The mooring dock was exactly where Goldilocks had said it would be—a private ptform extending from a cliff face near her father's estate, the hangar built into the rock itself. Little John crouched behind a cluster of ornamental shrubs, Murdoch beside him, both of them studying the security.

  "That's it?" Murdoch whispered, gesturing at the single enchanted lock on the hangar's side entrance. "No guards? No wards?"

  "Rich people," Little John muttered, already moving toward the door. "They think money's enough to keep them safe."

  The lock was expensive—he could tell by the intricate runic patterns etched into the brass—but it wasn't complicated. Just showy. He pulled his picks from his belt and got to work, feeling for the mechanism's rhythm. Murdoch kept watch, though there was nothing to watch for. The ptform was deserted, silent except for the wind.

  The lock clicked open.

  They slipped inside.

  The hangar was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the gss panels in the roof. And there it was—Goldilocks' airship, three massive disks stacked vertically, connected by what looked like open staircases spiraling up through the center. The gss walls gleamed, and even in the low light, Little John could see the fresh aurora gss panels that designer had been installing. The whole thing looked like someone had taken three enormous coins and banced them on top of each other.

  "Well, damn," Murdoch breathed. "This is a fancy piece of equipment."

  Little John approached the lower disk, examining the entrance. Another lock, this one built into a curved gss door that slid on enchanted tracks. He knelt, studying it. Better than the hangar lock, but not by much. These people really did think their wealth made them untouchable.

  The lock gave with a soft click.

  The door slid open with a hiss, and they stepped inside.

  Little John stopped.

  The interior was *enormous*.

  From the outside, each disk had looked maybe thirty feet across. Inside, the bottom deck stretched out in a vast circle—easily the size of a football field. The ceiling arched high overhead, enchanted lights beginning to glow softly as they detected movement. Plush seating areas were arranged in clusters, expensive rugs covering polished wood floors. A full bar stood against one curved wall, bottles glinting behind crystal. Windows wrapped the entire circumference, giving a three-hundred-sixty-degree view.

  "Magic," Murdoch said, his voice filled with appreciation. "Has to be. No way this fits in that shell."

  Little John moved toward the central spiral staircase, his boots silent on the thick carpet. He could see up through the open middle—the second deck visible above, then the third deck beyond that, all of them the same impossible size. This wasn't a ship. This was a flying mansion.

  "Come on," he said. "Control deck's at the top."

  They climbed. The middle deck was even more vish—the aurora gss panels were installed here, casting faint rainbow refractions across white furniture and decorative pnts in enormous pots. A dining area took up one section, the table long enough to seat twenty. Everything was cream and gold and crystal.

  The top deck was open-air, the roof retractable, but even this level was massive. The pilot's console sat in the center, a circur panel of controls surrounding a comfortable chair. Navigation enchantments glowed softly across the instruments. Murdoch went straight to it, his hands moving over the controls, his eyes scanning the readouts.

  Little John stayed near the stairs, looking out over the edge at the hangar below. Through the gss walls, he could see all the way down through the three decks to the hangar floor. The view made his stomach drop slightly. They were high up, even sitting still.

  "Yeah," Murdoch said, settling into the pilot's chair. "I can fly this."

  "You sure?"

  "Please." Murdoch's grin was sharp. "This thing's got better enchantments than some of the flying fortresses I piloted in the great war, but the principles are the same. Altitude, direction, speed, stabilization." His fingers danced over the controls. "It's beautiful. Probably handles like a dream."

  "Then let's go."

  "Alright, hold on." Murdoch cracked his knuckles, then reached for a rge lever on the console. "We're about to go for a ride."

  He pulled it.

  Above them, the hangar's roof panels began to slide open with a deep grinding sound, moonlight spilling down onto the ship. The deck hummed beneath Little John's feet as the enchantments engaged. He felt the ship lift, smooth and steady, rising straight up through the opening.

  Movement below caught his eye.

  Through the gss floor, through all three decks, he could see straight down to the hangar entrance. A figure had just run in—small, fast, that golden blonde hair catching the light.

