The Hakim narrowed his eyes at the schooner. "Not many would try it, and fewer would manage it. Let us hope this Mr. Stoker is the sailor he thinks he is. Hold fast."

Hannah's heart was galloping faster than she could think. She sidled closer to Curiosity as they watched the schooner come on. A tall man stood on the deck, straddle legged with his hands on his hips.

"Stoker!" roared the captain, leaning over the rail. "What is the meaning of this!"

The tall man touched his cap. "News of the Osiris and a wounded lad that belongs to you!"

"By God, man, that's why you want to heave-to alongside? This is an outrage!"

As if he had not heard the captain, Stoker turned and gave a quick series of orders. There was a great deal of shouting from the Isis--Mr. Smythe was very red in the face, and Mr. MacKay had leaned so far over the rail that Hannah thought he might fall--but the other ship simply came on, her crew stepping up to the rail with grappling hooks like long crooked fingers.

When the Jackdaw was so close that Hannah began to really fear a collision, all the sails dropped at once as if somewhere a thread had been cut. The schooner changed direction slightly and then bumped up smartly against them once, and then again. Hakim Ibrahim steadied Curiosity as the Isis rocked hard.

Stoker was running toward them with something slung over his shoulder--a boy, struggling a little. From this angle they could see his face, rough boned and blond. A dirty bandage wrapped around his head and trailed down Stoker's back.

Hakim Ibrahim's face went slack with surprise and he drew in a sharp breath.

"Now what's this?" Curiosity asked sharply. "Do you know that boy?"

"He is called Mungo," said the Hakim. "Charlie's brother."

Hannah started. "Our Charlie? What would Charlie's brother be doing on that ship?"

The Hakim wiped the rain from his eyes. "He is cabin boy to the captain of the Osiris," he said. "I fear something has gone far wrong."

Elizabeth crouched in the shadows below the open hatch and wondered to herself if a person could feel themselves go mad. If there would be any warning, some soft sound from the heart, a sigh as reason folded in on itself and went away, never to come back.

Perhaps she made this sound she imagined out loud, because Nathaniel squeezed her hand hard enough to grind the bones of her fingers; she could feel how every nerve in his body hummed. She forced herself to open her eyes.

"Soon," he whispered. He was hunched forward, balanced on the balls of his feet. His breath touched her face and his gun was not five inches from her face; it seemed to be staring at her with its single eye.

Just behind her, Elizabeth could sense Robbie just as calm and still, crouched down with muskets crossed casually on his chest. He had spent all morning cleaning and checking them, again and again. When she turned to him she saw that his face was raised to the misting rain that came through the hatch. In that gentle light Robbie suddenly seemed his age, and more. There were deep circles under his eyes and a slackness to the flesh of his jaw, and it hurt her to see this evidence of Robbie's fallibility and weariness.

Overhead men moved in the dance that would bring the ship to a standstill. Mac Stoker's voice roared like a cannon and she shuddered with the sound.

"News of the Osiris and a wounded lad that belongs to you!"

From far above their heads came men's voices in reply. Nathaniel blinked at her. Yes. This was right, this was good. If only Stoker could strike the right tone with the captain and put him at ease. Pickering might be weak and under Moncrieff's control, but neither was he a fool, and he would remember Stoker from the dock at Sorel.

Voices back and forth; she strained to make them out but could not; the sea and the wind whipped them away too quickly. Only Stoker had a voice big enough to be heard distinctly.

Sails snapped and fluttered and came to rest. They thumped up against the Isis once, and again, and Elizabeth steadied herself by stemming her hand against the wall. The shouting above them was too confused to make out.

"The lad is in poor shape! Where is your surgeon?"

The boy. His name was Mungo; he had had a blow to the head and he was confused, still. Elizabeth had spent the morning with him and he didn't seem to understand what had happened to him or his ship. No matter how many times he was told he could not remember that the Osiris had gone down. It was hard to credit, although Elizabeth had seen it happen herself. Mac Stoker had called that last and miscalculated volley of cannonfire a lucky shot and meant just the opposite: the French were better marksmen than they meant to be, and had destroyed what they meant to steal. The whole event had put Granny in a foul mood; she did not like it when her predictions went wrong and she had retired to her cabin like a spider to a dusty web. She was there now, chewing on her pipe stem and scowling into the shadows over the waste of the Osiris.

But the Isis was untouched. Nathaniel had roused Elizabeth at first light and handed her the long glass, and there she was: unharmed and whole and idling in fishing waters as if it were the safest place in the world and not a busy shipping lane, home to mercenaries and pirates and the displaced French Navy. The sight of her had filled Elizabeth with a terrible joy and a new flush of anger. That Moncrieff should take such chances with the lives of her children--it was another sin to lay at his doorstep.

From the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw Nathaniel's hand curled tight around the musket, the line of tension running up his arm to his shoulder so that his whole frame hummed with it. She thought that if she touched him he might shatter. She knew that she was about to.