Author's note: This will make more sense if you read The Blue Baron first, we're very far from the source material here.

"Fine, send her in."

Max stood facing a door with "PICTURES EDITOR" printed in heavy black letters on the frosted glass. She took a deep breath and straightened her collar, as the door opened and the secretary, a pretty blonde in a sleeveless dress, emerged, motioning her inside. The editor, a youngish man, sat behind a broad desk covered in photographs and scribbled sheets of paper. An open window behind him gave a good view of the streets far below, but admitted little fresh air, and the August heat was oppressive. He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, but his shirt was still visibly soaked under the arms. Max was glad for the relative airiness of her loose summer dress and cloche hat. He looked up at her impatiently as she sat in the chair facing his desk.

"You have your portfolio?" he asked. These newspaper men we always in a hurry.

"Yes, here," she said, handing him the slim book of photos. Almost all were recent city scenes: traffic, workers, merchants, people lounging in Central Park. Rich and poor. A few shots she'd taken aboard ship, and before that, back in England. Chloe smiling in full sun, sheep grazing in the background.

He took it and started quickly thumbing through it, scowling with concentration, occasionally nodding. "Done any retouching?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. She hated retouching photos. "At the back, I have a few before and after prints."

The man finished his perusal in silence, maintaining his impatient scowl. Finally he turned the last page, then closed the book and dropped it on the desk. "Competent," he said. "You have a good eye, but this isn't anything I don't have already. I'm sorry, but we don't have a suitable position."

Max grimaced. She was sick of that line. "Perhaps an unsuitable one, then? Surely the photography department is expanding." Everything in New York City was expanding. New York City was expanding.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She took her portfolio and stood. "Thank you for seeing me," she said, walking out the door into the sweltering cacophony of the New York Times press floor. Shouting voices competed with chattering typewriters in a swirling chaos barely distinguishable from a general riot. She edged around the periphery to the elevator, and soon found herself back on the teeming streets of midtown Manhattan.

The continuous bustle of pedestrians, carriages, and automobiles, all surrounded by a thick soup of hot, damp air, was almost overwhelming. Her feet ached, and her hair was rimmed with sweat. It had never been this hot in England. She should head home and see how Chloe was getting on with the furniture.

That morning, home had been a hotel nearby, but the rate was usurious and they had hurried to find a more affordable, long-term arrangement. A couple of miles up town. Sick of pounding pavement, Max boarded an electric trolley, reluctantly handing over a nickel. She closed her eyes for the short trip up 9th Avenue, imagining herself in the cockpit of an airplane, alone in the sky rather than crammed into a packed trolley in a city of five million people.

Finally, she trudged up three flights of stairs, finding the door to number 31, her new home, ajar. The apartment was small but modern, a living room with kitchenette, with a wide opening to a bedroom, and a small private bathroom. This last seemed luxurious, with hot and cold running water and a good-sized tub with a shower. Americans were constantly bathing, and they took the problem of indoor plumbing very seriously.

In the bedroom, Chloe directed three burly men as they maneuvered a heavy mattress onto a brand-new bed. She spoke to them in German; they must have been fellow immigrants. New York was half-full of Germans. Old Ms. MacWilliams, the owner of the building, hovered over them, hands on her hips, clearly annoyed at having to allow men into her building. Although not sufficiently annoyed to help move the furniture.

Chloe glanced up at Max in the doorway, smiling hopefully, but Max shook her head. Still no luck. Flying corps officers were generously paid and they had arrived with more money than most, but their savings were dwindling fast. Everything was more expensive than it should be, and every day, a fresh wave of new arrivals flowed into the city, empty-handed.

Chloe gave her a sympathetic look, then returned her attention to the men. Ms. MacWilliams turned her sour expression toward Max, hands still on her hips.

"Miss Caulfield. Perhaps you will be more communicative than your friend here. Now that you are under my roof I'd like to remind you of the house rules—" she began.

