You’ll see, Ivar had said, the bastard. He planned to use the eye to show him the way through the Bittergale. The good thing was, Jean-Claude now had a lever to pull, if he could just figure out where to put the fulcrum.

Jean-Claude pinned the now-inert needle inside his coat and promised himself next time he encountered Sedgwick, he’d shove it someplace painful.

It took Jean-Claude several hours and two more stealthy excursions into the ship to collect paper, pen, and ink from unoccupied cabins. His clockwork eye helped him see aeronauts coming before they saw him.

He propped a board across the top of a barrel, lit his lantern, and put quill to paper:

Capitaine Thirdeye, you pestilent, goat-bothering bootlicker, I write to inform you that your plan to insert a spy on le Comte Travers’s ship has succeeded, quite possibly beyond your wildest expectations.

I understand, now, just how you intended to learn the path through the Bittergale. I suspect you will be horrified to understand the fate of your entire endeavor rests in my hands.

Jean-Claude paused to savor that thought. He could almost hear Ivar’s ulcer forming.

As it so happens, I am willing to assist you. I await your response to discuss terms. I assure you, my rates are reasonable.

He read the missive several times to make sure Ivar got it, then wrapped a brass plate in a strip of linen and tied it in front of his eye. It blocked off his vision nicely.

He put away his writing utensils, doused the light, and then leaned back to wait. It was possible that Ivar couldn’t actually reverse the flow of information. It was equally likely that Jean-Claude had gone mad and this whole attempt at communication was based on delusion.

More though, he thought about Isabelle. Where was she now? What was she doing? Please let her be safe.

Dawn came and with it the end of Bitterlich’s shift. He and Isabelle had divided the watches into day and night so that they could both keep an eye on Similce and her crew. Isabelle got the day watch, though she’d stayed up late sitting with Marie, who was tending Djordji. The Old Hand’s condition was dire. He was old, his body was already weakened by his blackened lungs, and the surgeon had none of his medical supplies. The wound festered. If they could get him to Flotsam, they might find powders to draw out the poison and antiseptic salves to stop more getting in.

Bitterlich found Isabelle in the chartroom, dressed for the day in what could charitably be called a tent—a shapeless robe, an oversized mantle, and a cavernous hood that swallowed her whole. He would not have immediately known it was her but for her spark-arm and her firefly swarm, both of which ignored the fabric.