  Goldilocks.

  She skidded to a stop on the hangar floor, her head snapping up. Even from this distance, even through the yers of gss and deck, Little John could see her face clearly. She was staring up at the ship, up at *him*, and he could see the exact moment recognition hit.

  Her mouth opened slightly. Confusion flickered across her features—*is that...?*

  Then shock. Her hand came up to her chest.

  *Oh god, it IS him.*

  Little John held her gaze. He didn't look away, didn't duck out of sight. He just stood there at the railing of the top deck, watching her watch him. The ship continued to rise, smooth and silent, clearing the hangar roof.

  He smiled at her. Just a small one, casual, like they'd run into each other at a market.

  Her expression shattered into something raw—betrayal and disbelief mixing together, her whole body going rigid. She took a step forward, then another, as if she might somehow reach the ship, might somehow stop this.

  But they were already fifty feet up, then seventy, then a hundred.

  Little John turned away from the railing.

  Murdoch was already adjusting their heading, the ship tilting slightly as he turned them toward the open sky. "Robin's gonna love this thing," he said, grinning.

  The ship accelerated, the wind picking up as they left the mooring ptform behind.

  ---

  Rapunzel y naked in her bed, feeling the pleasant ache in her muscles and the warmth of Donatello beside her.

  The date had been wonderful. He'd made her ugh—actually ugh, the kind that and came from her belly and made her eyes water. He'd asked questions about her shop, about her pnts, and he'd listened. Really listened. Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  And then they'd come back here.

  *It's been so long,* she thought, staring up at the ceiling. *Years.*

  Her body still tingled with satisfaction. She'd forgotten what it felt like—this particur kind of contentment. The physical release, yes, but also the connection. The feeling of being wanted. Of being seen as a woman, not just the herbalist.

  Donatello had been... good. Attentive. Gentle when she needed it, and not so gentle when she didn't. He'd touched her like she was something precious, and she'd let herself fall into it. Let herself feel without overthinking.

  She turned her head slightly, looking at him.

  He was half-asleep, his breathing deep and even, one arm draped across her waist. His hair was mussed, and there was a faint smile on his lips even in sleep. He looked younger like this. Peaceful.

  *He's handsome,* she admitted to herself. *And he's kind. And he makes me feel normal.*

  Her gaze drifted to the nightstand.

  The book sat there. That damned book with its warnings and its smudged entries and its fragments of terror from a hundred years ago.

  *"Seventeen dead."*

  She should read it. She should be reading it right now, searching for answers, trying to understand what was happening with the grid, with the system, with whatever was coming.

  Rapunzel reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the worn leather cover.

  The clock on her dresser ticked quietly. Donatello shifted beside her, his arm tightening slightly around her waist in his sleep.

  She could always read it tomorrow. The book had been around for hundreds of years. A bit more time wouldn't hurt anything. One more night wouldn't make a difference.

  And she had a good-looking man in her bed. A man who'd given her toe-curling orgasms, who'd made her ugh, who'd looked at her like a woman.

  *When was the st time I let myself have this?*

  The answer was depressing enough that she didn't want to dwell on it.

  Rapunzel pulled her hand back from the book.

  *Tomorrow,* she told herself firmly. *I'll read it tomorrow. Tonight, I'm going to enjoy this.*

  She turned onto her side, curling into Donatello's warmth. Her hand slid across his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

  He stirred, his eyes opening slowly.

  "Hey," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. His arm pulled her closer. "You okay?"

  "Better than okay," Rapunzel whispered.

  She leaned in and kissed him—slow at first, then deeper. She felt him respond, felt his body waking up against hers.

  When she pulled back, his eyes were dark and alert, and that smile was back on his lips.

  "So," Rapunzel said, her own smile turning pyful. "You ready for round two?"

  His grin was immediate and bright. "Yes."

  She kissed him again, and this time she let herself fall completely into it.

  The book could wait.

  And Tonight was hers.