She gasped and whipped her head towards the Sovereign. Were they giving up? But they weren’t slowing or peeling off from pursuit. Had they somehow—

“Crew of The Morrigan,” the tall man at the bow called through a speaking-trumpet, his accent crisp as fresh canvas, “set anchor and prepare to be boarded for a visit by His Royal Highness the Duke of Mercia, Prince of Albion.”

“What?” Vice’s weakened legs buckled, and she only stayed upright thanks to her grip on the wheel. “Knigh, do you—”

He spun on his heel. His jaw was solid, his eyes bulged, every muscle and sinew of his neck stood out, rigid. Without sparing a glance for her, he strode fore.

“Anchor,” bellowed FitzRoy, approaching the helm. He gave Knigh a look as he passed, one eyebrow raised, then arrived at Vice’s side. “I suppose we’d better prepare for a royal visit.”

* * *

Half an hour later, all four ships sat at anchor, and a longboat from the Sovereign approached The Morrigan.

Vice squinted against the sun glistening on the sea. As Avice Ferrers, she’d met the queen many times, but never her son. Like the rest of the royal family, and like her, he was fae-blooded, making him tall. Ah, his gift.

Perhaps his gift was for the sea, too, and that had been the blankness she’d felt in the ocean—an area he controlled or his awareness stopping her own. She’d never met another sea witch—maybe they experienced it as she did and maybe one sea witch’s power blocked another’s?

She sighed softly—there was so much she didn’t know. But aside from the fact Avice Ferrers was dead, if she ever did return to Albion to seek answers to her magic, she’d be pressed into service for the Royal Navy. They’d force her to serve on a ship or at one of their coastal forts. A dull life of orders and obedience. She wouldn’t last ten minutes.

As long as she wasn’t caught setting foot on Albionic soil, she was safe.

Knigh stood to attention beside her, face a near-perfect mask. But his jaw was knotted, and tension flowed off him, as tangible as a gale.

Aedan and a handful of crew hauled the longboat up on the davits, and a dozen uniforms rose into view. The nape of Vice’s neck prickled, and a chill trickled down her back.

The biggest plume in his hat, the tallest man there with the smuggest smile—even without the crimson hair, Vice would have known he was the Duke. His brown eyes, so like his mother’s, sparked, settling on Knigh and staying there.

With a smooth stride, he set foot on The Morrigan and approached. His fae blood showed not only in that unnatural hair colour—instead of nails, pointed claws tipped each finger.