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“Come now, Hart,” Fisher murmured to the ship, resting her hands heavily on the rail beside mine. “Wake.”
I felt something shift in the wood beneath our palms. It was a breath, a sigh, and in the next instant the form of a great stag materialized atop the waves beside the ship.
Hart’s ghisting raised his head and looked up at Fisher and I for one glassy-eyed instant. He was over twenty hands high, with antlers broader than I was tall and a ruff of thick hair about his throat and chest.
More ghistings materialized on shore. They formed between the houses, glowing threads connecting them to lintels, doorframes and ancient ornamentation. Some were human in form, mirroring the staring townsfolk in the street around them. Some appeared as animals or strange beasts, and others as formless entities. All were still. All were silent.
They were Tithe’s ghistings, come out to watch, to wait, and to protect the town.
On the waves beneath me, Hart huffed, stomped, and ducked his head to the water.
The morgories scattered into a broadening swirl about him, taking their illumination with them. Fisher and I fell into shadow as the swarm finally dove in a comet of light towards the mouth of the bay and vanished into the Winter Sea.
As they went, the ghistings on shore extinguished one by one. Finally, only the ghisting Hart remained, standing atop the waves and watching the other morgories leave with a steady, unmoving gaze. Then he slipped out of existence, returning to his home within the figurehead.
“Well.” Fisher turned to lean against the lattice of the shrouds, giving me an arch look. “You were in the Other again? Pray, was what you found worth nearly killing our ship and everyone aboard?”
I nodded, using the movement to cover a swallow, and shot the woman a humorless smile. “It was. I found the trail of Mary Firth.”
***
The open sea felt like forgiveness. I stood watch, calm and rested after a night relatively undisturbed by visions. Though I knew the peace would not last, I relished the clarity of mind and strength of will that came with real sleep.
“Sails on the horizon!” a pale-haired woman called from the stern. “A warship, sir.”
I left my post beside the wheel and took her spyglass, directing it in the direction of her pointing finger. Sure enough, a tower of sails appeared with a long, deep indigo banner streaming from her maintop. I did not need to see the colors of Aeadine at her mizzenmast to know precisely who and what she was.
The shape of the pennant meant Navy, the color of it, the North Fleet. The fleet under command of Lord Admiral Rosser Howe, my uncle. And the lines of that ship? The arrangements of her sails, the indigo paint and gold lettering along her quarterdeck and the number of their guns? I knew her.
“Sir?” The watchwoman’s voice pressed into my thoughts. Her accent was Midland Aeadine, likely from the Wolds. She almost sounded like Mary. “All’s well? Who is she?”
“Her Majesty’sDefiance,” I said, giving her a polite nod and handing the spyglass back. “We are sharing these waters with honorable company. Let me know if they signal, Ms. Fitz.”
“Aye, that.” She peered at the vessel again, an awed smile touching her lips.
I returned to my post by the wheel, gloved hands clasped firmly behind my back, expression clear of all disruption. I had known the Navy sailed these waters, including my brother’s ship. There was no reason to let sighting them perturb me.
Fisher materialized, greatcoat wrapped about herself and breath misting from her nostrils in draconian swirls.
“Old friends?” she asked mildly.
“Yes,” I said, making sure my tone and expression gave nothing away.
“Which ones?”
“Defiance.”
Fisher looked back at me in surprise. “Defiance? Isn’t that your brother’s? Mr. Rosser, we can signal. I know you left your post insome…well.But yourbrother—”
“No.” The word snapped out of me before I could temper it. “Benedict and I have not spoken in some time.”
“Ah.” Fisher fell quiet. After a moment she produced a flask from beneath her cloak and held it out to me.
I hesitated. There was no mocking in Fisher’s manner, no hint of our usual conflict. I was wary of pity too, but there was none of that. Just a flask.
I accepted and uncapped it, taking a cautious swig.
The helmsman eyed our exchange, and Fisher gave him a wan look. “It’s coffee, crewman. Nothing proper.”
