At least the houseboat was no longer sinking. Miri was a “channeler” of magic, and twice that day she had made the perilous climb up the swaying mast to reach the main balloon and used her channeling abilities to keep the magic flowing into the constructs, to keep the balloon from deflating.

A channeler was a person who could “channel” magical energy, send the magic flowing through existing constructs. A channeler was not gifted enough in magic to be able to draw sigils and create new constructs. Some channelers could act as a conduit for the magic, transfer it from one sigil to another by touch. If Rodrigo had drawn one of his famous diagrams, it would have three sigils, A, B, and C in a line. If B was broken, a channeler could form a bridge between A to C, keep the magic flowing.

The climb up the wet mast in the dark, by feel alone, was dangerous even for Miri, who had spent her childhood racing up and down the mast just for a lark. Once up there, she had to cling to the slippery wood with one arm, while she reached up to the balloon to channel magic directly into it. Since the constructs that evenly distributed the magical energy were set inside the balloon, charging the lift gas in this manner would have only limited, short-term success.

Dag, his face creased with worry, stood beneath the mast, peering upward in a vain attempt to see Miri through the thick mists. Perhaps he had some thought of catching her if she fell, though they all knew that if she did fall, she would likely pitch straight into the Breath.

“Miri’s skills are really what’s been keeping the Cloud Hopper afloat all these years,” Rodrigo told Stephano. “She was able to use her channeling abilities to reroute the magic around, above, over, and under all of Gythe’s protection spells.”

The two were down below in the hold, where Stephano was rooting around in the trunk Benoit had packed in preparation for his master’s journey. A lantern, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, swayed back and forth as the boat rocked in the currents of the Breath.

This night was going to be colder than the night before and he was digging out his old flight coat. Benoit had, of course, dumped the coat at the very bottom, hiding it beneath frilly shirts and dress coats and trousers, stockings and underwear. Benoit had packed as if Stephano was making a grand tour of the continents, not a trip to the unsavory city of Westfirth.

Stephano didn’t answer. He was in a bad mood. He knew he was in a bad mood and he knew why—his friends were in danger, he couldn’t get them out of danger, and it was his fault they were in danger in the first place. And he was jealous.

He needed to be doing something. He had never been the kind of officer to lead from the rear. He had been at the head of the charge, fighting the foe head-on. Dag was working to repair the damage done to the propeller. Gythe and Rigo were working to fix the magic. Miri kept the ship afloat. Stephano was reduced to pacing the deck in company with the cat. And even Doctor Ellington played his part, boosting morale by rubbing around their ankles.

As for Miri, Stephano had no reason to be jealous. He loved her as a friend; his closest friend next to Rodrigo, but still a friend, not a lover. Dag was like a brother to him, a good man worthy of any woman’s love. Stephano wanted both his friends to be happy, so why wasn’t he happy for them? Perhaps, Stephano admitted sourly to himself, he had fondly imagined Miri loved him. It had come as a shock to find out that she was in love with someone else. His heart was bruised, his pride wounded.

Because he was in a bad mood, he needed someone to blame, and Rodrigo was close at hand.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Stephano said, pulling out linen drawers and lace-edged shirts and tossing them onto the floor. “We’ve been sailing on the Cloud Hopper for four years, and I can’t help but wonder you never noticed until now that the magic on this boat was in such a bloody mess!”

“But, my dear fellow, why should I have paid any attention to the magic?” Rodrigo asked, picking up the clothes Stephano was hurling about. He looked truly astonished at the thought, and that irritated Stephano even more.

“Because you’re a bloody crafter!”

“A mere dabbler in the art,” said Rodrigo. “A theorist, a philosopher. When I set sail, I watch with pleasure the panorama of the passing shoreline. I admire the picturesque little villages, the grandeur of the mountains. I do not spend my time dissecting magical constructs on the hull.”

“Well, maybe you should!” Stephano said angrily. “Make yourself useful!”

“Like I’m doing now?” said Rodrigo with quiet dignity.

Stephano remembered belatedly that his friend had been awake all last night, working with Gythe to try to find a way to solve their predicament. They had worked all that day, taking a break only for meals.

“I’m sorry,” Stephano muttered. “It’s just . . . I feel so damn useless!”

“You are our captain,” said Rodrigo. “You give us guidance, inspiration. You boost our spirits—”

“Oh, go jump in the Breath,” Stephano told his friend, though he couldn’t help but smile.

Rodrigo found Stephano’s flight coat at the bottom and handed it to him. He then folded Stephano’s clothes and carefully repacked them.

“I may have thought of a way out of this,” he said as he worked. “I’m going to go to my hammock and sleep on it. I sent Miri and Gythe to bed, as well. You should get some rest yourself.”

“I napped some this afternoon,” said Stephano, adding bitterly, “I didn’t have anything else to do. I’ll stand watch.”

Rodrigo nodded and left, rubbing his eyes and heading for his hammock.

Stephano picked up the flight coat. The smell of leather seemed to warm the dank air of the hold, brought back memories of the best and happiest time of his life. Putting on the green coat, meant to blend in with the greenish-blue scales of a dragon, was like reuniting with a dear friend. The calflength garment, made of the finest quality leather, was slightly fitted at the waist, though loose enough to hide several inner pockets and a sheath for a small pistol.

Brass buttons, engraved with a winged sun with a vertical sword thrust through the center of it—the emblem of the Dragon Brigade—adorned the front. The padded coat had a high collar and a mantle that covered his shoulders. The mantle was deliberately designed to flap in the wind when he rode, throwing off the aim of anyone shooting at him. The coat was split in back, allowing the wearer to sit in a saddle and keep his legs covered.

