Grandpa Thomas had been a member of the Covenant of St. George. Not that he’d fit in very well, being the sort to question authority whenever he could get a word in edgewise. His travels had been the Covenant’s last-ditch attempt to find something he could do to make himself useful: roam the world documenting the cryptid populations they had failed to find or eradicate, and then come home to England with his notes, making them available to the newest generation of monster-killing bastards in need of easy targets. Instead, he’d sworn up and down that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anything “unnatural” while he was traveling, and that he was ready for a nice, sedentary assignment. Somewhere out of the way, where he could work on his memoirs and maybe perfect his masterwork on the snake cults of the world.

He’d been lying, of course. His guides to the cryptids of every continent had formed the seed of our family library, and we’d been improving and expanding them ever since. If Grandma Alice ever proved herself to be right—if she ever brought him home—he’d find that his habit of dry, slightly amused scholarship had spawned generations of extremely earnest imitators. I liked to think that he’d be pleased.

Grandpa Thomas’ stay in Australia only lasted two years, from 1950 to 1952. During that time, he’d nearly been killed by the Thirty-Six Society—twice—before becoming an honorary member, which may have been the beginning of his final separation from the Covenant of St. George. It’s hard to swear to uphold the ideals and goals of two completely disparate organizations, and from reading his account of his Australian visit, I think he liked the Thirty-Sixers better. He certainly described them in more consistently positive terms, and used the word “wanker” a lot less.

During those two years, Grandpa Thomas traveled all over the continent, documenting dozens of creatures, plants, and hostile rock formations. Most of them wanted to kill him and none of them succeeded, which means Australia could be considered a sort of “trial by fire” for his eventually being allowed to marry my grandmother.

The thing that most caught my attention as I read was a passage in the introduction to his guide to Australia’s flora, fauna, and silicate life:

“Do not be fooled by the presence of sand, grass, and clouds; do not be soothed into carelessness by the familiar shapes of sharks swimming in the water off the coast, or the pleasant silliness of the fairy penguins riding in with the evening tide,” said the text. “This is not your home: this is not a room you have visited before, transformed by new curtains and a few new pieces of furniture. This is an alien world that happens to share a planet with our familiar climes, and to lose your focus is to, very probably, lose your head. As I am sure you would like to keep the latter, hold tight to the former, and do not let Australia’s many natural beauties lead you astray.”

I sighed and closed the book, looking at Shelby—the greatest of Australia’s natural beauties—as she slept in the seat next to mine. Her face was utterly relaxed, unlined in her contentment. She looked more beautiful than anything else in this dimension or any other, with her long blonde hair tangled in front of one eye and her mouth hanging just a little open. I tucked the book into the pocket of my seat, reached up to turn off the reading light, and leaned over to rest my head against her shoulder. There would be plenty of time to read before we reached land.

We were traveling to another world, after all.

Shelby woke me when the stewards came around with dinner. I fell asleep again after that, and woke a few hours later to find her hunched over her computer, typing rapidly. I sat up, yawning, and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand before I asked, “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” she said, not looking away from her screen. “How did we live in an age before inflight Wi-Fi? It must have been like being back in caveman times, all silence and no shouting.”

“I think cavemen shouted a lot,” I said, yawning again. “Okay, I would commit a felony for a cup of coffee.”

“There’s a self-serve kitchenette a bit down the plane,” said Shelby, pulling her laptop into her actual lap and contorting herself in a way that would have been impossible in anything smaller than a business class seat. I found I was unable to make myself stand up, more interested in tracing the tangled lines of Shelby’s legs than I was in getting the caffeine my brain so desperately needed.

Shelby caught me staring and grinned. “Eyes up, and get moving. I want you half-awake when you get back. We have some strategy to plan.”

“Yay,” I said, without enthusiasm, and finally stood, squeezing through the strip of space between Shelby and the wall in order to reach the aisle. “Do you want anything while I’m up?”

“Bring me a granola bar or something.” Shelby uncoiled herself again, resting her toes lightly on the plane floor as she returned her attention to her laptop. “Maybe an apple.”

“I’ll bring whatever I can find,” I said, and started down the aisle toward the promised kitchenette.

Domestic airplanes are basically designed to keep people seated, settled, and sedated for the duration of flight. If they could, they would install catheters in the seats and strap the people down from takeoff until landing. International flights are a little different, due to the part where sometimes people’s veins explode if they sit still in a pressurized cabin for too long. (This may be a small exaggeration—emphasis on “small,” not “exaggeration.” Deep vein thrombosis is the silent killer of the long-haul flight.) To combat this, international carriers often encourage people to get up, move around, and keep their blood circulating normally. Sure, it means the aisles get a little crowded from time to time, and it makes the TSA nervous, but better that than a bunch of dead passengers.

I inched along the aisle, careful not to hit any of our sleeping business class companions in the head, and made my way into the small, brightly lit alcove of our private kitchenette-slash-minibar. Unlike the self-serve zones in coach, our beverage selection included white wine and a selection of Australian beers, which was denuded enough to tell me that some of our fellow passengers were going to wake up with impressive headaches. Or maybe not: many of them were Australian, after all, and Shelby could drink me under the table, the floor, and possibly the Earth’s crust.

The whole thing was nicely designed and laid out. Refrigerated crisper drawers held fruit, small cakes, and an assortment of cheeses and sliced meats, while individually wrapped packets of mixed nuts and granola bars were isolated off to one side, where they wouldn’t pose a risk to people with allergies. I paused in the act of reaching for the cheese drawer, a sudden suspicion overtaking me. “Are there any mice in here?” I asked, loudly enough to be heard, but quietly enough that I wasn’t shouting to the entire section.