“Alas the Breaker’s fetch does not ask your permission,” Isabelle said. She forced some cheer into her voice before the morbid conversation cracked her resolute façade. “Also, impending death does not duty discharge. Rebecca, make us some tea. Marie, I’ll need my writing desk.” She must explain the bloodhollow and the key to Sireen.

With habits nearly as old as she was, she trimmed her quill, dipped it in ink, and turned her paper to accommodate her left-handed grip. Gathering words from the fringes of a drying well of eloquence, she began formally:

I am Isabelle, Capitaine of the Célestial frigate Thunderclap, and this is my testimony.

Isabelle’s blood felt as thick as mud. She detailed how the bloodhollow had deceived her, how she had obtained the key to the Vault of Ages, and how she had sent Jean-Claude away. She prayed he would read this and understand.

She had just finished detailing, with the help of Marie’s perfect memory, what the bloodhollow had said in the keel run, when Rebecca returned.

“Capitaine,” she said, “Lieutenant Vrain reports they have captured the slaver capitaine.”

Isabelle blinked at her, recalled from the turgid flow of her narration. The Skaladin capitaine must have been part of the plot to steal the key. He might know where it had been taken.

“I need to question him,” Isabelle said. “Tell Vrain.”

Rebecca saluted and departed. Isabelle put aside her writing to let the ink dry.

Marie said, “You don’t have to do this. Let Vrain handle the interrogation.”

“He doesn’t have the right questions,” Isabelle said. She checked her watch and counted the numbers carefully. One hour. She should still have time to find out what the Skaladin capitaine knew, to find a way to thwart the thieves and recover her failure.

Marie said, “Pushing yourself is only making it worse.”

“Too late for rest,” Isabelle said. “Would be like going to bed in a burning house. Help me dress.”

Marie hesitated then helped Isabelle into her coat and fitted her recovered wig in place. Her fingers brushed Isabelle’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” she said. “And you’ve got goose pimples all over.”

“I’m the capitaine,” Isabelle said, as if that answered Marie’s concerns. “This duty was given to me. I won’t fail.” Her head pounded like someone was using it for a gun deck, and she was weary beyond all reason, but she’d been near death before and that had not stopped her from saving two kingdoms.

“And I’m your bodyguard. My job is to keep you alive, which I can’t do if you commit suicide by sheer stubbornness.”

“Help me up the ladder,” Isabelle said. She composed her questions as she climbed, putting them carefully in order so that she did not have to invent anything in the moment. She must find out who was behind the conspiracy and what they meant to do next.