Ms. Mains considered asking which”this” she meant. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Madeline Ramp did not quite live in the same world she, Ms. Mains, occupied. For Ms. Mains, the sky was pale blue some pansies fade to, and beyond the clearing’s edge brown earth rolled southeast through pine forests to a low brook that might contain a few trout. For Ms. Ramp, there was a dead pig in the center of the clearing, some quantity of useless information in front of her, and behind her, the road to work.

Ms. Ramp turned to go, then turned back to the pig and moved her finger in a sharp cutting motion. Skin peeled from its belly and invisible knives carved out a square of flesh eight inches on a side and an inch thick, muscle marbled with fat. Ms. Ramp muttered beneath her breath and the flesh shrank, dried, colored. The sky deepened (Daphne Mains thought) to the violet of a pansy’s core. Ramp spread her fingers, and the flesh sectioned into narrow strips. The scent of seared meat filled the clearing. When she was done, still gloved, she plucked a piece of bacon from the air and ate it. Grease glistened on her gloved fingertips. “Would you like some, Ms. Mains?”

“I ate at the airport, ma’am.”

“Not even a light snack?”

“No, thank you.”

“Your loss,” she said, and left the clearing, crunching. Ms. Mains followed with the valise.

As they left, the spider-tracery of blood clotted. The first flies landed to drink, and died. Later, crows landed to gnaw the spoiling flesh.

They died, too.

*   *   *

Tara was three coffees into the morning by the time she reached the Alt Coulumb docks and the Dream moored there under Blacksuit guard.

Cat met her on the pier. She looked, charitably, horrible: Tara associated the kind of circles under her eyes with fistfights more than restless sleep, and her skin was worryingly pale. But she clutched her coffee firmly, and her expression seemed set. Tara decided to keep this professional. She and Cat could be combative enough under the best circumstances.

“Late night?” Cat said, when she was close enough.

Oh, fine. “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

Cat pointed with her coffee toward the Dream. “The operation was a success.” Which wasn’t the whole story, to judge from her tone of voice, but it was a start. “I think by right of salvage this belongs to me. What do people do with boats, anyway?”

“Sail them,” Tara said, climbing the gangplank. “And it’s not yours. You found it occupied. If you took it, you’re engaged either in piracy or law enforcement.”

“Bit of both, in this case. Law enforcement with pirates.”

“Is there more coffee?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it coffee exactly,” Cat said. “More like coffee-adjacent.”