movement on the ruddy hallway wall. But the window bars wavered, so Tom laid his head back. He disturbed the soot covering the shelf with slow, shallow breaths, and waited.
A moment later the wheels scraped to a stop just before his door. He heard heavy shuffling as the riders disembarked. Then a faerie voice said, “Sure you want to bother? He’s far gone. You’ll have him soon anyway.”
A raspy, stranger’s voice said, “I like ‘em fresh.”
Tom heard the chink of a glass keyring, followed by the click of a glass lock opening. His door yawned open. He turned and looked - his vision still blurry - and saw two of the ruby-capped, mint-cardigan-robed faerie jailers. The faeries stood in the hazy doorway. The hot light from glowing glass pipes in the floor slunk through the opening behind them, and lit the ash-covered walls around Tom. The smell of oven-cleaner grew strong. Tom saw a tall fellow with a bristly goatee and gaunt eyes step inside the cell. It was Death. Tom had never met Death personally, but in his situation he expected no one else.
Tom had not expected the two people who stepped in behind Death. Ms. Maysey! Mr. Grey! But… Why were they wearing the minty uniforms of the faeries? Tom opened his mouth to ask. He’d not had cause to speak for some time, however, and had to work his throat to find a voice. At the moment, all he gave was a faint gasp.
Death noticed the recognition in Tom’s eyes. He swooped quickly to the stone bed. He leaned, ostensibly as Death is reputed to lean over the sick, but whispered by Tom’s pale cheek so that the faeries couldn’t hear. “Keep it nippy, slim. We’re flying you from this rath.”
Tom blinked once to acknowledge he understood. Death straightened, turned to the faerie jailers, and said, “Gentry, everything’s orderly. We’ll take him. Ahem.” Death turned to Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey. Ms. Maysey started and rushed over to one side of Tom’s bed, while Mr. Grey marched to the other. They helped Tom up to a sitting position, then raised him to his feet by laying his arms on their shoulders. Tom wasn’t able to stand on his own.
During this, Death smoked. One of the faeries squinted hard at Ms. Maysey. She shifted her neck under Tom’s big arm; first one way, then the other. The faerie looked at Death, who put on a ghastly smile. “What did you say your name was, fella?” asked the faerie.
“Death, with an E and an A. Carriage Director. Godfather to all thirteenth-born. Entrepreneur. You need my parchments?” Death fished around in one of his coal-dark robe’s pockets, first pulling out his ocarina, then his pack of cigarettes. The older of the faeries waved him off.
Mr. Grey, Death, Ms. Maysey, and Tom exited. Tom saw a stone lasagna-dish cart with ceramic wheels waiting by his cell. He looked as far as he could down the hall. A long rail led off into the distance, until the oven fumes and glowing glass floor rods built up an obscuring haze. Mr. Grey and Ms. Maysey helped Tom into a seat on the cart, and Mr. Grey squeezed in beside him. Death boarded and sat down on the other side, next to Ms. Maysey. He looked back to the faeries standing by the door.
“Sorry gentry. Full up. You’ll have to catch the next one,” said Death. He cackled, threw the lever forward, and set the cart rolling away.
As they were leaving, Mr. Grey heard one faerie say to the other, “Say, did you know Not-Existing had attendants?”
Death scowled. When they’d gotten out of earshot he muttered, “I’ve told them a hundred times; Not-Existing is Dad’s name…”
While Death manned the cart lever, Ms. Maysey reached down to the floor, and pulled at the clasps of a large, ruby-bedazzled suitcase. It jingled while she fiddled. She said, “Mr. Death, sir, how do you open this bag?”
“Maysey, Maysey. Don’t trouble yourself, Mousehair. Don’t worry your fingers. I’ll get it.”
“Thank you. That’s very considerate of my condition.”
“The bag’s for people normally, and people can’t open it.”
“What’s inside the bag?” asked Tom. He spoke with a faint, airy, just-found voice.
“Heh, a good question. Let’s just say, rubies.”
Death opened his suitcase. Ms. Maysey reached inside, pulled at the handle of Tom’s mallet, and drew it out enough for him to see. She said, “Look Tom, we got your stuff back! You’ll shortly be free.”
