Sea wrack and foam flock in the air around us up here. The sky is calm, but the sea around us is suddenly insane and the ship is wrenched and buffeted. A report like a cannon shot and I turn in time to see the mast break off and drop sickeningly overboard. We huddle together against the sealed bridge, bracing ourselves against the boxes welded to the deck and spray barks and sizzles at us from the brink and rampages on the steps we’d just escaped, but little of the water as yet can make it this high.

The bridge is filled like a basin with seawater. Suddenly Saskia rears up out of the water—I can hear her hoarse and straining breath rasp deep in her chest. She plunges braving water and tilting unlevel boards beneath her feet throwing herself on the wheel and turning it wildly into the waves.

The next blast of water throws us nearly sideways and Tabliq’s knee bats my solar plexus. We roll back as the water recedes and now as I gasp for breath I look down at black anger laced there with white steam—the next wave strides beneath us and the ship lurches revoltingly but with less violence; we are hurtling along now against the grain of the waves—Saskia will hold us there.

The bow slashes open the waves like an axe and the shreds are bashing back against us on the upper deck. A wallop swats me against the bulkhead knocking my head angrily against the metal. I cry out, and gesture to Thrushchurl that we might try to get into the refuge of the wheelhouse. As the prow dips into the gulf between waves we drag ourselves over the sills and are immediately tossed to the rear of the compartment. Saskia has her feet planted forward and is holding the wheel braced there, snarling half-choked curses at the froth that belabors and bruits her to her face as she holds the bow into the ridges. The deck suddenly jerks to one side and I hear a cry near at hand—Jil Punkinflake is cowering with his dog in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably, his arms around the dog, who looks up plaintively at us. Thrushchurl moves at once to Jil Punkinflake, crossing the flooded bridge with apelike swings of the arm grabbing pipes and struts whatever will keep him. The ship pivots down into another trough.