Irene stared at the bright, wide interior of Hangar D and her airplane in pieces on the wooden floor. There was the silvery fuselage, there were the wings and the tail, the mighty engines, the crushed landing gear that would be replaced by a new one. Tools and rivets and everything else. She wasn’t thinking of the latest crackup; she thought about the flight to Rio de Janeiro, the way the city had looked when she plummeted down from the mountains to the landing strip, glazed in afternoon gold. How she had gazed through the window in wonder and remembered why she flew. Why flying mattered, and the rest of it was only the means to fly, the price she had to pay.

She spent all morning in the hangar, discussing the accident and the damage with the mechanics and with Rofrano, how long the repairs would take and how much they would cost, and then she went to the Burbank Hospital to visit Sophie and the new baby.

Sophie was in excellent spirits, as you might imagine. She was one of those women who gave birth like a peasant in the fields, and she was already disobeying the orders of the doctors and nurses by pottering around the hospital room, doing this and that. She carried the baby around like a small white-bundled football in the crook of her right arm. For some reason, this reminded Irene of Sam, who used to carry Sandy around the same way.

“She’s been an angel,” Sophie said, “although they’re generally angels at first, and then they wake up on the third day and turn your life upside down. Would you like to hold her?”

“I’d be afraid to.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sophie thrust the baby to Irene, who had no choice but to hold out her good arm and accept this present. “Open your eyes, Clarakins. That’s the most famous woman in the world holding you. And if you’re lucky, she might just teach you to fly someday.”

“Her father ought to teach her that.”

“No, I’d rather she learned from another woman. Octavian’s a darling and I adore him, but he can’t help condescend a little. He’d call her sweetheart or something, and she’d never learn properly. You taught me more about flying than my husband ever did.”

Irene thought about Sam, who had taught her to fly and never called her sweetheart. She peered into Clara’s face, which was squished shut and somewhat red, not at all like a baby in an advertisement. “Should I be doing anything? Is she breathing?”

“Of course she’s breathing.”

“How can you tell?”

“My dear,” said Sophie, “you just know. Now tell me about the airplane. What does Octavian say? Can it be fixed quickly?”