Tom, meanwhile, had been trying to get Mr. Grey to stop wavering; to get Mr. Grey down from three faint silhouettes, to a single solid one. He did smile at Ms. Maysey while she struggled under the handle. He said, “Thank you, Ms. Maysey. Thanks to all of you for this, it’s been stuffy here.” Tom smiled at Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey watched Death closely. He said, “Mr. Death, I’ve a question.”
“Shoot, Slick.”
Mr. Grey winced. “Why’s it so stuffy? It’s an oven in the sky. I get the heat rods, I’d guess they’re for flight. But why the fumey odor?”
“It’s the Queen’s prison. Where the evil stinks go. Where people get sent when that final smell’s on ‘em,” Death glanced at Tom.
“Nothing some cologne can’t fix?”
“The stinkers in this flying fortress got special odors. Too dangerous for cologne. Too dangerous to let wander, even in a wood like Dreamland. A breeze off some of them could lay waste to a town. A destructive odor bomb from one wicked whiff. The faeries pump oven-cleaner fumes throughout the prison to subdue the smell.”
Mr. Grey went quiet with his thoughts for a moment. He thought of Jodee, and how she wanted to let anyone travel anywhere they pleased, regardless of scent. But he thought also of Tom, sitting at his side. Without turning to the big man, Mr. Grey said, “Even the worst smells, they only last for so long. I’m sure there’s treatment.”
Death smoked his cigarette.
Mr. Grey turned to Ms. Maysey. “Pardon, Ms. Maysey?”
She hardly jumped at all. “Oh, Yes?”
“Once we’re back at the hangar - and in the kettle - I’ll get Tom seated. Can you handle the engine? That will free up Death, he can man the wheel.”
“I think so… Only, that dragon engine is rather loud. Is that good for my hearing?”
“You could carry Tom I guess,” said Mr. Grey reluctantly.
Tom shook his head. Ms. Maysey said, “If you think your way the best?”
Mr. Grey nodded. Though he’d spoken to Ms. Maysey, his words had been for Tom’s benefit; to show Tom their plan of escape.
“Just hope we haven’t been marked,” said Death.
Mr. Grey said, “You fooled those faeries back there. You’ve got credentials.”
Death tossed his cigarette onto the tracks. “I can’t just nab anybody from under the faeries’ caps anytime the fancy takes me. Certain people, certain times.”
“Will they notice us?”
“We just gotta bounce before they telecard their other raths. If we escape before reinforcements show, we’ll be fine.”
Mr. Grey winced. Death had crossed King’s Law. Mr. Grey only hoped Queen’s Law applied instead, here in the queen’s prison, and that it differed.
They rolled down the long stone rail in their lasagna dish, past other heat-glass cell doors, holding other odorful prisoners. A lightening of the haze showed through a keyhole-shaped arch far ahead. Another moment of scraping wheel-rotations, and the three passed into a vast, open space.
The oven hangar.
Faeries in mint-uniform marched in duos and trios and troops. They walked among a plethora of giant, ceramic pots and pans, which sat on the massive grill-shelf of ribbed obsidian. Soup pots, stockpots, multipots; braisers and roasters and skillets; woks and sauté pans. One simple saucepan had just hummed to existence as they rode in. Its dragon engine growl echoed through the cavernous room. Its giant balloon expanded above into a solid teardrop shape. On one side of the hangar - the furthest from the four - the wall shuddered. It groaned open. The marching faeries all ducked to the floor or grabbed hold of nearby pots. The space gusted suddenly with hard, cold breezes from the high, inky, star-spackled night. A bread-shovel-launcher shot out from the floor. It cooped the readied saucepan up and launched it from the oven, into the sky. The shovel retracted. The door shut. The faeries stood and returned to their duties.
Their cart stopped at the track’s end. Death dismounted and helped Ms. Maysey out. Mr. Grey helped Tom to his feet. The reception-faerie scrutinized the four. Mr. Grey looked across the hangar. The tea-kettle they’d docked on sat across the vast-looking, oven-shelf gulf. Mr. Grey thought that, as long as Death hadn’t jinxed them, and King’s Law didn’t apply…
The four had collected their gear and stepped away from their cart, when the reception-faerie called at Death. “You! Ruby bag; the ruby bag, stop right there. Put your hands up!”
