Dylan's gaze shifts from the Stormwalker to Aleksandra and back again. From where she stands behind the other leg, she can see a frown crease in his forehead.

"You," he says, slowly, "piloted this barking contraption all the way to Switzerland?"

Her cheeks, already deep pink from the freezing Alpine air, flush with pride, and she fails to suppress a smile. "Not all the way - Klopp helped. But yes, a not inconsiderable part of the journey."

"But you're a girl!" he protests, dumbfounded. He shakes his head. "Whatever they teach princesses in Austria, it's not what they do where I'm from."

She lets out an almost inaudible sigh and sets her jaw. Alek is not entirely unused to these sorts of comments. "I told you, my family has enemies. My father insisted I learn for my safety. I imagine a Darwinist girl could quite easily fly one of those dreadful jellyfish."

Dylan actually laughs. "Not barking likely. A girl would just want to make pets of the beasties, and if you get too attached you can't use them properly. The lady boffin excepted, of course."

"I doubt you could pilot a Stormwalker," Alek sniffs.

The boy folds his arms. "Aye, alright. You're on."

"Mr Sharp?" Dr Barlow appears at the entrance to the courtyard. "You wouldn't be shirking your duties now, would you?

"No, ma'am, of course not. I'll be right there," Dylan says. "Don't think you've gotten out of this," he adds to Alek.

Ten years later, Dylan Sharp crashes his wife's first runabout in the grounds of Konopischt and declares walker-piloting a barking ridiculous business anyway.