“It’s that stupid braking system,” Val Con said over her head. “All very well to have no electronics onship, but why the brakes must be the most primitive of hand-turned vents is a mystery.”

His voice was edged with wry irritation. Nova turned her head, but he was at the buffet, clattering covers and pouring tea.

“How’s your arm?” she asked.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling. “Better a bruise than tumbling out of control. And not bad enough to bother with the ’doc.” He gathered up cup and plate and sat down across from her. “it’s an odd thing, Nova—the craft is so light that my hand on the ground was sufficient pivot-point. If there were a more efficient way of braking… As it’s arranged now, the pilot may either steer or brake. And he may not brake quickly.”

She glanced up at him. “Where is Shan, by the way?”

“At the park, seeing to Araceli’s packing. He plans to race at the Little Festival.”

“He does?” Dismay sounded clearly in her voice.

Val Con lifted a brow. “No faith, denubia? It’s not is very good. If we could only resolve the braking—Ah—

Nova followed his gaze out the window and stifled a groan as she saw the too-familiar shape of Lady Kareen’s landau come to rest across the drive.

“Does my aunt read tine racing papers, do you think?” Val Con asked, eyes glinting mischief over the rim of his cup.

“Now, brother, have pity! Don’t make her any worse.”

“A bad little craft—and Shan no! Before breakfast?”

He rounded his eyes, face etched in surprise. “Why, Lady Nova! As if my aunt were ever other than perfectly delightful!”