“Major,” she said, blessing him with a smile. Her skin was flushed and sweaty under the soot and her eyes looked weary beyond words. She did not look steady on her feet.

“Well fought,” she said. “What’s the condition of the enemy crew?”

“They’re done in,” Bitterlich said. “We should be able to obtain a surrender and take her as a prize. I went after the chartstones, but they’d already been removed.”

Isabelle nodded and pursed her lips. Her gaze kept darting about as if drawn to things Bitterlich could not perceive.

More quietly he asked, “Is your stowaway acting up?” Her symptoms worsened when she was under pressure.

“Stowaway,” she said, blinking. “How did you know … oh you mean here.” She rubbed her temple over her scar, smearing soot.

“Was there another stowaway?” Bitterlich said.

“Someone took over la reine’s bloodhollow. I don’t know how. Vrain is looking into it, but we have another problem. Jean-Claude … I mean, the launch. This whole battle was a setup. They’re trying to steal the key. Jean-Claude has it. I need you to find the launch. Bring them back. Dok, too, and the Conquest shard. Bastards. One basket. All the eggs. Find them. I need you.” Her spark-hand and her skin hand worked as if she were physically placing her words in order. Her firefly nimbus throbbed like an old wound.

Cold dismay spread through Bitterlich’s arteries like hoarfrost on leafless branches at the end of the year. Isabelle was decaying. He shot a questioning look at Marie.

Marie said, “I’ll take care of her.”

Bitterlich looked back and forth between the women. He couldn’t leave Isabelle like this, but what could he do if he stayed? Whatever she needed, he would give, even if it was the wrong thing and too little by half. Rarely had he felt so powerless or useless.

“Find Jean-Claude,” Isabelle said.

“Yes, Isa … Capitaine,” he said. “Don’t … don’t leave. Please.” He wanted to take back his lie to her, but now was not the time to burden her with confession or confusion.

A pained smile creased her face. “Builder keep.”

“Savior come,” he replied, and made himself as neat as he could. The mission called. Her mission. He mounted the bulwark and leapt into space without giving himself time for second thoughts. He transformed into a galvatross. Lightning rippled along his wings. He rode a warm spiral up and around the ship. Only then did it occur to him that he’d forgotten to tell Isabelle about Rebecca. No time for that either.

He oriented himself on Fishers Point and set off in the direction from which the Thunderclap had come. With any luck, he’d find Jean-Claude and Dok quickly; perhaps that would bring Isabelle some relief.