Mr. Grey saw the faerie point its wand. The other closest faeries turned their sour faces toward them; the four were hard to miss as the tallest ones in the oven. Several of the gentry pointed fingers at Ms. Maysey and Tom, and diminutive expressions of recognition spread from face to face. Limerick shouts rebounded off the dark glass walls. From being free and clear just a moment before, the four now found themselves surrounded. On all sides; a charging mass, of jeering, prancing, wand-wielding, pointy-hatted, faerie troops.
“Alas, we’re made,” said Death. He undid the clasps on his ruby suitcase and swung it open in an arc around them. Tom’s mallet clattered to the ground at Death’s feet.
And, following the mallet from the bag, there flew a thousand tiny rubies. The glinting pieces scattered across the ribbed glass oven shelf.
The faeries paused. Some looked confused. Others laughed and continued their charge. But the faeries came up suddenly short at the rubies, as though magnetically repulsed.
“Time to go,” said Death. He hefted Tom’s mallet and shoved the three toward their tea kettle. The faeries tried to close, but no matter how their little legs pushed, they couldn’t approach the scattered rubies. The troop scratched their heads and snapped their fingers, wondering, ‘How can this be?’
Then Mr. Grey’s enchantment wore off. The ruby shine of the gemstones faded; revealing, not rubies, but thousands of rusty, iron fasteners.
The faeries shrieked and jumped away. Some reeled and retched. Death hustled the group through the confusion. But Mr. Grey saw the way to their kettle still blocked. Some faeries were already gathering their senses and organizing into groups.
Mr. Grey leaned down with Tom on his shoulder. He grabbed a handful of fasteners. He said, “We’ll just have to improvise. Ward them off by hand.”
Death shook his head. “Nah. That’ll get us to the kettle, but the gentry will hit the sky right behind us.”
“Could we outfly them?”
“Doubt it. You take Tom. And his mallet.” Death passed the weapon into Mr. Grey’s free hand. “I’ll go with sweet mousehair here. Commandeer one of their pots; some moseying lug. We’ll draw them off.”
“You’d just be captured.”
“We’re not the ones they want. Besides, I’m Death. Stop me.”
Ms. Maysey said, “This seems a bit hostile. Could we maybe just stay? They don’t-”
Mr. Grey and Tom shook their heads, and Death rasped angrily. “Maysey, you timorous poltroon!” Ms. Maysey quivered. Her mice scuttled back from Death along her scalp. Death softened voice. “Calm yourself Mousehair. I’ve got you in my fingers. You’ll come out right.”
Mr. Grey said, “Are you sure,” But Death had already pulled Ms. Maysey along behind him. They ran for a vacant Dutch oven. Mr. Grey didn’t like leaving the pair - not alone with each other - but the cold, shriveled feel of the arm draped over his shoulders told Mr. Grey that Tom needed removed from the prison. Now. So Mr. Grey shouldered the big man, dragged the mallet in one hand, and held his rusted fasteners forth in his Tom-supporting arm.
By warding off the faeries with the iron pieces, Mr. Grey and Tom reached their kettle. He turned at the boarding ramp and dropped a few bolts at the base for good measure. He saw Death and Ms. Maysey already inflating their own balloon. Mr. Grey saw too that the faeries had started other pots and pans. The hangar hummed with the choral engine roar of many dragons.
Mr. Grey helped Tom up the ramp and settled him in the interior kettle-bowl as quickly and comfortably as he could. Tom still held much weight over his bones - though not as much as when they’d parted - and Mr. Grey had to do most of the situating. It took him many tocks and heavy breaths to get Tom into the bowl. When he raised his head back above the brim, the roar of all the starting dragon engines had mixed into a single, titanic thrum in his ears. He saw not one faerie remaining on the ribbed oven rack. Their ruby caps jutted from the brims of pots and pans like the blood-flecked bottom-teeth of carnivores.
Mr. Grey touched his arms to the control panel beneath the kettle-brim. He put his hands through the button presses and lever pulls to start the kettle. Being adept at the mechanical nature of the movement sequence, his engine soon added its first low purrs to the collective growl.
Mr. Grey could see that working fast wouldn’t be enough. The other pots were already roaring. Soon their tanks would boil, they’d fill their balloons. It didn’t matter how fast Mr. Grey started their own engine. He’d fallen too far behind just getting to the kettle. He looked across the way, to the Dutch oven commandeered by Death and Ms. Maysey. He couldn’t distinguish its purr through the general uproar, but Death seemed in cool command at the helm.
