Just when they were finally drawing close to Joubert’s Folly after a month aloft, this storm had sprung up almost out of nowhere and swatted the ship around like a kitten with a bit of fluff. Saints only knew what flotsam the gale would kick up. Stonebergs and strange creatures might be heaved up from the Gloom. Capitaine Isabelle had furled every sail she didn’t need to steer by and ordered extra eyes to the dark to watch for incoming hazards.

Bitterlich made an inspection of the gun deck. The ship heaved and fell, throwing the guns against their webbing. The ropes groaned in protest but did not yield, and the gun crews were all on station to make sure it stayed that way. The last thing anyone needed was a half ton of metal and wood careening around the innards of the ship.

Bitterlich floated and thumped along with the artillery. He’d experimented with several animal and hybrid forms to ascertain which was best adapted to this sort of tossing, only to discover that being picked up and slapped down like potter’s clay was not a thing most animals had to contend with. Perhaps he should consider adding some reef dweller like an aethercob to his repertoire.

He took the companionway down to the middle hold and started checking the cargo lashings, but paused when a disturbance in the air twitched his whiskers. The middle hold was the stuffiest compartment in the whole ship. The air was close and heavy even in this pitching storm.

He tested the air, recognized Rebecca’s scent, and followed his nose to check up on her. She’d been adapting remarkably well to ship life. He got the sense she’d been starving for new experiences, and now she was gorging herself on them.

The ship groaned, the wind whistled, the rain hammered, and the thunder crashed, but beneath it all, wending its way through the noise like a snake through a thick brush, was the thread of human voices.

“No Madame.” Rebecca’s voice, sounding agitated. “I’m supposed to check you for sores.”

“Never mind that now. Help me dress,” said a woman’s voice, raspy and rough as if she had a sore throat. It must be la reine’s bloodhollow, but why was it awake? Sireen had promised to stay away.

Bitterlich hurried to the locker where the bloodhollow was being kept in time to find Rebecca, wide-eyed and damp from the rain, helping the bloodhollow on with its slip. Both women looked up at Bitterlich. The bloodhollow’s dead stare from its white skull, showing through its transparent flesh, made his skin crawl and the fur on his spine stand on end.

“Madame.” Bitterlich made as much of a bow as he could make in such cramped quarters.

“Oh, it’s you,” said la reine. “Have you come to watch me get dressed?”