Isabelle poured herself a cup of water and gestured Jean-Claude to the wine cabinet. Just because she couldn’t drink didn’t mean her friends should go dry. Besides, most of this vintage had been gifted to her by Sireen, who would be disappointed if she brought any back. “Which means you don’t have an answer you think will comfort me. Tell me anyway.”

Jean-Claude poured himself a cup. “My grandfather outlived his mind. Got so he didn’t recognize my mother. He thought she was his wife, who’d been dead twenty years by then. Seeing him like that made her sadder than I’d ever seen her, even sadder than when my father died. At least when Papa died she could grieve a whole man. My grandfather, her father, she had to grieve in pieces, one memory at a time.”

“I’m sorry.” Isabelle almost wished she hadn’t asked. She did not want to end up falling to pieces, the mosaic of her mind robbed away one tile at a time until nothing but broken chips of color remained, a void where a pattern should have been. Worse, she did not want to inflict that horror on her friends.

“Don’t be. Mother always said that we grieve for what we’ve lost, but we live for what we can give. Sometimes all we can do is bear witness and hold our honor tight.”

“A wise woman, your mother.”

Bitterlich emerged from belowdecks to find a fight in progress. A wide ring of marines and aeronauts stamped their feet and jeered as two combatants faced off amidships. It was a mismatch for the ages. Long Thom Moreau, who had a second career as a mizzenmast, towered over small pale Marie. She held a ready stance, her pose more still than any living thing should be. Long Thom cracked his knuckles with a sound like musket fire.

To one side stood Jean-Claude and Jackhand Djordji, watching with the bored dispassion of a couple of old goats chewing their cud. The Gyrine had been training Marie in combat: guns and swordplay, but she had no weapons as equalizers here.

Bitterlich had been avoiding Isabelle’s inner circle as much as possible since his rejection of her affection. He had no illusion that he would still be welcome in their company.

Even so, he was in charge of the ship’s security and responsible for keeping the passengers safe. He pushed up alongside Djordji. “Monsieur, is this wise?”

“No,” Djordji said, drawing on his dragonweed pipe. “No great undertaking ever is.”

With a bellow like a mad bull, Long Thom grabbed for Marie. She slipped under his outstretched arm and struck at the meat of his forearms, but she might as well have been punching a timber. Long Thom kept chasing, reaching, grasping. All he had to do was make contact, but Marie twisted, bent, and flowed like water: untouchable.