Death noticed Mr. Grey’s stare. An annoyed expression narrowed his socket eyes. Death’s mouth formed words, loud enough for Mr. Grey to hear, but in a way that seemed to cut through the waves of noise like a knife. The words hit Mr. Grey alone, like a tolling bell played just for him. “Be pleased to ogle the gentry’s barges!” Death yelled. “You stupid?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Grey in a regular voice. He knew, somehow, that Death would hear.
“My pot won’t boil with you watching. Watch the faeries’ pots!”
What a task for Mr. Grey!
Instantly he set his eyes moving from one faerie ship to the other. He kept his careful, fixed, stony expression roving over the hangar, striking shivers in the heating tanks of each pot and pan, even as they started to bubble. Mr. Grey felt himself gaining ground, making up for the head-start the faeries had reaching their ships.
Mr. Grey also saw that all his watching still wouldn’t get him off the oven rack before the faeries. Occasionally he had to look down at his own kettle, adjusting a knob or a lever as his tank got hotter. This, of course, set his own start back, and allowed the faerie ships to boil faster. Besides that, he could only watch one pot at a time. Cold as his eyes were, he couldn’t keep every pot grounded at once.
Death bell-voice tolled again, this time above the dragon din so that the faeries heard. “Gentry, gentry, chill. Let me do my job. Don’t I have some say? I’m Death, for witch’s sake!”
The faeries shouted back derisions, and jigged their arms side to side in mocking dances, and prepared for flight. Mr. Grey heard one faerie shout a warning curse. “Stand down you silly goose. It’s Queen’s law you buffoon. Dismount your oven Dutch, or you’ll be sorry soon!”
Death did not stand down. Mr. Grey watched a hazy fume rise from the Dutch oven’s center. Death shifted the deflated leather at the side until it caught the billowing gas. The balloon took a solid, teardrop shape over Death’s head. Death called to Mr. Grey in the directed voice.
“Keep Tom for now, Grey man. I’ll do the same for Mousehair. Maysey!” Death barked suddenly into the Dutch oven’s hull. “Man the cannons.”
Mr. Grey couldn’t see Ms. Maysey inside the ceramic hull of their ship. From the way the oven’s cannons drooped as it rose off the ribbed shelf, it certainly looked as if Ms. Maysey was the person manning them. Mr. Grey opened his mouth to ask Death how exactly they were going to escape… Without the bread launcher… With the oven door closed…
The process must have been automatic. As soon as Death’s pot lifted from the oven shelf - before Mr. Grey could question it - the immense wall of smoky glass opened with its primordial yawn. The dark night shone beyond once more. The cold air surged through the room once more. The bread launcher shot out once more, and the Dutch-oven balloon carrying Death and Ms. Maysey soared into the sky.
The door remained open. The cold, harsh, strong gusts bit through Mr. Grey’s robes - both his grey one and the faerie uniform overtop - to his skin. The gusts made every deflated balloon in the room warble. Mr. Grey could see, however; that several faerie pots were already lifting from the shelf; that their balloons were firmly shaped above them; that The Old Wind’s breezes would carry those ships through the sky, long before his kettle was airborne. Mr. Grey simply could not operate his kettle’s engine controls, and watch the boiling pots at the same time.
Then Tom was beside him; woozy, looking ghastly pale and weary, but beside Mr. Grey.
Tom said, “Hello, Mr. Grey.”
“Good to see you Tom.”
“I missed you buddy.”
“I missed you as well.”
“Need a hand with those controls?”
“Yes, please and thank you.”
A barrage of small ceramic pellets shattered on the stone side of Mr. Grey kettle. He glanced over the brim - ignoring the sea of skeletal Dreamland canopy far, far below - and looked at his hull. Not a crack. Mr. Grey breathed, relieved their balloon hadn’t taken the shot.
Mr. Grey threw an elbow mechanically forward. His tea kettle’s dragon engine growled high and spout-dived in an evasive maneuver. He glanced off their port side at their attacker. A flat-griddle-balloon. The long barrel handle sticking from its side wafted smoke from the latest grapeshot blast. Beyond it in the night sky, a hoard of other flying faerie pots blocked out stars as they swarmed on the tea kettle.
