Isabelle put the empty soup bowl aside. For the first time since her transformation had overtaken her, she stretched herself not into the past, but the future. As a woman under orders it was her duty to present herself to Sireen and place herself at la reine’s mercy. If Sireen followed historical precedent, her mercy was likely to consist of Isabelle retiring to a quiet life somewhere out of the way but under close supervision. Defiance, on the other hand, would earn a charge of treason and the certainty of being hunted to the ends of the sky.

Isabelle asked, “Have we learned anything about Jean-Claude?”

“No,” Marie said.

The thought of Jean-Claude plummeting into the Gloom hurt like someone had ripped out Isabelle’s heart. All her life he had been the arms that held her, the dire joke that undercut terror and made her laugh, the guide star that showed her the way. He could not be dead. Must not.

Yet dwelling on her dread benefitted no one. Her duty, whatever was left of it, lay in outcomes she could actually effect. “So what is our next move?” Isabelle asked. Clearly Marie had been active in keeping a space open for her, preparing for a future Isabelle could not currently imagine.

“That will depend on you, but you should consult with your privy council.”

“I have a privy council?”

“Me, Djordji, Rebecca, and Bitterlich,” Marie said.

“Shouldn’t Bitterlich have sailed with the Thunderclap?” Isabelle asked. Djordji and Marie had been Isabelle’s guests on the ship, and Rebecca had been Isabelle’s cabin girl, but Bitterlich had been assigned to the ship itself.

“Vrain ordered him to escort you home. Bitterlich thinks Vrain was purging the ship of your loyalists. Djordji agrees.”

“Do you trust Djordji?” Isabelle asked. “He’s an Old Hand. He should be the first one to tell Turenne I’m awake.”

Marie said, “Being an Old Hand means he makes up his own mind about things. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t think you’re completely hopeless, which is more than he has to say about Turenne.”

After ladling a second bowl of soup down Isabelle’s throat, Marie slipped out.

Djordji arrived in short order, his long coat and his wide-brimmed hat making him look more than ever like a bird scare. He took Isabelle in without comment, and closed the door.

“Good seeing you awake,” he said. “Marie says you questions my loyalties.”

Of course Marie would’ve been that blunt. It certainly preempted any maneuvering Isabelle might have wanted to do. Isabelle said, “Is it not your duty as an Old Hand to ensure I obey l’impératrice’s recall order?”