One of the lackeys ran into the room, gasping. “They’re following us, Captain!”

Ned smirked, picking up a small, onyx-framed portrait from a table. “Of course they are,” he said. The portrait was done in oils, and its artist had possessed enough talent to capture the wildness of the woman’s smile, but not enough for the sadness in her sky-colored eyes. Ned remembered those eyes, although it had been a decade since he’d seen them. He doubted anyone could forget them. Cecilia’s eyes were a softer color, like the calm heart of a storm.

Except tonight, for but a moment, as he bent toward her and she considered not stopping him. Then she’d looked like her mother—a princess of pirates, all girlish wickedness and wild.

Ned tucked the framed portrait in a secret pocket of his coat. “They won’t catch us,” he said to the lackey. “But get someone to prepare the house gun, just in case.”

“You want us to shoot at ladies?”

Ned laughed incredulously. “Where did Morvath find you?”

“On the docks, sir. Navy gunner, but the captain offered better pay.”

“Navy. Well, that’s about as useful as a feather duster in a sword fight. I’ll do the guns; you go make sure the servants are comfortable.”

“Comfortable as in—?”

Ned frowned. “We do not kill servants, man. Not on my watch. Comfortable as in not restrained somewhere that heavy items might fall on them if the house swerves. Go. Now.”

The man fled toward the kitchen, and Ned, taking a lantern, jogged upstairs in search of the gun turret. He did not particularly want to shoot at ladies—it would inspire them to shoot back, and some of them had excellent aim, what with having been engaged in battles since long before he was born. But he would not fly undefended, either.

He found Miss Dole’s artillery in a room with rose-covered wallpaper and a clutter of sofas and tea tables. After trying at first to navigate the maze of them, he simply climbed over instead. He opened the pink window shutters, cranked the window to full dilation, and wheeled the multibarreled rapid-fire gun into position. Lights were flashing in the distance: town houses, manors, and what looked like a plump, vine-swathed cottage, in hot pursuit above the Devonshire fields.

Ned checked the gun’s hopper and saw it was only half-loaded. By the light of his lantern he rummaged about on nearby shelves before locating more ammunition in a box encrusted with seashells and ribbon. He loaded the hopper and turned the crank, letting off a few rounds as a warning. Smoke billowed everywhere. Coughing, cursing, Ned stepped back. He spied a painted lace fan on the shelves and applied it before his face. Moments later, when the smoke had dispersed, he peered through the window.

The ladies were gaining on them.

“Damn,” he said, and tossed the fan aside. Aiming for chimneys, he fired again, and as bricks exploded in the night there was a battery of return fire. The house banked to avoid it, and Ned clung to the gunwheel so he did not go skidding. Nothing fell—at least the place had good stabilizing magic—but then the house veered in the opposite direction, and he grimaced.