Mal and I were thrown into the nose of the cockpit as the ship tore into the ground, clattering and banging, its hull splintering apart. There was a loud splash, and suddenly we were skimming across the water. I heard a terrible wrenching sound and knew that one of the hulls had broken free. We bounced roughly over the surface and then, miraculously, shuddered to a halt.

I tried to get my bearings. I was on my back, pressed up against the side of the cockpit. Someone was breathing hard beside me.

I shifted gingerly. I’d taken a hard knock to the head and cut open both of my palms, but I seemed to be in one piece.

Water was flooding in through the cockpit’s floor. I heard splashing, people calling to one another.

“Mal?” I ventured, my voice a quavery squeak.

“I’m okay,” he replied. He was somewhere to my left. “We need to get out of here.”

I peered around, but Sturmhond was nowhere to be seen.

As we clambered out of the cockpit, the broken ship began to tilt alarmingly. We heard a creaking sigh, and one of the masts gave way, collapsing into the lake beneath the weight of its sails.

We threw ourselves into the water, kicking hard as the lake tried to swallow us along with the ship.

One of the crewmen was tangled in the ropes. Mal dove down to help extricate him, and I nearly wept with relief when they both broke the surface.

I saw Tolya and Tamar paddling free, followed by the other crewmen. Tolya had the wounded Squaller in tow. Sturmhond swam behind, supporting an unconscious sailor beneath his arm. We made for the shore.

My bruised limbs felt heavy, weighted down by my sodden clothes, but finally we reached the shallows. We hauled ourselves out of the water, slogging through patches of slimy reeds, and threw our bodies down on the wide crescent of beach.

I lay there panting, listening to the oddly ordinary sounds of early morning: crickets in the grass, birds calling from somewhere in the woods, a frog’s low, tentative croak. Tolya was ministering to the injured Squaller, finishing the business of healing his arm, instructing him to flex his fingers, bend his elbow. I heard Sturmhond come ashore and hand the last sailor into Tamar’s care.

“He’s not breathing,” Sturmhond said, “and I don’t feel a pulse.”

I forced myself to sit up. The sun was rising behind us, warming my back, gilding the lake and the edges of the trees. Tamar had her hands pressed to the sailor’s chest, using her power to draw the water from his lungs and drive life back into his heart. The minutes seemed to stretch as the sailor lay motionless on the sand. Then he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he spewed lake water over his shirt.

I heaved a sigh of relief. One less death on my conscience.

Another crewman was clutching his side, testing to see if he’d broken any ribs. Mal had a nasty gash across his forehead. But we were all there. We’d made it.