Pummeroy hung on to the wheel brace, his face as white as a sheet.

“Did we hit something?” Isabelle shouted. They were much too far from the Skaladin to be taking fire.

Vrain stumbled out on deck. “What happened?”

All across the deck, aeronauts picked themselves up and looked around in bewilderment. A high-pitched whistle pierced the air. The whine increased in pitch and volume until the shriek of it seemed to saw right through Isabelle’s brain.

“The keel!” someone yelled. “The keel’s blown!”

The ship lurched and dropped several feet as if it had hit a ridge of turbulence. Terror surged through Isabelle like ice water through a shattered dam. The whole ship would plummet into the Gloom.

“Reef the sails!” Isabelle yelled. The keel hadn’t blown completely, or they’d already be in free fall. If they’d just sprung a leak, there might be a chance, but any push they got would only sink them faster.

Jean-Claude appeared at her side. “Isabelle. We have to get you off the ship.”

Isabelle whirled, her heart in her throat. “No. This is my ship. Take the key, grab Dok, and go. Complete the mission.”

“But—”

“Go!” she shouted. She yanked her gaze away from him. She stepped and slid toward the main deck. Her stomach turned and her feet found less purchase than they should. All the sails were flapping upward. The rigging screamed under the unexpected pressure. The fall accelerated.

Jean-Claude felt like his chest had been hollowed out as Isabelle bounded away. He could not leave her, but neither could he drag her away, nor could he serve her by staying. His course was as clear as it was horrible.

Marie sprinted across the deck and followed Isabelle down the companionway, another piece of his heart hurling itself into danger. This was not the way it was supposed to be.

With a cry like a wounded bull, he yanked his gaze away from his apprentice and child and lurched toward Hailer Dok. The Windcaller had already leapt into the air and whistled up a cyclone to keep himself aloft.

“This way,” Jean-Claude shouted, jabbing his finger at la roi’s cradle, a small boat kept on runners atop the poop deck, ready to be launched at a moment’s notice. No ship could carry life boats enough to save every crewman in the event of disaster, but military logic demanded someone must survive if only to report what happened. So every ship appointed designated survivors. One officer selected by the capitaine and several crewmen selected by lots at the start of each watch.