Yet even as Bitterlich approached Isabelle’s nook in the sick bay, Sagax Quill emerged carrying an armload of Lael’s notebooks. Anger flashed through Bitterlich’s mind at the idea of this theft, only to be doused by grief. Those were the books Isabelle had borrowed from Quill, and of course he wanted them back. The Thunderclap must sail as soon as it was provisioned if it were to have any hope of catching Hasdrubal and making its way to the Craton Auroborea. Lael’s ledgers were vital to that effort.

Bitterlich arrived at Isabelle’s nook to find her situation unchanged. Marie, seated by Isabelle’s head, looked desperately tired. She was doing her best to ignore Jackhand Djordji’s cajoling.

“You need rest,” Djordji said to Marie. “Gets some sleep when you can or you fails when she needs you sharp.”

“I am fine,” Marie said, in defiance of the obvious. Stone-cold her expression might be, but her eyelids hung like lead curtains.

“I’ll take a shift,” Bitterlich said.

Marie swiveled to face him. “Why should I trust you?”

Her palpable distrust stung like a slap to the face, but he did not flinch. He opened his hand toward Isabelle. “Because she would.”

“Not fair,” Marie said. “She trusts too much, forgives too much. Look where it’s got her.”

“And would you change anything about her?” Bitterlich said.

Marie grimaced.

Djordji said, “I’ll watch her too.”

Grumbling, Marie allowed herself to be displaced from her seat. “Make sure she gets water and stays warm.”

Djordji led Marie out. Bitterlich would tell her about Isabelle’s potential recall after she’d rested and had enough energy to be properly outraged.

Isabelle’s skin had wrinkled as if she’d aged thirty years overnight, and her halo of sparks was down to a few intermittent flickers like stars peeking through a heavy fog. Her breathing was dry and shallow.

Bitterlich sat at her bedside. His heart felt empty and heavy at the same time. She should be up and about, turning the world on its ear, not laid out like a corpse on a bier.

He took up the cloth Marie had been using to drip water into Isabelle’s mouth, and squeezed a few drips past her lips. He’d never dared touch her face while she was awake. It felt intrusive doing so now, even if wholly necessary.

Her eyes showed no sign of fluttering open. She displayed no reflex at all.

He imagined what he would say if she woke, if he could form the words.

He would say, I’m sorry I lied to you, or, I’m sorry I hurt you, or, I’m sorry I’m not the hero you deserve. The “I’m sorry” seemed to be the important part.

Yet an apology was nothing without penance and restitution.