Sweet-smelling oils would be a kindness—a pointless luxury, but one that, hopefully, would say … would say he cared.

His throat clenched, and his fingers closed over the shell in his pocket. “I’m so sorry, Vee,” he whispered. “Gods, Lords, Ladies, please help me help her and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for this.”

He pulled the shell out, his knuckles white, and pressed it to his lips. “Please.”

The Dream

The sun was setting over Portsmouth, but if she closed her eyes, she could just about persuade herself she was on a ship. The sea was close enough to smell, all seaweed-salty, and to hear rushing against the castle’s footings. Gulls called and, in the pretty image, wheeled above the Venatrix’s sails. The rocking motion every time she moved was the shifting of waves against hull.

The constant movement she’d spoken to Knigh about that first time they’d met.

Frowning, she screwed her eyes closed tighter. Thinking about that took her too close to reality. Reality was where most of her body ached and the parts that didn’t, seared with constant pain. Her hands and the burn on her forehead most of all.

In reality, her body had betrayed her, thanks to this damn iron. There was the pain, but also the trembling weakness and bone-deep exhaustion.

But worse, so very much worse, was that she was alone. Even Barnacle, who’d been circling below the cage for days, the sweet, silly thing—she’d gone. Vice hadn’t seen her all day. It was probably just as well—staying here would get the cat nothing. Hopefully, she’d found somewhere warm and dry with someone kind who’d give her endless chin scratches.

Quaking, she buried her face in her hands and bit back a sob.

It was just the feebleness. Just the exhaustion. Just the gnawing hunger. That was all. They’d given her water, bread, and cheese, but she’d struggled to eat, sickened by the iron.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t weak.

Because sorrow was powerless. Sorrow got you nowhere. Sorrow had nearly drowned her when Evered had died. And she wasn’t that person.

She was strong. She was tough. She was …

She was on the Venatrix, sailing through the broad, beautiful blue of Arawaké. She could almost feel the sun on her face, the sea below. If she reached out, she’d be able to take the wheel and steer their course somewhere new, somewhere …

“All is well.” One of the guards above.

It was pretty, but it was a lie. She wasn’t at sea, on the Venatrix or any ship. She was …

… Going to die alone.