To distract myself, I picture the tattoo, and I try to see what we’ve missed. A sharp creak makes me spin around, but I’m staring into a wall of mist. “Win? Is that you?”

Silence.

I remind myself that the Alisha is always creaking. Mitch says the ship’s made of old bones, although I’m fairly certain she’s just trying to freak me out.

I hear another creak followed by another. Footsteps . . . Fear slips through me as quickly as the mist that’s twisting around my ankles.

“Win!” I shout, reaching out with my hands. “Where are you?”

I’m not sure which way I’m facing now, toward the ship or the sea. This is stupid. How can I be on watch if I can’t see? I start to move forward, my arms outstretched, feeling for a railing or mast, anything that will help me work out where I am.

A dark shape appears in the corner of my eye. Shock makes me gasp and drop the bell. Then, before I can scream or run or do anything, stick fingers wrap around my face, digging into my skin and covering my eyes.

“Hello, Arthur Trout!” Crowky’s voice is a rusty snarl. “Don’t bother trying to escape because I’ve got you!”

I try to shout and wriggle out of his grasp, but he’s right. His fingers have already begun to do their work.

“Drain,” he whispers in my ear. “Drain . . .”

Cold locks my legs to the deck of the ship and begins to climb through my body. Any warmth I had left is slipping out of me and being replaced with a cold, prickly emptiness. Crowky is stuffing me, turning me into a scarecrow, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Again, I try to struggle, but I can barely move my lips. I just manage to whisper, “Win.”

“No one is coming.” His voice is close to my ear.

I want to curl my fingers but they’re spreading out and fixing in place like sticks.

Crowky takes his hands away from my face, then lifts my arms like he’s a puppeteer. My body is locked solid to the deck of the ship, my arms outstretched. He steps in front of me. “Perfect,” he says.

I try to shrink away, but I can’t. Crowky’s face is round and made of sack. His eyes are moving, shifting buttons. His mouth is stitched and loose threads float in the freezing night air. With every movement he makes I hear the rustle of straw, and this straw bursts from the top of his head as pale wild hair.