Airsickness was a very unfortunate tendency for a pirate.

“One of these days,” he vowed as he set his teeth and began aiming the gun once more, “I am going to steal a nice little cottage and cruise the Lake District, fishing for blackbirds and—” He had a sudden vision of Cecilia Bassingthwaite in the kitchen of that cottage, dressed in white with a rosy tumble of hair, a blackbird pie in her hands, calling him in to supper. “More lovely and more tempestuous than a summer’s day,” he said dreamily, and as the house swooped again he dropped to his knees and vomited.

Suddenly, a force of stone and shadow reverberated up through the floors. The house went still, but the sensation of movement continued, and Ned realized they had landed on Northangerland Abbey’s roof. From below came explosions as the abbey cannons fired. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he got up and looked out the window.

One house, its roof aflame, was sinking toward the ground. Two others followed it, grappling hooks flying from their windows in an effort to catch the house and slow its descent. The remaining pursuers were falling back, and Ned sighed with relief.

A bell chimed melodiously as Miss Dole’s front door opened. Ned closed his eyes, knowing what would come next—

“Lightbourne!”

Captain Morvath was on board.

Clambering back over sofas, making his way around tea tables, he went down to meet the pirates’ pirate.

Morvath stood in the Dole foyer, dressed in black like a vampire or an opera singer; he held a gilded marble egg up to his eye.

“Terrible work,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” Ned replied, bowing in apology.

Morvath sneered. “I meant the egg. It will look good enough to the undiscerning eye, but is in fact a mere replica of Fabergé’s genius. You got the house here intact. Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“And Cecilia?”

“She escaped my clutches.”

“Your clutches, hey?” Morvath looked at him; Ned returned the stare without blinking. A taut moment followed.

Then Morvath laughed. He tossed up the egg, allowing it to fall on the polished floor. The supposed marble shattered into clay pieces.

“Cheap lies. Nothing but ‘snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their own destruction.’ Branwell Brontë said that, you know.” (The fact that actually Anne Brontë said it tells you pretty much all you need to know about Patrick Morvath.) “He had wisdom to fit every occasion. That I inherited his brilliance proves God is on my side and that my mission of restoring England to men’s superior rule is a divine one.”

Stepping on the shards with his booted feet, he approached Ned, reaching into his coat as he came. Ned did not move, although his mind was racing to calculate the last moment at which he could draw the knife from his sleeve and stab Morvath if necessary.

But Morvath only produced a locket, which he showed Ned while at the same time laying an arm across his shoulders. “See this? Know who it is?”