Below them it looked as if some giant’s toy box had been upended, scattering rows and rows of little blocks in a dense hodgepodge. The rows were actually solid walls of towering buildings, an endless maze of streets. New York City. The very heart of it. And cooled by the cloud cover between the balloon and the sun, the Katie Moira was making a rapid descent.
Rory groaned and grabbed for her knife. Miss Glory stole a peek downward.
“Ooohh, Fifth Avenue. All the shops. Miss Kavanaugh, I don’t suppose you could land?”
“No!” Rory slashed at a sandbag, but the balloon was still dropping. There was not much ballast left. At this rate, they were soon going to slam into the rooftop of one of the taller buildings. Reverend Allgood appeared to have fainted, but Rory hadn’t time to concern herself over the fact.
“Throw everything out of the balloon,” she shouted to Erno and Glory.
Everything was not much, since no equipment or provisions had been loaded for this short trip. But the champagne went, along with Rory’s compass, barometer and telescope, even the seats of the gondola.
To Rory’s relief, the balloon steadied itself, but she knew it couldn’t last long. The bottom of the gondola scudded perilously near the high, sloped walls of the Croton Reservoir, andastonished sightseers on the walkway trained their field glasses toward the balloon.
“Should we make a jump for it?” Erno asked, dubiously eyeing the reservoir’s expanse of blue water.
“Are you crazy?” Rory cried. Shading her eyes with her hand, she scanned the distance for some safe place to land. Before her stretched nothing but Fifth Avenue. The balloon’s sudden appearance had shaken even the New Yorkers out of their indifference.
Traffic had snarled up on the avenue. Rory could make out horses plunging in terror, the flow of carriages brought to a halt. Heads tipped back as everyone stared and pointed upward. The shrill sound of a policeman’s whistle drifted to Rory with startling clarity.
She spared one glance for the chaos she was creating, her gaze shifting to the distance. Perhaps they could come down in Central Park. She grimaced. Rory hated landings in trees. She had broken her arm that way once. She had been lucky it hadn’t been her neck.
But the Katie Moira had leveled off enough to give her hope. If her memory served her correctly, the land beyond the park should be a vista of open fields. Crossing her fingers, Rory murmured a brief prayer.
But to her dismay, she saw that it had been far too long since she had been north of Central Park. The area had changed. No more was it the expanse of green country she recalled. The mansions of the wealthier element of the city now sprawled out even here.
“What a way to scrape up acquaintance with the Vanderbilts,” Rory muttered. She tensed, realizing the balloon was losing altitude again, drifting ever closer to one of the larger mansions.
It was a fantastic structure of massive white stone walls and towers, like a chateau that should have been nestled somewhere along the banks of the Seine. Rory thought it looked ridiculous near the bustle of Manhattan, but at least the mansion boasted something many city dwellings did not—a broad lawn surrounded by an iron fence.
“Brace yourselves,” Rory warned her passengers. “I am going to try to bring us down over there.”
“There?” Erno gasped when he saw where she was pointing. “But Miss Kavanaugh, that’s Morrison’s Castle.”
“So?” Rory started gathering up the length of rope and grappling hook.
“It is only that I have heard strange things about Mr. Morrison. He doesn’t like trespassers.”
It was the second time that day someone had told her that. Vague memories chased through Rory’s mind of Angelo’s foolish chatter, something he had been reading out of the papers about a sinister millionaire who hated reporters. But as the Katie Moira dipped lower, the recollection was of little importance. The balloon was coming down on this Morrison’s property whether he liked it or not, whether Rory liked it or not.
And she didn’t. The lawn was far from ideal. It was crowded with a lot of damn fool people having a garden party. Lilting orchestra music wafted upward, but the strains of the waltz abruptly ceased. As the Katie Moira drifted overhead, some of the party guests started to point and shriek.
Rory yanked on the valve line and gritted her teeth. She had a feeling this was not going to be one of her better landings. As the balloon surged downward, she bent over the side and tossed out the grappling hook, trying to catch the iron fence. But she missed, snagging a slender tree instead.
Rory swore as she watched the sapling bend double. It would still have been all right if those idiots below had had thewit to seize on to the balloon’s rope lines and help haul her down. But most of those gentlemen were doing little but gaping upward beneath the brims of their high-crowned hats, the ladies gesturing shrilly with their parasols.
One tall, broad-shouldered man shoved his way forward and attempted to grab the rope, but it was already too late. The sapling tore free of the ground, and the Katie Moira lurched onward, dragging the tree, roots and all. Erno and Miss Glory lost their balance, tumbling atop the prostrate Reverend Allgood.
Rory clutched the side of the gondola, catching a dizzying glimpse of the havoc she was wreaking below. Her tree “anchor” plowed through linen-covered tables, sending china flying. The orchestra dove for cover, abandoning their violins. Silk-clad ladies ran shrieking, likely faster than they had ever moved in their lives.
“Grab the ropes, you fools. Grab the—” Rory’s cry was cut off as the balloon rapidly lost altitude, causing the gondola to smack against the ground. Rory lost her footing, joining the heap of flailing arms and legs that belonged to her passengers.
The Katie Moira leaped upward, as though making one last desperate effort to regain the skies. Rory struggled, elbowing Erno sharply as she grabbed frantically for the valve line. The gondola rocked and Rory tugged harder at the line than she had intended.
Like a prizefighter doubled over by a blow to the stomach, the great balloon gave up the last of its air with a mighty whoosh. Someone screamed. Rory was not sure if it was Miss Glory or the Reverend Allgood.
She had no chance to figure it out before the gondola plunged downward. Her breath left her lungs in a rush as the basket slammed into the ground with bone-jarring force.
Cobwebs of darkness danced before Rory’s eyes. She thought she was going to pass out. But she fought the sensation. She retained enough awareness of her situation to realize her face was pressed against the ground, blades of grass prickling her cheek.
