Isabelle found Marie inside, describing her basic duties to Rebecca. A selection of Isabelle’s clothes were laid out on the bed for instructional purposes.

“You must salute when your capitaine comes in,” Marie said.

“You didn’t,” Rebecca said, eyes narrowed as if she suspected a prank.

“She’s not my capitaine,” Marie said. “I am not in the military.”

“It’s protocol,” Isabelle said. “You’ll get used to it. Marie, if you will demonstrate the proper form.”

Marie ripped off a proper salute. Rebecca, perhaps mollified by the fact that Marie had been made to comply, mimicked the motion.

Isabelle returned the salute. “As you were.” She examined Rebecca closely, wishing she could see into the girl’s mind. She’d not had much experience with children, despite having been one. Somehow that experience seemed to have faded.

“Rebecca,” she said, “Jean-Claude tells me you are a pickpocket.”

Rebecca glowered. “Nasty tongue on that one.”

Marie said, “He told the capitaine that before she agreed to take you on. She took you on anyway. What does that tell you?”

Rebecca turned her wary stare to Isabelle. “You want something picked?”

Isabelle huffed a laugh. “Not at the moment, but if I do, I’ll know who to call. Speaking of which, how much have you lifted since you came aboard?”

“Nuthin’,” Rebecca said unconvincingly.

“Unless you count Skyman Enzo’s earring,” Marie said, “which currently resides in your waist pouch amongst a collection of curios, small coin, and a phial of glimmer oil.”

Rebecca rounded on Marie, but Marie’s death-mask expression quelled any outburst.

A thief can be useful, but a liar is never to be trusted, Isabelle’s ancestral chorus said, thicker and louder than they should have been at this hour. She prayed they would quiet down again once she found her rhythm in command.

Isabelle concentrated on Rebecca. “You managed to steal an earring. How’s that done?” Someone explaining a familiar “how?” was more likely to be forthcoming than someone trying to navigate a treacherous “why?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I ask him, ‘What’s that bird?’ His eyes go up, looking for the bird. Can’t think about two things at once, so he doesn’t notice when I lifts it out. Got to get the angle right, though, so it doesn’t drag.”

“What sort of bird was it?” Isabelle asked.

Rebecca looked perplexed. “I dunno. A gull?”

“What sort of gull?”

“A loud, greedy one,” Rebecca said.