And what if she never woke up? How then would the world keep turning? Undoubtedly the Solar would rise, the cratons would spin, and Ciel itself would continue its Builder-ordained circuit through the icy, dark void in which the stars were hung. Yet it would be a lesser place. It wasn’t just that Isabelle looked at him as a person; she looked at everyone that way. It was also that she had been betrayed, but she still trusted. She had been hurt, but she was still brave.

“Wake up,” he said. “Please.” But no miracle was forthcoming.

He squeezed more water into her mouth. She still seemed able to swallow by reflex, which was something.

Bitterlich stepped out of the nook long enough to corral a ship’s boy and send him to fetch Bitterlich’s writing kit. There was no reason he couldn’t compose his report while sitting watch, and he served Isabelle better by defending her against her sleepless foes than by moping over her unconscious body.

Night had fallen, the ship’s watch had changed, and Jean-Claude sat on the edge of his cot. Normally he would not have counted this as much of an accomplishment, but he was working with more of a handicap than usual. He might have owned some span of skin that wasn’t cut or bruised, some organ that didn’t ache, but if so he was just as aware of them as he might be of a quiet figure amongst a shouting mob.

He wrapped the thin blanket around his waist and considered his approach to standing. If he could get hold of the stanchion he could pull himself up, and hopefully not fall right over again. As much as he didn’t want to move anymore, he needed to talk to Ivar and Czensos, preferably not at the same time.

“Don’t bother to get up on my account,” said a familiar drawling voice.

A magnificent dwarf leaned against the doorpost. He was as dashing and clever a fellow as could be imagined, with golden curls, glittering eyes, and a smile full of teeth that outshone pearls. He wore an embroidered waistcoat over a fine linen shirt and porkpie hat with the iridescent feathers of some rare bird curling over top of it. In his presence, even the weatherworn doorposts gleamed with a new coat of paint. A gold coin tumbled through his fingers in an endless loop, every now and then leaping up like a fish from a lake to land in his opposite palm and take up its gymnastic course in the other direction.