Maxine lifted her face to the rising south wind, letting it worry her short-cropped hair. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“If the first batch is there safely,” offered Will, “The rest could wait out the storm here.”

“And haul all that’s left back inside?” Rousseau scolded. “There’s no time for that, Will!”

“What about your people? Where’re you going to put them all? Surely not on open rafts?”

“We’ll make as many motor trips as we have to.”

“That’s what you don’t have time for! This storm is . . .”

“Will! If Empire State is staying put, that’s your call. But stop trying to manage Unca Joe!”

“I’m only thinking of . . .” Will paused as the sentries started hallooing again. I saw him squint across the Lagoon, then grimace and shake his head as Tom Doyle turned the corner from Fourth Ave at high speed, cutting a wake that Julian would have envied. No mistaking that ink-dark face. He slowed just enough to twist a showy course through the scrum of floats and passenger craft. To my surprise, he was driving an old wooden four-seater, gleamingly cared-for. As it glided past the Melville, I read ‘Chris-Craft’ on its side.

Daniel whistled softly. “That’s a two hundred-year-old boat. Where’d he find it?”

“He’s brought one of the Gimme Girls,” I noted.

Doyle stood up at the wheel as he reversed engines to approach the access ladder. His boat swaying in the swell didn’t bother him, but a gust caught his open, knee-length vest—the same iridescent green-blue-black as his tattooed arms and chest. For an instant, he nearly went overboard. “What the hell’s going on?”

“The Prince of Darkness,” Daniel muttered.

I thought he looked magnificent, obviously the point of such a get-up. But who was he trying to impress? Himself?

“Just getting a jump on the storm,” Rousseau yelled back.

“Were you planning to tell anybody?”

More sentry cries as the Zodiac clattered into the Lagoon on a cranky, half-burnt motor salvaged from the Ladysmith raid. Empty raft in tow, its crew of two grinned and waved like they’d won the free meal lottery. By this time, Jake had joined the cluster at the entryway, and Will took advantage of the building confusion to slip down the ladder into his own boat and start it up. He slowed alongside Doyle’s boat and called to the passenger.

“Arla? Everything all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” growled Doyle.

“I’m asking her.”

The girl looked anything but all right, her face tight and her bare arms wrapped defensively around her chest. She was thin and blond and looked about twelve. “So sorry, Will! We heard Empire wasn’t going, so we tried to come by the walkways, but there are gaps now and the cow wouldn’t . . .”

“We said we’d get you there,” insisted Will. “But after the storm.”