Aeolus blew from the east, in soft yet ceaseless gusts, and so the crowded company of the Jean-Baptist Lamarck simply drifted, borne by the aether, the better to conserve their fuel. During the flight to Castillo Bracamoros, Chloe had been too frightened to perceive the paradox of flotation in a hot-air balloon: at one with the wind, the voyager has no sensation of forward movement—but now she savored it. Seeking to experience the illusion in full, she peered downward through the larboard window, then invited Princess Akawo to do the same. Below the seemingly immobile gondola, the jungle was sliding west to east. Indeed, the whole planet appeared to be in motion, just as Galileo Galilei had insisted before the custodians of Christian physics, waving their torture instruments in his face, suggested that he might prefer to believe otherwise. “Now I know how it feels to be an eagle,” said Akawo. “Or an angel,” said Chloe. Doubtless there were differences between life aboard a flying-machine and imprisonment in Mephistropolis, but just then Chloe could not imagine what they might be.