Max cut her off. She had no patience left for the day. "No men, no pets, no alcohol, no noise between 11 and 7, no overnight guests, no candles or open flame of any kind, no alteration of the apartment without prior approval, no copies made of any keys, rent is due on the third of the month. Does that cover it?"

MacWilliams stared, no less annoyed. Clearly she enjoyed reciting her little list herself. "That's correct," she said eventually. "I must reiterate than violation of any of these rules is—"

"Grounds for immediate eviction," Max sighed. "Yes, Miss MacWilliams, you were quite clear on that point yesterday. I promise Chloe and I will be no trouble."

"I do hope that is the case. I find myself unable to make an impression on Miss Price. Do you speak German?"

Chloe loved to suddenly lose her English any time there was a conversation she'd rather avoid. Maybe for the best. "We communicate well enough," Max said.

MacWilliams looked back toward the workmen, now lining up a bureau against the bedroom wall. "One bed for two girls. I find this arrangement disconcerting."

Max shrugged. "Beds are expensive. We'll get another when we've rebuilt our savings."

MacWilliams finally took her hands off her hips. "I suppose that's sensible. I respect a girl who's financially prudent."

"Of course you do, it betters your odds of collecting the rent."

MacWilliams was silent, her lips pursed. In the other room, the men finished moving furniture and filed out, each touching his cap to Max as he went. MacWilliams followed, closing the door behind her.

At last, they were alone. The living room/kitchen had gained a dining table and two chairs, and Max slouched into one of them, dropping her portfolio on the table. Chloe sauntered over to where she sat.

"Nothing?" she asked, a hand on Max's shoulder.

Max huffed. "They all say exactly the same thing. 'We don't have a suitable position.' I can't believe that none of the papers in New York are hiring a photographer."

"Not a female photographer, anyway."

Max gestured at her portfolio. "Maybe these aren't good enough."

"Max, you are an excellent photographer. Those newspaper people think they have seen everything, nothing will impress them. We have been here less than two weeks. You will find work."

"Maybe."

"Certainly."

"Chloe… was this a mistake? The crowds, the expense, the noise, the weather, this… tiny apartment. Prohibition on the way." Max looked down at the floor. "Maybe we should have stayed."

Chloe rolled her eyes, swinging a leg over Max's chair and sitting heavily on her lap, straddling Max's hips. "This city will be the capitol of the world," she said. "Everything is happening here. And around it, this great enormous country, untouched by war. You can photograph it all. If we had stayed, what would we have? In Britain? That very unpleasant woman, and thank you for dealing with her, multiplied a thousand times. A little country with no love for Germans. Or in Germany? Poverty. Chaos. And you don't even speak the language. This is where we belong. And… if I am wrong, we will go back. But not yet."

Of course they'd been over all of that before, but hearing it again made Max smile. As did Chloe's sudden closeness, her comforting solidity. But she was intolerably warm. "I still miss the farm. It's too hot here, get off of me."

Chloe laughed and obliged, standing. "You've forgotten how dull it was in that place. Here, I have a surprise." She walked into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, and returned holding a wooden box and an oddly-shaped metal cone. Max didn't recognize the device until Chloe set it up on the table: a Victrola phonograph.

"Chloe!" Max exclaimed. "We agreed not to spend money on frivolous things."

"We were going to buy one eventually anyway. Now we can dance."

"I don't really know how to dance."

"That will not stop us. Dance with me." Chloe put a record on the spindle, turned the crank, and set the stylus. Like magic, they were listening to some sort of ragtime.

"What is this?" Max asked, laughing. She'd never owned a phonograph before.

"I have no idea! I asked for something popular." Chloe cocked her head, listening. "I like it. Come on, get up."

Reluctantly, Max stood, and Chloe took hold of her waist, moving her with the music. She followed as best she could, keeping time. It was fun.

But a minute into the song, a knock sounded at the door. Pouting, Chloe lifted the Victrola's needle, silencing the music. "Please don't tell me that music is also forbidden in this building, in addition to men and wine and animals and… ah I cannot remember it all." She hung back as Max went to the door.

