“Thought I ought to start blending in.”

“So you chose a full black outfit in a place with nothing but snow,” I drawl.

“Old habits die hard,” he says simply.

“Or not at all, in my case.” I tap my empty chest, and he laughs low in my ear, kissing my temple gingerly.

“Are you all right? I saw that load of branches hit you.”

“Oh, psh.” I wave him off and start up the gangplank toward Malachite. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Take up crocheting?” I throw a smile at Malachite. “Nice of you to commandeer the only ship smelling of pickled feet for us.”

“Considering they’re doing this for absolutely free”—Malachite’s milk brows knit as he leans in and whispers—“maybe don’t go around complaining about the smell.”

“Complain louder about the smell. Got it. Fione, where do you want to sit?”

The duchess looks unsteady on her feet, and Lucien grabs her elbow to steady her when one of her gags wrenches her entire body to the left.

“Somewhere on the railing it is, then,” Lucien says, grinning back at me and helping her toward the side of the ship. The flame-haired captain and her crew come aboard. She nods at us as she passes on her way to the helm.

“No drinking, no smoking, and for the love of mercury piss in the buckets, not on the deck.”

“Yes, Cap’n,” Malachite salutes, and the red-haired woman launches an eyeball-inquiry my way.

“You. You look like trouble.”

“Astute and gorgeous,” I say, making my best Y’shennria curtsy. She’s buying none of it, her gaze narrowed.

“You’re the other bodyguard, then?”

I know better than to flicker a look at Malachite. “Yes.”

“No sword? No weapon?” She scoffs. “A bad one, then.”

“Oh, it’s all hand-to-hand combat from me. A bit of biting here and there.”

“She’s good for it,” Malachite jumps in, and when the woman throws him a nasty look, he adds, “Cap’n.”

The captain sizes me up one more time. The woman has the instincts of a wolf—she’s every inch right about me. Trouble is all I know how to make.

“You work for what you eat.” She grunts.

“Gladly.” I smile. And what I eat is you.

Finally, she turns and starts barking orders into the frigid air, and the crew scatters to haul rope. “You—” She points to me. “On the anchor. And you, beneather—you’re on winch release. The disc levers over there, the middle one. Get to it!”

“Aye-aye!” I salute, dashing over to the heavy iron clasp and the ten sailors attempting to haul it off the magnetic dock and wind it back into the airship. Malachite only breaks two levers before the captain realizes just how strong he is and has him hauling rope effortlessly instead.