Isabelle hated it when the chorus had a point. If she admitted to this privy council of lunatics, it wouldn’t matter that she had them under control, Sireen would be obliged by good sense to relieve her of duty. Isabelle would fall. Even if Sireen gave her some sort of sinecure, she’d still be condemned to live as a ghost made flesh, haunting society without ever being part of it.

And she still had so much more to give. She’d been suffering these intrusions for months and she’d still managed to assemble the mission. She’d learned to captain the ship, mastered navigation, and kept up a schedule that had her officers panting to keep up. She knew she could handle this responsibility because she already was. Besides, she had Jean-Claude, Marie, and Bitterlich looking out for her.

She cast a questioning glance at Bitterlich. He returned her appeal with a confident nod.

Isabelle took hold of her fear, lifted her chin, and said, “I am prepared, and the expedition is ready to depart as soon as the weather clears.” She could do this. She had done harder things before. She’d wanted to be gone weeks ago. The longer she remained tied up here, the more competition she was likely to have. Plus, the long spin of Craton Massif was carrying Rocher Royale south, farther from its goal.

If Sireen suspected any of Isabelle’s inner turmoil, it did not show in her smile. “Good. I look forward to seeing you off, but I’m afraid there is one more thing I must require of you. Artifex Erdorad has been pressuring me to put a Temple sagax on board to minister to the spiritual needs of the crew.”

“You mean he wants a spy on board,” Isabelle said. “And you wouldn’t be bringing this up unless you meant to foist one on me.” Why would Sireen do that? The Temple loathed Isabelle, with her unladylike ways and her uncanonical l’Étincelle sorcery. In addition to whatever spying the sagax would be sent to do, he was sure to undermine Isabelle’s authority with the crew. All her life such men had labeled her “the Breaker’s get.”

Sireen leaned forward, her posture more conversational than commanding. “Correct, but you know it’s rude to interrupt your sovereign in mid-foist.”

“My apologies, Madame,” Isabelle said. “Foist away.”

Sireen resumed her regal posture and steepled her fingers, a gesture that reminded Isabelle of Grand Leon. “Because Erdorad is speaking on behalf of the Enlightened faithful rather than on behalf of the Temple in Om, I choose not to dismiss his request out of hand. I do, however, insist on choosing the sagax.”