“J.J.,” Andersen sighed, passing the boy a napkin. J.J. dabbed unselfconsciously at the stain, hazel eyes big in his thin little face as he gawked at me.

I flushed and turned back to my bowl. Perrault sighed. “Reichsfürst Fritz is supposedly very clever. He is the oldest son of Hertsoh Maximilian of the Imperiya, Reichsfürst of Terytoriya Shvartsval’d, and has a number of sisters you may find enjoyable companions. . . .”

But whatever Perrault said next, I wasn’t listening.

Shvartsval’d. Terytoriya Shvartsval’d.

The terytoriy were the conquered lands of the Imperiya Yotne. Each country they conquered was resegmented, renamed, its rulers replaced with loyal followers of the tsarytsya.

“The Imperiya?” My voice was a breath, ragged and insubstantial. I pulled my hands inside the sleeves of Daddy’s sweater, wishing I could hide the rest of me as easily. Wishing he were here to hide me—though if he were here, he’d be in no condition to take care of me.

Worry for him, and for me, flooded my thoughts.

Alessandra was sending me into the Imperiya.

A shiver ran up my spine. “No,” I said, shaking my head. I pushed back from the table, my chair screeching against the floor.

Perrault looked down at the rest of his papers, affronted. “We’ve still to cover Prínkipas Theodore of Páfos, as well as all of your alternates—”

“No, I can’t,” I said. My voice was awkward, too loud. “I don’t want to go there.”

“Your stepmother has kindly negotiated appointments with multiple royal courts on your behalf, and you will honor those appointments as Potomac’s representative,” Perrault said, affronted.

The Imperiya.

Tears rose behind my eyes. I stood, nearly knocking my chair over.

Most of the sailors were distracted, laughing at a story Skop was telling, but Lang watched me, brow furrowed.

I pushed through the galley door without wishing any of them a good night. It wasn’t as though my wishes counted.

11

I wobbled away from the galley, avoiding the eyes of the few sailors still on deck, making my way toward the two doors in the stern. One of them led downstairs, I remembered. To my room, and to quiet. To safety from Perrault’s harassment.

I chose the wrong door.

I found myself inside a cabin, sparse but not cheerless, furnished with a rough bedstead, a shelf lined with beat-up atlases and journals, and a scrubby table, with a map pinned to its surface.

Glittering at the edge of the map was my lost shoe.

I drew closer.

The map was broad and suffused with color, penciled with intersecting lines like spiderwebs. Amid borders and topographical designations were markers for the paths the wind blew, the roll of the currents, the depth of the water and obstacles beneath its surface. Here and there someone had scratched handwritten notes.