The aeronauts, finding themselves in calm skies and with no enemies in sight, scrambled to their feet and let out a great cheer, all except Similce, who looked as wooden as the mast.

“Heel her up!” Similce shouted. “Level the ballast. Steady the keel! Get that spar down.”

The aeronauts abandoned their celebration and got to work setting the ship aright. Everything about her posture thrummed with fury, like a pressure vessel on the verge of explosion. Isabelle could almost hear her rivets groaning.

She’s dangerous, Lissa whispered. She’s married to this crew and she sees you as the other woman.

Isabelle feared the ghost was right.

“Surgeon.” Marie raised her voice. It was loud but lacking human urgency. Djordji lay in a smear of blood, clutching his side. Marie knelt beside him, holding his shoulders.

“Surgeon!” Isabelle shouted, and raced to Marie’s side.

The surgeon appeared from belowdecks. He was a grizzled man with a burn scar on his chin that made it look like he’d put his beard on sideways. “Let me see.”

“Damned ricochet,” Djordji wheezed, his face white and his lips pale. “It skips off the rail and cracks my rib.”

“Cracked? You mean shattered,” the surgeon said, peering at the wound. “Blasted it to bits. There’s pieces of it … Torments. Get him up on the table and get me some light!”

A gang of sailors slipped a canvas under Djordji and hustled him to the surgeon’s bay belowdecks, with Marie and Isabelle in tow.

The surgeon got Djordji on the table just as the Old Hand was overtaken by a coughing fit. Fresh blood spilled from the wound, and black matter sprayed from his mouth. The surgeon cursed.

Horror filled Isabelle. Had the bullet broken up? How deep did the bone shards go? The surgeon tore his coat and shirt off. They were leather and silk as most fighters wore, materials that held together and didn’t easily get caught in wounds.

The surgeon called for a knife and men to hold Djordji down. They gave Djordji a belt to bite on and then pulled back the edges of the wound to get a better look.

Djordji bucked and screamed into the leather belt.

“Do you have any poppy milk?” Marie asked.

“Cursed Célestials took my stores,” the surgeon snapped. “Now, be quiet.”

Djordji whined as the surgeon probed the bone, and teased out yellow-white slivers. Isabelle had seen such wounds before, horrible, hot, and swollen. Repairing them was like trying to unmake sausage.

Isabelle snaked her arm around Marie’s shoulder and pulled her tight for comfort. Marie leaned into the embrace.

The surgeon was still working when Similce came up behind Isabelle and said, “Soulless, the ship is ready to get under way. Now we must agree on our destination. The closest neutral port is San Fortunado.”

Isabelle searched her memory, but neither she nor any of her ancestors had heard of it.