Before she could open it, a voice sounded from the hall. "Don't stop the music on my account!" Feminine, Irish accent, definitely not Ms. MacWilliams.

Relieved, Max swung the door open to a pretty young woman, shorter than herself, pixie-cut black hair, bright green eyes, red lipstick. She wore a dark grey dress, conservative but light, and spoke with a rapid, breathless enthusiasm. "Hello! I'm Molly, live down the hall. I knew we had a new girl moving in and I heard the music and I thought I'd stop by and introduce myself."

"My name's Maxine, but just call me Max—"

"An Englishwoman! Such a lovely voice." Molly looked her up and down. "And the rest. Did you just come over?"

"About two weeks ago. We've been in a hotel in midtown."

"We?" Molly craned her neck around Max, eyes quickly darting over the apartment. "Oh, there are two of you, hello!"

Max stepped back from the door to introduce Chloe. "This is my… friend, Chloe."

"Guten Tag," said Chloe, warily.

Molly stepped inside. "Oh my, an Englishwoman and a German sharing a—" her eyes flicking to the lone bed, and she smiled. "Well, aren't you two a pleasant surprise? I was going to say 'hearth'. I hope Old Mac didn't give you a hard time, she's such a prude."

"Old Mac?" Max asked.

Molly laughed. "Oh, that's just what we call Miss MacWilliams. Not to her face, understand. Everybody here has had a run-in with her somewhere along the line. She's all talk though, you're safe as houses as long as you pay the rent and she doesn't see any men in here."

"Then I think we'll manage just fine," Max said.

Molly laughed. "Indeed." She looked between Max and Chloe, her expression full of childlike happiness. "Such an unlikely couple, I must know your story. Don't worry, I won't tell." She put a hand on Max's arm, smiling at her. It was disarming.

"Um," Max hesitated. She glanced at Chloe, who looked some combination of annoyed and amused.

"Liebe auf den ersten Blick," Chloe said, smirking.

Molly frowned. "Now that's just not fair."

"Don't worry," Max said, rolling her eyes, "I don't understand her either. We, ah, we don't talk about it much, but we were air pilots in the war—"

"Airplane pilots? How extraordinary! Do they let women fly for the army over there?"

Max shook her head ruefully. "No, some subterfuge was required."

Chloe straightened to military attention and switched to her approximation of a male voice, harsh and loud. "Bereitmachen zu kämpfen!" she grunted.

Molly feigned a shudder, gripping Max's arm more tightly. "My heavens, she's terrifying!"

Max chuckled. She'd come to find Chloe's Conrad von Preiss routine rather silly, although it was probably more convincing than poor Maxwell Caulfield had ever been.

"In the war," she said, "that sort of shouting was the least of your problems. Anyway, we both ended up crashed into the same mountain. We camped together for a few months until they finally found us. By then the war was over."

"And you've stayed together ever since? That is wonderful." Molly looked at Chloe, who had relaxed and leaned against the table, arms folded. Still not exactly welcoming. "But now I'm just full of questions—"

"Really," Max said, "it's a long story. Another time."

"Yes," Molly nodded. "I apologize for the intrusion. But listen, we have a club, ladies only, girls with unusual taste if you know what I mean, you simply must come by, you'll love it." She continued excitedly. "We have a piano, and a phonograph, and a bar, and it's very private. Everyone will be so thrilled to meet you."

"Alright," Max said. They had yet to make any friends since they arrived.

"Good. I'll talk to Sam — she sort of runs the place — and we'll fix a date. I'm down in 35 if you need me." Molly clasped Max's hand in her own, and looked up at Chloe. "It was so nice to meet both of you." With that, she walked out the door, waving happily.

"You," Max said to Chloe, "are absolutely ridiculous."

Chloe grinned at her. "These Americans are ridiculous."

"Chloe, her accent is plainly Irish."

Chloe shrugged. "I can't tell. They are all strange."

"I'm certain they'd say the same about us. Where were we?"

Chloe put the music back on, and took Max by the waist.