Isabelle shrugged. “The problem with good liars is that they usually tell the truth.”

She turned her gaze to the ship’s orrery. Along the near face of the spherical observation tank a tiny cloud of mist in the shape of the Thunderclap sailed northeast. To the left and behind, a similar vaporgram of the Craton Massif drifted south, its slow spin carrying Rocher Royale away. The Thunderclap’s return trip would be longer than its outbound one. Far to the north, at the top of the orrery, Craton Auroborea turned. It seemed more like an illusionist’s prop or a huckster’s promise than a real place. Just when she’d reach out to touch it, it would vanish.

Bitterlich eased up beside her. “Deep thoughts?” he asked, his voice a purr that massaged her ears just right. It was not fair that he should have such a voice when her own was so stretched and scratchy.

“Between Dok and Quill, I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone on this ship who doesn’t have a hidden agenda.”

“If they do, we’ll have to put them on the rota. Treasonous plots will only be permitted on the larboard watch, whilst schemes to awaken sleeping deities will be restricted to the starboard watch. All spies, liars, scallywags, and layabouts will be assigned to the poisoner’s mess.”

Isabelle snorted. She met his gaze, deep golden eyes that greeted her like open arms, at least in her imagination. Three months ago he’d kissed her and it had felt real, and he’d hovered near her ever since, ready with a kind word or clever observation. Once, before Gretl sorted Isabelle’s potion out, her ancestors had gotten loose in her mind. Bitterlich spent that whole night sitting with her in an alcove while she hallucinated her way through half her family history. He told her jokes and anecdotes, a trail of mirth that she followed back into the waking world. He was her bearer of heavy objects, lightener of dark moods, and sweetener of sour moments.

She would have sworn he was courting her, except that he always stopped short. He always showed up when she needed someone, set her back on her feet, or at least in comfortable repose, and let himself out again.

“So what is your secret ambition, oh chiefest and greatest of scoundrels?”

He assumed a very stiff posture, nose in the air, and intoned, “My dastardly plan is to forge an alliance between the ship’s cats and the rats to conquer their mutual enemies, the gulls, who are known villains.”

Isabelle gave him the eye roll he was looking for. “I’m sure it will be an affray to remember. But truly, what do you want?”