“You rebels and your talky-talky,” Hackett said, his eyes dark points of hatred. “ ‘I stand for this’ and ‘I stand for that.’ But it en’t nothing more than drivel covering up greed.”

“Tom,” the captain warned. “Remember yourself.”

But Hackett wasn’t finished. “This war en’t nothing to do with rights and freedoms. Sons of Liberty you lot claim to be, but you en’t. You’re Sons of Profit. You’re Sons of I Want Less Taxes So I Can Live in Silk. Stand, rebel. Stand now, if you’re so full of noble ideas.”

Lane set his napkin aside and unfolded to his full height. He opened his hands. There. I’m standing, he seemed to be saying.

Hackett lunged at him—so fast, a blur—but suddenly everything seemed slow, like it was happening underwater. He slammed into Lane and drove him back. The table flew up. Chairs cracked against wood. Plates, cups, and candles spewed into the air. Then panic fired through me, hot and sudden, and time sped up again.

I leapt back, wedging myself between the berths, as Lane and Hackett grappled and swung, the sounds of their blows horrible.

Lane was younger and much taller, but Hackett was a bull. Vicious. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he cornered Lane, pushing him up against the bulkhead and jamming an elbow into his throat.

“Livingston!” the captain yelled, struggling to get between them. “Someone—in here now!”

Izra came running through the door first, his eyes flaring when he saw the brawl. “Miss Coates!” He dove for my wrist. “Come, Miss Coates! Come!”

As he pulled me out of the cabin, three other men came barreling inside. I rushed past them, seeing rope, batons, knives. Then it was all behind me as Izra and I plunged into the dimness and hurried back to the captain’s cabin.

Hours later, I was still tossing fitfully on the stern bench, unable to sleep. For the tenth time, I patted my petticoats, checking that the letter opener and silver watch were still in my pocket. I had to be ready for anything.

Only hours ago, the Ambrosia had felt like my escape. Now it felt like a trap.

I leaned toward the window, peering at the glossy black wake below. Even if I could make the dive from this high, where would I swim? All I could see outside was night.

I balled up the sheepskin and lay down again, the wood bench hard against my shoulder. Nothing in the world felt familiar, within me or without.

I shut my eyes, thinking of Mercy. Pretending you’re brave is no different than being brave, she’d told me once. Saints, how I missed her. How I needed her with me now. At last, I felt the edges of a dream curling round my mind—only to be yanked awake by a rapping on the door.

“Miss Coates?” Izra chirped. “The captain’s very sorry about dinner. He sent something for you, miss. To show he’s exceeding apologetic.”