I started. The man was young—no older than twenty—and with his round, boyish features he looked like a mere babe.
“Do come in, Mr. Sheridan. We have much to discuss.” His expression hardened. Nothing about him looked boyish now. There was power at play in this room—pushing and pulling like the tide on a river—but I didn’t know who was playing for what or what was at stake. So I did as I was told, and with my cap gripped tight, I moved toward the table.
From the corner of my eye I could see Cochran’s neck bulging—see his face turning scarlet. “Why,” he snarled at Lang, “is this boy in here?”
“I daresay,” Lang declared, his voice overloud, “but do you not have a shift in the pilothouse?” He leveled a gaze of flint and steel at the captain. “Miss Cochran remains at the helm, yet I do believe I heard the watch bell chime a full . . .” Lazily he withdrew a pocket watch and examined the time. “A full twenty minutes ago, Captain.” Lang bared a fake smile. “I will admit I am still learning the ways of ship life, but I do believe that makes you late.”
I held my breath, unable to look away from Cochran. Fury trembled through his face, and his shoulders rose and fell in time to his breathing. But just when I thought he would let loose like a tornado, he pushed away from the table and stormed to the door. It slammed shut behind him, rattling the lamps and paintings.
My air hissed slowly out, and when I finally turned wide eyes on Lang, it was to find the young man completely unruffled. “Do have a seat, Mr. Sheridan. And also, please help yourself to the food.”
That was when I saw a platter of breads and sliced meats on the table. My stomach growled as I dropped into a seat, and dammit if my bones didn’t sink right into that soft leather.
Lang pushed a biscuit at me. “Now we may speak freely. And you may eat.”
“Thank you. Sir.” I brought the flaky bread to my lips. The buttery smell alone could kill a man, and after a huge satisfying chomp, I stared expectantly at Lang.
But the young man wasn’t finished surprising me. “Coffee, Mr. Sheridan?”
I almost choked. “Uh,” I grunted through a full mouth, “sure. Thanks.” Then I watched in absolute awe as the heir to an enormous company and even more enormous fortune poured me coffee.
“How long have you been a striker?” Lang asked once he had set the pot back down.
I wiped crumbs from my mouth. “Uh, goin’ on a year now.”
His eyebrows arched high. “Only a year? And yet you’re already more adept at working the engines than the Chief Engineer. And Miss Cochran says you cover more than your fair share of engine duties. Is that correct?”
I didn’t answer, gulping back coffee instead. No, I didn’t like Murry much, but it also didn’t feel right to mud-sling. “We all do more than our fair shares in the engine room,” I finally said. “Ever since the other striker left.”
“You’re too nice.” Lang smirked. “Let me be frank with you, Mr. Sheridan. Are you interested in getting your engineer’s license?”
Now I did choke. Getting my license would make me a full engineer—and that would mean higher pay plus a permanent position. “Are you jokin’?”
He laughed. “Not in the least. And really—what a silly question. Of course you want your license.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head with the easy poise of a man with everything. “The thing is, Mr. Sheridan, the Lang Company needs talented engineers like yourself. The steamship industry is having a difficult time competing with locomotives for business, but we’re having an even more difficult time competing for workers. As such, when we find an individual with skill, we like to keep him. Why, you could have your license and be a Second Engineer in under a week.”
A week. I mulled that over, chewing at my biscuit until it was all gone—until Lang pushed another my way. I stared at the golden top with unseeing eyes. . . .
I could be the one giving orders. Me, Daniel Sheridan, could be a Second Engineer in one week. I should be overjoyed at the prospect. Being a licensed engineer was a lot to offer a sixteen-year-old. It was certainly more than I had ever hoped for, and it was a million miles away from the prison cell I’d left behind. . . .
So why did it feel like the biscuit was burning a hole through my stomach?
“What about Schultz?” I asked at last, glancing up at Kent. “He’s the Second Engineer now.”
“Ah, yes.” Lang’s hands dropped to the armrests. “I can see why you might assume I meant you’d be Second Engineer on the Sadie Queen, but no. You will not be replacing anyone here. In fact, once the race is over, there will be no Queen upon which to engineer.”
“Pardon?” I sat up taller. “I thought if the Queen won, then she’d get to stay on the water.”