Belowdecks, the air was cool and smelled faintly of smoke and gunpowder, reminders that though they’d repaired the worst of it, their ship was just as compromised as its crew. Caledonia had chosen speed over repairs: one more decision that could get them all killed. If they had to fight before they reached the rendezvous, their recent wounds could become a liability. Before the attack, Caledonia would have made the call with confidence. Now uncertainty crouched on her shoulder, whispering urgent questions into her ear: Had she made the right call? Had she missed something vital? Had she lost her edge and put everyone at risk again?

Caledonia rushed inside her chambers and pressed her back against the cold steel of the hatch, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. When she’d managed three in a row, just as she’d instructed Nettle, she moved to the sink and splashed cool water over her face, dragging wet hands through her hair. Her fingers trembled as she cupped them beneath the spigot to bring water to her mouth, and she had to pause to grip the sides of the sink; her hands couldn’t shake when she flexed her muscles. But she knew the only way to stop this unsolicited reaction was to let it work its way through her body, so she released her grip and curled up on her bed.

As a shiver traveled from her hands to her shoulders to her torso, all she could think was that Nettle would be so disappointed that her captain was hiding again. Imagining the girl’s frown helped her breathe a little easier. They had lost so much. She had cost them so much. So much that she couldn’t even bring herself to quantify it in any way. She couldn’t even if she’d wanted to. Radio silence was her order. No one except a Bullet would be listening for her call.

When they arrived at the rendezvous, though, she wouldn’t have any choice but to quantify those losses in numbers—how many missing; how many dead; how many of them left to take up the fight or abandon it altogether?

And how had they missed it?

Three knocks sounded against the hatch. Without waiting for an answer, Oran pushed through, his face fixed in an expression of grim determination. Two long strides brought him to her side, where he kneeled to take her hands. His were rough and warm and when he wrapped them around hers, the trembling stopped.

“Did I do this?” she asked in a voiced thinned by exhaustion.

Oran’s sharp brows crashed together. “Caledonia.”

“I know you’ll say it was Lir, but if it weren’t for me, would he do any of this?” She sat up, and her head spun just a little.

“Caledonia.”