In the eleven years that she had been in charge of the city’s engines, Miss Rebbecca Pannicot had not once set foot in the council chambers. She could hardly be faulted on it, of course, for neither had a councilor set foot in the engine room. Once they had determined that she was the only one who could look after the engines, the council had dealt with the embarrassment of the city’s reliance on an eight year old girl in a typically Victorian fashion: they had simply never spoken of it again. She inherited her father’s bank accounts, and so the wage was paid as always and nobody besides small children and the few people on Rebbecca’s crew ever spared much thought for how the city stayed in the air.

That morning, Rebbecca had scrubbed herself cleaner than she could ever remember having been, and had dressed in the finest clothes she had ever owned, bought just the day before. Even so, it had taken her three hours to convince someone to let her in to see Councilor Proom. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Councilor Proom still remembered the day he had carried out the council’s wishes and told little Rebbecca Pannicot that she could take up her father’s job.
“Ah Miss Pannicot,” he looked up as she entered the room. “I trust all is well? We do not see you here often.”
“You do not see me here at all, sir,” she said. “This is the first time.”
“To what do we owe this honour, then, young lady?”
“I’m afraid there’s a problem, sir. We’re going to have to land the city.”