Isabel had said Vice might be the only one who could bring him closure. And although the Admiralty had denied him a visit, perhaps he didn’t need their permission.

Every step feeling like doom, he let his feet carry him to the castle.

Its low grey hulk was mostly shadows punctuated by lamps, torches, and braziers. Still, he knew its battlements and square keep from his years studying at the naval college. He approached from the west, where one of its broad gun platforms loomed, covered in cannons, ready to fight off enemy ships that broke through Albion’s sea witch defences. No one had done that in centuries but not for want of trying.

On the road ahead, before the castle walls, a small, grey shape sat beside a brazier, furry back to him, looking up, pointed ears alert. He blinked. “Barnacle?”

The little cat turned, revealing her white belly, almost glowing in the firelight. She gave a chirruping meow of greeting.

“What are you doing here?” He crouched and petted her, winning enthusiastic purrs.

Her muddy paws said she’d been away from the ship for a while. What had so drawn her attention?

His gaze trailed up the castle wall—up, up and …

“Oh gods.”

A black cage hung from the walls, fifteen feet above the street. Inside, a dark shape huddled, nearby torches hinting at a deep red coat.

His stomach knotted. He’d come to find her but …

Even from this distance, that posture was wrong, so wrong for her. She didn’t huddle. She wasn’t small. She was …

A murderer. Remember that, you idiot.

Drawing a deep breath, he scratched Barnacle behind the ears, then stood. On the castle walls, flickering shadows and torchlight revealed the circuits of guards. But down here, he was alone.

The castle was meant to defend the coast from attack by sea, so as the city had grown, they’d filled in the moat on the landward side to create more space and allowed houses and shops to butt right up to the castle walls. That’s what he’d spent too much of his early teens climbing and sneaking over with friends, escaping lessons, finding mischief.

If that boy had only known what was to come …

Still, that childhood play would make this easy. With a quick glance, he confirmed he was alone and clambered up a crumbled stretch of wall, across a low roof, and up its pitch. There was one tricky moment where his head spun, just the hint of alcohol’s effects, but he caught a crumbling chimney and righted himself.

Edging across the remaining bricks of another long-abandoned building brought him to the castle walls and within arm’s reach of the cage.

The iron made his skin prickle. The warmth of his gift shrank at its presence. How bad was it to be encased in the stuff?