Finch nodded. “I’ll give it to you.” Took the last pouch of powder out of his jacket. Turned sideways, gun still trained on Bosun. Tossed it toward the open door. “All you have to do to get it is leave.”

Mouth dry. Legs still shaky. Holding it together for Rathven.

Bosun: “Tell her to put her gun down. And put down your sword.”

“Rathven, put the gun down,” Finch said. Let the sword clatter out of his hand. Couldn’t risk squatting to place it on the floor. Might just fall over.

“I don’t want to put the gun down, Finch.”

“Just do it. I’ve got him covered.”

She hesitated, then, hand shaking, placed her gun on the table between them.

“Now I’ll get up and move around you to the door,” Bosun said.

“Be careful, Finch,” Rathven said.

Bosun got up. Came around the table toward Finch. Stepping over the fallen sword.

Gun to gun. Bosun inches away from him in that enclosed space.

“Let’s not see each other again,” Finch said.

A map of anger and frustration on Bosun’s face. “No promises,” he hissed.

A hint of a movement as Bosun passed him, back to the door. A blossoming agony Finch couldn’t at first identify because of all of the other pain. Then he realized it came from his side.

Knew he was reeling, losing his balance.

Bosun, at the door, stooping to pick up the pouch just as Finch realized he was bleeding. Rathven lunging for her revolver, turning to shoot at Bosun as he ran out the door. Missing. Tearing a chunk out of the ceiling. Rathven scrambling to lock the door behind Bosun.

Finch looked down to see bright red blood welling up from a cut in his side. Saw Bosun’s long, thin knife there on the floor. It had been the lightest of touches. Not even a touch. A whisper.

Vaguely knew Rathven was next to him as he slumped to the ground. Felt the touch of his own sword against his exposed foot as he slid, her arms around him.

“Finch! Finch!” Her voice, keeping him awake when he didn’t want to be awake.

She brought him close. Her body warm and solid and real. He thought she was shaking. Realized she was sobbing. Then she was pulling his shirt away from his side. Pushing something up against it. Felt something wet and sticky next to his left arm.

“What’s wrong?” he thought he asked.

“You’ve been stabbed, Finch,” he thought he heard her say. Her face way up near the ceiling, looking down. Her arms impossibly long.

A coughing laugh. “Have I?” A kind of lurching dislocation.

Rathven was wrapping something around his side. Gauze? Urging him onto his feet.

“You’re going into shock. I need to get you somewhere I can help you,” she said.

“I deserve better.” A dry laugh. Everybody deserved better.

Lurched up, almost falling forward onto his face. Leaned into her.