Mr. Grey leaned back, looked down, and called into the kettle bowl. “Tom, aim for the griddle pan. It’s in shooting range.”
Mr. Grey heard a grunt followed by a stone scrape. A side panel opened on their hull. He glanced over the brim again to see a stub nosed, round cannon barrel poke from the slot. A boom suddenly shook the insides and the outsides of the kettle, yawing them sideways. Smoke from the shot mired the air next to Mr. Grey, but he was able to see their cannonball fly shy of the skillet.
“Pretty close there, Tom. A little to the right next.”
Tom grunted again. Mr. Grey heard the slot slide closed. He threw another lever forward. All their dragon power ran to the steam exhaust and sent their kettle surging. The Wind’s high air gusts made Mr. Grey’s anchor shawl flutter in a line behind him as they flew.
From the kettle’s starboard aft, Mr. Grey heard the close, constant hum of another dragon engine. A look over his shoulder confirmed with his eyes what his ears said. Death and Ms. Maysey’s huge Dutch oven kept pace. Death stood coolly at the oven’s helm; his long, bristly chin hairs defying the blowing wind; a line of cigarette smoke trailing out behind him. Keeping one hand on the control panel, Death reached up with the other and casually held the cigarette out. He shouted into the oven’s hull. “Maysey! You two-timing, teeth-skinning, nine-lived mousehair. Fire back.”
A gust hit both pots and made Mr. Grey’s engine stutter. He still caught Ms. Maysey’s voice echoing from inside Death’s oven. “I’m trying, Mr. Death. These cannonballs are so heavy. Is this reallytruly good for my back?”
Death scowled, a monstrous expression on a face like his. He popped his cigarette back and threw two levers forward. His pot soared closer on Mr. Grey’s starboard side. Death shouted across the short gulf of space between tea kettle and Dutch oven.
“No good-” Death began. But they both veered suddenly. Another blast of grapeshot whistled through the air. The skillet on their rears had fired. Their engines purred in unison as they parted each to a side, then swooped back together. Death shook his bristles. “It’s no good. We’ll get peppered flying straight.”
Mr. Grey’s engine coughed out a sudden plume of sickly smoke. His balloon wobbled. Death rasped in alarm. Mr. Grey yanked back on a lever to counter their downward pitch. Just as suddenly, his dragon engine purred contentedly once more. The kettle evened-out. Mr. Grey heard Tom’s voice ring below. “Our coal stores are exhausted. I’m scooping dust now.”
“We’ll find a way, Tom. Keep trying with the cannons; knock them from the sky.” Tom grunted his assent. Another boom shook their kettle. The shot missed.
Mr. Grey turned to Death again; the dark shadow of his pot and the roar of his dragon had caught up once more. Mr. Grey said, “Could we go beneath the trees? Lose them in branches?”
“Too hard to maneuver,” answered Death. “Plus that Old Wind made their limbs all scrawny. The woods won’t sneak us.”
“We could-” Mr. Grey started to say, but swerved just in time to see a larger, ceramic orb thrum past his hull. Another faerie ship - a huge multi-pot - had flown into firing range. “You suggested splitting up.”
Death cast a worried look at Mr. Grey’s hull. “I reconsidered. Hoped we’d manage without.”
“I think I got it!” Ms. Maysey cried from inside Death’s vessel. Mr. Grey watched a row of slots open in an arc along the stone oven’s stern. An array of cannons, all of different sizes and shapes, poked from the slots like hares from their burrows.
The firmament shook.
The entire assortment fired at once. A host of crows exploded up from the trees below. A pyroclastic sheet of smoke billowed up the side of the oven. Grapeshot, cannonballs, stone forks, stone spoons, and stone dough-rollers rocketed through the sky. Ms. Maysey’s cannonade struck the middle of the pursuing faerie fleet. Mr. Grey watched a half-dozen faerie balloons pop, their pots sinking with a wheeze to the woods.
The attack threw Death’s pot far from Mr. Grey’s. It also got the faeries’ attention. Every squadron adjusted their pots’ courses. Between Mr. Grey’s kettle and Death Dutch oven, they focused squarely on the latter.
