The curved hull of the Venatrix sat light in the water—huge to her, but insignificant against the vast ocean—and just the other side, if she could push a wave …

A splash sounded from port.

Sudden steps—the man turning?—and a questioning sound. “What the—”

Clomping footsteps, fast, but fading to port. Shadows on the mast shifted—he must have taken one of the lamps to peer over the side.

Releasing her breath, she sagged, closing her eyes for a second. Thank the gods, the Lords, and the Ladies.

Her arms really were on fire when she continued her climb around the Venatrix. She passed the fixed window, then reached for the gilded carvings decorating the corner to stern. A last, straining burn on her arms, then she left the window, feet scrabbling and finally tucking into a spot above a curled oak leaf.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she took deep draughts of air, careful this time not to grunt. It was quiet to port, then the footsteps started up again, slowly walking fore.

Oh, Lords. That was close.

It took a minute to manoeuvre around the corner, level with the sash windows to the captain’s cabin. This was another tricky spot, angling out over the water and making her calves and biceps burn.

She needed to get inside as quickly as possible before she dropped into the water.

Most likely, he had an office or a dining room and a separate space for sleeping. That’s what someone had said these naval vessels had for the captain, just like she now occupied what had once been Fitz’s office and he’d retreated to just one room that served as bed-chamber.

She peered in.

Darkness. She squinted past her reflection in the glass—was that the dim outline of a desk and chair? And, further in, to one side … a low shape. A bunk?

Damn, just one room … but it looked unoccupied. Maybe he was sleeping ashore, or maybe he was one of those on deck—she hadn’t got a look at their faces.

Gripping a carved scroll above one window, she wedged her feet into the corners and let go with her right hand. The other arm shook—she must have been climbing for almost an hour now.

“Come on, my lovely,” she whispered and pulled at the window.

Without a sound, it lifted open.

Seemed the Venatrix liked a little sweet-talk. Well, when she came back to claim her, she’d gladly give her all the sweet talk she wanted. Grinning, she patted the windowsill like it was a well-behaved sabrecat and slipped inside.

She landed in a crouch, low and silent. Blinking, she caught her breath and let her eyes adjust to the deeper darkness inside. Her fae blood helped her see better than most people in the dark, but it still took a moment to acclimatise.