Page 98 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

When I arrive, Jack and Thora are sitting in the common room of our quarters, roasting something in a pan. Thora is staring intently at the fire, but Jack bounces up, indecently cheerful.

“Fearless leader,” she says. “I perceive that you have gotten an early start on the day!”

“More like she didn’t actually finish the night,” Thora said. “I hope you ended up somewhere good.”

“I was with Zarun,” I say.

Thora looks up at Jack with a grin. “Told you. That’s two bottles you owe me.”

Jack heaves an exaggerated sigh and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I believed in you, Deepwalker.”

“Were you betting on who I would rut?”

Jack blinks, as though the thought that I might object had never occurred to her, then puts on a shifty look. “Possibly.”

“And what did you put your bottle on?”

“That Princess Meroe would get her dainty fingers into your underthings before our illustrious clade master. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

I suppress a powerful urge to punch her in the face. Instead, I turn away and head for my bedroom.

“Do you know what’s going on with the others?” Thora says, her attention back to her cooking. “I haven’t seen anyone else today.”

“No idea.” The words are a growl as I push through the curtained doorway.

Thora’s not stupid. We won’t be able to keep what happened from her for long. Berun is dead—my mind helpfully supplies an image of his screaming face, disappearing inside a mass of bulging, tumorous flesh—Aifin is hurt, and Meroe …

Meroe is curled up on her sleeping mat, facing the wall. I sit beside her.

“I talked to the Scholar,” I say. “He’s taking me to the Captain tonight.”

She doesn’t respond. Her breathing is quiet and snuffly.

“This is going to work. I will make it work. We will get off this rotting ship, and find Tori, and … and I don’t know where we’ll go after that, but you will come with us.”

Meroe shifts slightly, pulling in her knees a little tighter.

“It wasn’t your fault, Meroe.”

When her voice finally emerges, it’s a whisper. “Of course it’s my fault.”

“None of us would have been there if not for me,” I say. “I thought … I thought I was strong enough that we’d be all right.”

“Berun only came because I told him to,” Meroe says. “He has—had—a crush on me.”

I hadn’t known she knew about that. She does a good job of seeming oblivious.

“And then,” Meroe goes on, “I tried to help him, and he turned into that thing. And then he rotting exploded. So don’t try to tell me it’s not my fault.”

“He was dying,” I say. “I told you to help him, even though you didn’t think you could. There was nothing—”

“Rotting gods, Isoka, will you shut up?!” Her voice is a croak. “I’m not your rotting puppet. I decided to help you, to try to save Berun, everything. I decided. And that means…”

She trails off, and there’s a long silence. After a moment, I tentatively put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t rotting touch me!”

I snatch the hand back, as though I’d touched a hot stove. Meroe curls herself tighter, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.