When Skeleton shifts, fumbling at his pants, I wrap my hand around the handle of one of Bo’s carving tools—a gouge. I strike, stabbing the man in the side.

With a yelp, he rolls off me. I scramble to my feet. Collecting himself as well, he makes a grab for the gouge, but I kick him hard in the knee.

The dog only catches the cat by surprise. In everything else, the more agile cat wins.

Cursing and spitting, Skeleton falls back. Then the snake slithers out the door.

I fall to my knees, suddenly nauseated and unable to draw a breath. What now? He will tell his betters, and my lies, like loosely tied knots, will unravel. The room seems to slide one way, then the other, like a seesaw, but I fight against the urge to give up.

Get up, girl. Put on your trousers. Fetch your boots.

I only get one boot on before my insides roil, as violently as bottles of milk carted over a bumpy road. Holding my bucking midsection, I rush to the porthole, then empty the contents of my stomach into the sea.

Yelling and footsteps rattle the hallway. Catching sight of Marigold Fantasy, I hastily pull it from the hook and toss it, the oversized hat, and the pumps out the porthole, too.

“She’s in there,” exclaims Skeleton in his rusty voice. “A lassie, and she’s been staying in the men’s quarters, like a common whore. I had my suspicions, and now it’s confirmed. Methinks she might even be a stowaway.” The man’s splotchy face invades the doorway once more.

Behind him, the Master-of-Big-Arms peers at me through a half sneer, his stout arms curling at his sides. “You again. So are you a stowaway?”

I try to speak, but nothing comes out of my swollen throat but a hoarse, outraged whisper. Fiercely, I shake my head.

The Master-of-Big-Arms glances at the bright spot of blood inking Skeleton’s white jacket. “Get to the infirmary and make your report after.”

Skeleton stumbles off, and the door swings closed behind him.

“Lassie or lad, you’re coming with me till we get this sorted.” The Master-of-Big-Arms clamps a hand as strong as the jaws of a mastiff around my arm. He drags me to the door, not even letting me grab my second boot. “Knew you were a scammer all along. Maybe your kind can’t help it. Wait till the captain hears how you fooled him. Better hope he doesn’t dump you over. The water’s colder than ice. You’ll freeze afore the devil calls your name.”

“It isn’t right,” I croak. “The steward attacked me. He’s the one you should take away. He’s wicked. He fixed the sweepstakes.”

“Didn’t I tell them they should include a brig?” he mutters. “But no one listens to me. Now they’ll be sorry.”