I jogged all over the ship looking for Smitter. I finally found him in the galley eating a pastry, and I nearly strangled him. He nursed a goblet of wine as if he were lounging back at the palace, dining with royalty, not sailing a vessel on the brink of battle.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” My breath punched in and out of my lungs as I glared at my uncle.

“Yes, but I was rather enjoying my confections. Can you believe this is a banana? It’s been fried in dough and covered with syrup and the freshest little walnuts.” He took another bite, scattering crumbs, and spoke between chews. “Unfortunately, I soured things drinking from the wrong bottle though. Ketner’s venom milk sits too close to the fermented juice. How he ever gets seafarers to drink that blasphemous concoction is beyond my godly comprehension.” He grimaced and stuck out his tongue. Looking back up, he frowned at my thunderous expression. “What? I figured you’d find me eventually,” he said, licking his fingers.

“Well, while you were attending to your sweet tooth,” I growled, posturing like a rabid animal ready to spring, “Yemma has been circling The Freedom. She wants to come aboard and talk. I need your help bringing her up.”

Smitter straightened, face falling into a dour tragedy mask. “Your governess from the siren island?”

I crossed my arms. Better to hold them close so I didn’t throw a few jabs for my trouble of scouring the boat and calling aimlessly into the abyss. “Yes. Now will you get off your lazy arse and help me?”

Smitter jumped off his stool and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

I growled. “I couldn’t very well yell it. ‘Uncle, there’s a siren about who wants a bit of a chat. Care to help me haul her in?’ That would’ve gone swimmingly.”

Smitter shrugged, then disappeared, deciding not to accompany me for the long walk back. I gazed toward the ceiling. Zeus, grant me the patience to not kill your son, I thought.

I met Smitter on the quarterdeck where the fishing nets hung limp and waiting. Working together, we lowered one, and Yemma willingly swam into the folds of knotted rope. Unlike the The Sea Singer’s spiked cable nets, this woven fiber would leave Yemma unharmed.

Smitter and I pulled lengths of the twine until we held her over the ship’s deck. Water dripped off her body and puddled below.

“Are you alright?” I asked, hurrying to her side while Smitter secured the rope to the mast, holding her aloft.