This was the kind of conversation she should have had with Pisces and only Pisces. The girl was so close to Caledonia’s heart, it was impossible to hide these tricky, confounding emotions from her. Pisces knew exactly how to guide Caledonia through the maze of her own worries and anxieties until she found herself on solid emotional footing once more. And in spite of hating everything about that process, she wished her sister were here to pester her. Not Sledge.

“Captain, ah, Captains.” Harwell’s tentative voice was a welcome distraction. He approached cautiously with fresh grease smeared across the bridge of his nose.

“I think we’ve established that only one of us can claim that title,” Sledge answered without any hint of resentment. He stepped back, relinquishing the title.

Caledonia squared her shoulders, forcing confidence where it had waned. “Damage report.”

“Yes, well, it’s certainly not good news, though I reckon it could be worse given we took seven hits and it could have gone on quite—”

“Harwell,” she interrupted kindly. “Damage report.”

“Right.” Harwell pinched the bridge of his nose, expanding the grease smear toward both cheeks like little wings. “Do you want me to start with the bad news or the good? Or, I guess, none of it is good exactly, but—”

“Harwell.”

“Right. Yes. We’ve temporarily plugged two breaches on level three. One is midship, one stern, both are minor, though we’ll want to do something more permanent, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, encouraging him to continue.

“The bad news is the propeller. One of the blades took a significant blast, and it’s bent. If it were only a little bent, I might be able to do something about it, but as is, if we spin up the engines before repairs, we’ll do ourselves critical damage.”

“Do we have what you need to fix it?” Caledonia asked.

“We do,” Harwell answered cagily. “But it’s going to take some time.”

Time was one thing Caledonia was sure they didn’t have. “How much?”

Harwell braced as if for battle before speaking again. “I . . . don’t know. Days? I think days, honestly.”

Each of Caledonia’s fingers curled into fists, and she clamped her teeth together to keep from frowning.

They were so near to Slipmark. A day’s sail at most. And now they were going to spend more than that amount of time right here, stamped in place, while Harwell and his team figured out how to fix the propeller. It didn’t matter that he knew what he was doing. This was an unfamiliar ship with unfamiliar tools. And every minute they spent here was another minute her crew spent enduring some terrible Bullet torture.