Death cursed, loud enough to startle a second murder of birds out of the trees below. He bell-tolled his voice across to Mr. Grey. “Looks like that decides it,” he called. “Keep Tom sharp.”
“I will,” said Mr. Grey. He glanced into the kettle’s interior. Tom looked sooty and ragged in the hot amber glow. But he added a smile to his broad face at Mr. Grey’s glance, and gave a thumbs-up.
Death said, “All right you gentry goons. First bake’s free.” He angled his balloon ship away from Mr. Grey’s. Mr. Grey watched it shrink, smaller and smaller; first a dark shape on the night sky; then a speck; then, vanished in the space between the stars. He worried about Ms. Maysey, and about Death. Mr. Grey faced forward, however, and focused on his own piloting.
The majority of the faerie fleet flew in Death’s wake. But one sky fortress - a double broiler balloon with a triple deck of cannons - swooped in Mr. Grey’s direction. In response Mr. Grey shoved an untapped lever. The dragon engine hiccupped. A cloud of steam and a gurgle surged from the spout. The kettle balloon blew furiously forward through the night. Mr. Grey’s shawl came unwrapped; he caught and held it in the tight, stony crook of his shoulder.
Tom yelled from below. “It’s getting awfully warm. Can you ease up some?”
“Sorry Tom, they’re still behind,” answered Mr. Grey. He looked back. The double broiler was gaining despite Mr. Grey’s loosing the throttle. The top row of stone barrels rotated to face their kettle.
Mr. Grey stared blankly forward for a moment, thinking. The gusts tried to pull tears from his eyes. Tried… stone is hard to wring. He pulled back on the throttle and called into the hold. “Tom, I have one idea.”
“Anything to stop the heat. ”
“We might crash a bit.”
“Well let’s just hope that we don’t.”
Mr. Grey nodded, more to himself than to Tom. “When I tell you to, you’ll need to stop the engine. Then start again fast.”
“I’ll try my hardest.”
Mr. Grey let the balloon kettle fly at a steady pace through the dark. A slow speed. He wanted the broiler close. He turned and watched. By then all three rows of the broiler-fortress’ cannons aimed their way.
Mr. Grey waited.
He saw the surge of smoke and shunt of the broiler. It had fired. Before the thunder reached them, Mr. Grey said, “Now Tom.”
Tom hadn’t understood the words, but got the message. He cut the engine. Their leather balloon went limp. Their pot dropped from the sky. When the shockwave of the broiler-barrage reached them, it arced over a silent kettle. The volley of grapeshot and cannonballs flew harmlessly above.
Mr. Grey craned his head neck out. He looked down. He watched - grey mustache flaring - as the canopy of branches rushed them; closer, closer, closer…
With a crunch they blew through the top layer of wood. Mr. Grey said, “Now Tom.” Again the big man understood. Their engine sputtered. The ground surged at them; closer, closer, closer… Slower…
Their kettle stopped just shy of root-and-soil impact. Mr. Grey shoved every lever forward. The pot chugged ahead, beneath the skeletal canopy. When he looked to the sky, he saw the broiler following their original track. It passed over where they’d crashed through the canopy. The broiler flew in one direction; they flew under the branches in another. Mr. Grey had guessed correctly. The smoke from the broiler’s barrage had obscured the faeries’ view; just for a moment. He’d used that moment to drop, where they wouldn’t expect to find the kettle.
It seemed they’d evaded the faerie fleet.
Mr. Grey finally released an unconsciously-held breath, after they’d coasted under the canopy for some moments. He brought the kettle gradually above the trees to stop their branches from thunking hollowly on his balloon. “I think we made it,” said Mr. Grey.
Tom’s head joined him above the brim. He coughed and winced with pain, but forced a smile. “Well done Mr. Grey.”
“Oh, not much trouble,” Mr. Grey turned his attention forward, inwardly happy. He watched the sea of skeleton trees roll beneath them.
“And during an eclipse too.”
“Tom… I don’t think those happen. Not here in Dreamland.”
“Hmm, I think you’re right.”
Mr. Grey turned back in time to see a skillet-shaped stone pan cross the moon. In time to see the trail of smoke drift off the handle-barrel. In time to hear the sharp crack of the fired grapeshot. In time to see and hear that grapeshot puncture their balloon.
The tea kettle twisted in a nosedive.