Orfeus sparkled a grin at him, leaning forward to twist one handle experimentally. “The whole world is glad I don’t dress like you do, pup.”

Faolan said nothing, but leaned forward, twisting the other handle. The bike roared into power so fast, Orfeus yelped, gripping hard to hang on. It didn’t move forward, but seemed to hang hovering, humming, suspended eagerly in the moment before movement. Orfeus exhaled, settling back down, slotting her feet into the grooves. She didn’t look at Faol’s doubtlessly smug face.

These were no gas-burning old hell-machines, certainly not as powerful as machines back in the Industrial ages, but sitting here, it felt more than powerful enough. Orfeus fitted her hand to the handlebar.

“Wait—” Faol said, and Orfeus twisted it experimentally.

The bike jerked forward, smooth and quick. Orfeus yelped. She hunkered down, staring ahead: those windows came forward far too fast, the big room blurring past her.

She slammed one foot down at random, then the other, and with a screech it braked. Orfeus was flung forward, flipping over the front of the bike to land hard on the ground.

For a moment, she sat there breathing. Faolan came and stood over her, didn’t offer her a hand up: doubtless he thought she deserved this.

He had told her to wait back at Tinctora too. Both times, she should’ve listened. The Wolf wasn’t as stupid as Orfeus tried to pretend.

“That’s enough for today,” Faolan said coldly, and Orfeus stopped and blinked up at him. She hadn’t expected to burn through her chances quite that fast.

“Just a short flight?” she said, aching though she was. Faol crossed his arms, looking down at her. Looming taller than he really was.

“If you think you can handle it.”

And that made it a challenge. Orfeus hauled herself to her feet, even as her side screamed in protest.

She settled down on the bike and fitted her hands over the handles again, sitting up straight like she wasn’t afraid of being thrown. She didn’t twist the handle. Faolan strode past her, and there was a low purr. He cruised up on his own bike, leaning forward over the handles: smooth and easy and controlled.

She watched how he did it, watched like a hawk. He stopped, resting one foot on the ground. “Forward,” he said with insulting simplicity, twisting his hand in the air above the handle. “Steering is by moving these.” He moved the handles, back and forth. Orfeus set her teeth but listened. “The brake…” Was that a glimmer of dark grin? “The brake you’ve found already.”

“How does it fly?” Orfeus said, and Faol gestured to a dial of controls on the left handle.

“Hovering mostly, not true flight,” he said. “Up here it’s flight, but that expends energy.”