“Isabelle already has a handmaid,” Marie said. She and Isabelle had been living arm in arm since they were both in pigtails. Even when Marie had been turned into a bloodhollow, Isabelle had maintained their friendship, keeping her sane through twelve years of torture, and resuscitating her mind and soul when the whole world said it was impossible. You couldn’t slide a knife between them.

Jean-Claude said, “If you’re going to be her bodyguard, you have to stop being her handmaid.”

“Jean-Claude makes good point for once,” Djordji said. “You can’t be tied down making tea and lacing bodices, and child’s the kind who comes sharp but needs balance. She’s cleverer than Jean-Claude was at her age.”

Jean-Claude protested, “You hadn’t even met me when I was her age.”

“And when I does, you aren’t as clever as she is now.”

Marie said, “Have you told Isabelle about this, or is it going to come as a surprise?”

“It was a surprise to me when I thought of it, but what do you imagine the odds are of Isabelle turning away a plucky orphan?”

“About the same as a fish wearing mittens,” Marie acknowledged tonelessly.

“If she wants to go,” Jean-Claude said.

Rebecca’s brow furrowed as if she were groping for a clear path through a thick wood.

“Which ship?” she asked.

Jean-Claude smiled on the inside. “The Thunderclap.”

Rebecca’s eyes rounded. “That new frigate? They say the capitaine is an abomination.” This last was said in a tone of amazement.

Djordji chuckled.

Jean-Claude’s anger came up at the mere mention of the insult, but Rebecca had not meant any harm. “Her name is Isabelle. She’s a dear friend of mine, and I will advise you not to slander her that way again.”

“No offense,” Rebecca said without a trace of contrition.

Jean-Claude snorted. “So the question is, are you interested in applying for the position, or would you rather stay here?”

Rebecca took a deep breath before the plunge. “I want to go.”

Djordji sat on one of the tables and took another pull at his pipe. “Now that’s set, what does we do about Hasdrubal? Does that fancy timepiece of yours say which way he goes?”

Jean-Claude flipped open the hunter’s eye, but the needles were loose and wobbled wherever momentum took them. “I deduce the prey markers were destroyed in the fight.”

Djordji coughed into his hand, a deep cough that sounded like he was trying to shift wet leaves. Jean-Claude grimaced. Djordji had been suckling that pipe for sixty years, and it had its hooks in deep. Sticky black flecks covered his glove, and the reek of his breath diffused through the refectory, joining all the other infirmary smells. Marie touched his shoulder in worry, but he shrugged her off. Jean-Claude felt sick to his gut; he hated to see the old man in this state. Rebecca shied away.