I awoke, dear reader, to the intimate embrace of a steamer-trunk labelled FRAGILE—PORCELAIN BUTTER DISHES, HANDLE WITH PRAYER. One corner of said trunk pressed itself against my ribs with all the persistence of an officious aunt; another dug into the small of my back like a disgruntled badger. Somewhere overhead a whistle shrieked, gears clacked, and the whole hold of the HMAS Dapper Duchess juddered as though the vessel had attempted a tap-dance mid-air and thought better of it.
For a breath or two I lay blinking at the dusty slats of a packing crate, trying to remember three useful facts: my name (Harold Forsythe, known to friends—should any survive this voyage—as Hal), my location (apparently the baggage deck rather than the genteel passenger lounge for which I'd purchased a third-class ticket), and whether my skull was supposed to ring like a dinner gong each time my heart beat.
A thump, a hiss of steam, and a faintly floral perfume drifted through the cracks. I twisted, dislodging a cascade of hatboxes, and poked one eye between boards just in time to witness a pair of booted ankles striding past—dainty, determined, and unquestionably female. They paused. Boots turned. A voice, brisk but musical, addressed the gloom.
"Sir? Are you quite all right in there? The manifesto lists one male passenger, and you appear to be him."
I cleared my throat. "More or less intact, thank you. Might I trouble you for a door?"
Moments later the crate exploded in pleasant sunlight and lavender talcum powder. A stewardess, cap set at a jaunty angle, offered a vial of smelling-salts. I attempted a manly refusal; she waved the bottle beneath my nose anyhow, with the gentle determination of a nurse dosing a recalcitrant toddler. The world snapped into sharp focus—brass pipes, stacked trunks, a cat's-cradle of steam conduits overhead—and, most alarming of all, three more stewardesses peering round her shoulders like curious cherubs.
"Jumping gyroscopes," breathed the leader, clipboard glowing with rune-light as she scanned me. "Male biometrics confirmed. Ladies, we've netted the genuine article."
A pneumatic tube, ivory white and humming, jutted from the corridor wall. The tallest stewardess—she of the clipboard—scribbled something feverishly, rolled her note, and dispatched it with a whoomp.
"Telegram direct to the capital registry," she explained. "Protocol requires immediate notification when an un-escorted gentleman surfaces. We wouldn't want the Guilds caught flat-footed." Her tone held equal parts professional pride and barely concealed glee.
Another produced a ledger. "Would you sign the flight log, sir? Right there, beneath… well, beneath nothing. No men this quarter."
I obliged, pen scratching, while they whispered.
"Look at his handwriting—positively dashing."
"Do you suppose he needs water? Biscuits?"
"Guardian seal status?"
That last query tightened my stomach. I possessed, at present, precisely zero guardians—female or otherwise. One does not, after all, write ahead to distant cousins begging wardship merely on the off-chance one is catapulted into celebrity.
They guided me up an iron staircase to the gangway, sunrise pouring through stained-glass portholes. Steam curled round our ankles like friendly ghosts. Stewardess Number Two produced a contraption resembling a harness crossed with a life-belt and attempted to buckle it round my waist.
"Regulated Manoeuvre 14-B, sir," she chirped. "All male passengers must be clipped to the safety rail whilst on deck."
"I say—most considerate, but surely unnecessary?" I reached past her to open the hatch for the quartet. Chivalry, I reflected, costs nothing and often saves awkward tripping.
The effect was akin to detonating a small drama bomb. Gasps, papers fluttering, one stewardess dropping her clipboard entirely.
"That's reckless male initiative, sir," the harness-bearer whispered, cheeks scarlet. "Door-holding is a certified hazardous act—edge impact risk to unprotected cranium."
I retreated, hands raised. "Dashed sorry. Old habit."
They consulted a pocket rule-book, tiny gears on its spine whirring. A pencil ticked First Infraction, Class C—Spontaneous Gallantry. My heart sank.
While they argued whether a cautionary pamphlet or twelve hours' chaperone duty best addressed my crime, I caught sight—through a brass-rimmed porthole—of the wireless room. An operator, spectacles aglow with rune-script, fed my earlier telegram into a citywide broadcaster. In the distance, across a pale-pink sky, dozens of clockwork humming-birds launched from rooftop lofts, wings flickering heliograph flashes as they arrowed toward the metropolis. I imagined newsboys cranking headline presses, duchesses calling emergency milliners, and politicos re-calculating dowry budgets faster than you could say gentle-crafter licence.
My existence, it seemed, had become public property before I'd even located a decent cup of tea.
By the time the dirigible moored, every bolt and bracket trembled with excitement. The stewardesses—now part guard detail, part fan club—escorted me down the disembarkation ramp. Steam billowed; flash-lamps fizzed; somewhere a distant bell chorus peeled in what I chose to interpret as welcome rather than alarm.
"Remember, sir," hissed the harness-bearer, unclipping me at the final step, "bow only if you mean it. One wrong inclination and half the pier will think you're proposing."
I had just enough time to nod before a phalanx of tripod-mounted cameras scuttled forward, lenses blinking like startled owls. Behind them rolled a veritable tide of automatons—press drones, guild valets, even a self-propelled bouquet cart—all converging upon the freshly landed rarity.
I squared my shoulders, squinted into the blaze of flash-powder, and allowed myself a wry grin.
"Jolly good," I murmured. "Looks as though the welcoming committee has multiplied since breakfast."
And with that, dear reader, the gears of destiny—and several dozen newsreel cranks—whirred inexorably into motion.