Whatever the cramped dimensions of this little dump, whatever the antique mismatched furniture and the small, furry bedfellows, you can’t deny it’s got location. The morning sunshine streaks through the window. The window itself peeks toward the sea. In the silence that settles between Lindquist and me, the surf reaches in and says rush, rush. I could almost call it magical. I could almost start to like this place, and I’ve only spent five minutes. But isn’t that the point? To make me comfortable. To make me woozy with contentment. She’s no fool, Irene Lindquist. She brought me here for a reason, just as I’ve come here for a reason, and the question is, who will find out the other one’s secrets first?

Lindquist stands and watches me with those stiletto eyes. Her silvery hair is still damp from the sea. The scar is on the shadowed side of her face, and the other side is taut and perfect. She glances at her watch, then the window. “Well, make yourself at home. Should be breakfast in the kitchen still, just ask Lani to make you up a plate. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Are you heading back out on your surfboard or something?”

She smiles and reaches for the doorknob. “No. Just a very important errand. And when I get back, you’d better be ready to answer some questions.”

As soon as the door closes, I jump from the bed and head for the window. Irene strides across the grass, all long legs and purpose, to greet a pair of towheaded children in prim school uniforms, streaking toward her from some back door, dragging their satchels. One is a boy, one a girl. I suppose they’re about seven or eight years old, but then I’m not all that familiar with children. Lindquist kisses their blond heads and takes each little hand. She appears to be answering questions as she leads them to the Buick in the driveway. Children do ask questions, I know that much.

How nice, I think. A new brother and sister for Leo.

Another thing nobody bothered to mention to me.

Aviatrix by Eugenia Everett (excerpt)

March 1928: California

During the drive back to Santa Monica, Irene asked Sam Mallory question after question. She wanted to know about the mechanics of flight, how it was possible that so heavy an object as an airplane could get itself aloft and stay there.

“It’s called lift,” he said. “If you look at a wing sideways, it’s not flat, is it? It’s shaped like—well, like a teardrop. A teardrop, all stretched out. The wind flowing over it has to go faster than the wind underneath. So if you’re going forward fast enough—pushing enough air around your wings—you get this force called lift.”