Bitterlich hesitated, flummoxed by his brevity. “Yes, Capitaine. Will there be a council to discuss strategy?” Vrain was the most taciturn man Bitterlich had ever met, but surely he had some information to give in return, some notion of a plan to share.

Vrain’s craggy eyebrows inched down, like a ridge line contemplating an avalanche. “Committees make poor capitaines, Major.”

Bitterlich only winced on the inside. “Grand Leon always said active collaboration makes for better coordination in any complex endeavor.”

“Grand Leon ruled by inspiring his nobles to fight each other instead of him. A warship cannot afford such chaos. I expect my officers to know their duties. When given orders, they will carry them out. Do you object?”

“No, sir,” Bitterlich said, though he dreaded the future this portended. There was no one in the world more misguided than a man who heeded only his own advice. “May I inquire what prompted this change of command?”

Vrain’s expression became even harder, moving from marble to granite. “Capitaine Isabelle became incapacitated.”

“Thank you, Capitaine,” Bitterlich said. He did not add, Your answer, while concise and probably accurate, was also entirely unhelpful. He slipped out of the cabin and was ever so grateful to breathe in air that Vrain was not personally oppressing.

He found Isabelle in the infirmary in a curtained-off nook. She appeared asleep, buried under blankets. Her face was flushed with heat but without sweat. Her spark swarm had diminished down to a few stray pinpricks of light, like dying fireflies forlornly winking out calls to mates that would never come.

Marie sat on a stool by the hammock, holding Isabelle’s hand.

Bitterlich doffed his hat. “Mademoiselle, may I come in?”

“Are you sure you want to?” Marie said without looking up. Her toneless voice seemed to bleach hope from the room.

He looked around to see if there was anyone who might be listening in. Seeing no one, he approached the hammock and said, “Hallucinations?”

“Hallucinations, delusions, garbled speech. I poured a quart of potion down her throat and it didn’t help. It took poppy milk to get her to sleep. Builder only knows if she’ll wake up again, or whether that would be a blessing or a curse.”

Bitterlich’s heart shriveled like a raisin, and words failed him completely. After a moment, he collected another stool and sat down. He couldn’t feel his own heartbeat. Why in all the world did this have to happen to her? Why did it have to be a foe no one could fight?

“You don’t have to stay,” Marie said. Her voice had no tone, but it did have a rhythm that suggested he was not wanted.