Two dragons made of contrasting colors of leather had been appliquéd on the coat, one on each breast. Trimmed in gold thread, the dragons faced each other. The workmanship was exquisite, detailed down to the scales and claws and done in deep red, gold, and purple. Only the Lord Captain of the Dragon Brigade could wear a flight coat with dragons of those colors.

The coat had cost him dearly. Upon his promotion, his mother had offered to commission a coat for him as a gift. Stephano had proudly refused. He had spent every last silver rosun he possessed to have this coat made to his specifications, including magical constructs to keep the wearer warm and protect against enemy gunfire, flying shrapnel, and the like.

The coat was worn, well-worn. He’d noticed a month ago that the stitching was wearing thin and one of the buttons was loose. He had told Benoit to see to the mending and, looking at the coat, he was astonished to find out that his old retainer had actually done what he’d been asked to do.

Or rather, Stephano realized, looking at the small, neat stitches and the expert manner in which the button had been reattached, Miri had mended his coat. It was like her to do the work and say nothing to him about it.

Before he put it on, he gently touched a patch of gold scales on the dragon over his left breast. The scales were stained, but that was one place on his coat he never cleaned. The stain was blood—the blood of his dragon and partner, Lady Cam.

He slid his arms into the sleeves, remembering the first time he’d worn the coat, on parade at his promotion ceremony. His men had cheered; the dragons of the Brigade had lifted their voices in a raucous shout. He could have never imagined at that moment wearing his flight coat to keep warm on a Trundler houseboat stranded in the Breath.

Taking the lantern, he went up on deck, where Dag was pacing back and forth, his hands stuffed into his pockets, trying to keep warm. He was wearing a padded leather coat of Guundaran make and design, from his days in the military. Miri had knit him a pair of gloves, but he was not wearing them. Difficult to pull a trigger with gloves on.

The night was so cold, Stephano could see his own breath mix with God’s.

“You should get some sleep,” he told Dag.

“The back of my neck itches, sir,” said Dag. “I’ve had the feeling before. When I’m walking sentry duty and I know the enemy’s somewhere around, but I don’t know where.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling the same,” said Stephano, staring into the thick and heavy darkness, into the ghostly mists that flitted past the lantern light. “I keep thinking about that story Miri told, about what happened to her parents.”

“It sounds crazy, sir. If it hadn’t been Miri telling the tale, I wouldn’t have believed her.”

Stephano knew what he meant. Sailors and Trundlers down through the centuries had told tales of monsters lurking in the Breath, reaching up gigantic tentacles to snatch the unsuspecting sailor off a deck or dragging down entire ships. Stories of ghost ships sailed by dead crewmen and ships simply vanishing.

He had never put much stock in such tales. But then, he’d never before been stranded in the dark in the Breath. He’d never felt it closing in around him, moving and shifting like a restless spirit, dampening sound, muffling voices, causing the boat to rock and lurch unexpectedly.

Dag reached up his hand to pet Doctor Ellington, who was also standing guard duty, his claws dug into the padding on Dag’s shoulder. The cat’s eyes gleamed gold in the light.

“The Doctor hears things, too,” said Dag.

The cat kneaded his claws into the padding and looked very fierce.

“What time is it?” Stephano asked. He could have looked at his own watch, but he wanted to change the subject.

Dag pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and held it to the lantern. “Nineteen hundred hours, sir. Five more to midnight.”

Stephano hunched his head into the high collar. “Seems a lot later. Like it should be two in the morning.”

The two walked the deck together in companionable silence, instinctively marching in step. They were comfortable with each other. Stephano glanced sidelong at Dag: big, stalwart, an excellent shot, confident in his ability to fire a weapon, if in nothing else.

Once an officer, a leader of men, Dag had made a decision, given an order in battle that had cost the lives of men who had trusted him. Dag blamed himself. The next battle, he found he couldn’t give an order at all. He’d frozen, unable to move or speak. He had been brought up on charges of dereliction of duty and drummed out of the mercenary company in disgrace.

Depressed and caring nothing about where he went or what he did, Dag had ended up in Westfirth, a city where it was easy to hide one’s past. He had fallen in with one of the local criminal gangs, whose business enterprises included operating opium dens, houses of pleasure, gambling and prostitution, and selling local shopkeepers protection. He’d been a bodyguard and helped to collect gambling debts and protection money. His criminal career had ended the night he had been forced to kill his partner.

Dag and a new partner had been sent to “persuade” a shop owner to pay his debt. Dag had gone on such missions before. A punch in the kidney, a black eye, a bruised jaw, and the shopkeeper usually found the silver. Unfortunately, this time, Dag’s new partner had turned out to be a bloodthirsty maniac. In order to keep his partner from beating the victim to death, Dag had broken his partner’s neck.

Dag had carried the shop owner to his rooms, which were above the shop. Dag sent for a physician, who examined the man, said there had been extensive internal damage and there wasn’t much he could do. Dag nursed the shop owner, day and night, to no avail. The man eventually died, but not before he had forgiven Dag and asked him a final favor—take care of his beloved pet cat. Dag had made the promise. He and Doctor Ellington had since been inseparable.

Dag had resigned from the gang, only to find that the boss wouldn’t accept his resignation. The gang came looking for him. He moved to Evreux and went to work on the docks, loading and unloading cargo. He had met Stephano five years ago, after extricating Benoit from a fight with the dockworkers over perceived negligence in regard to a shipment of wine. Dag had escorted the old man home and been introduced to Stephano, who had invited Dag in for a glass of the aforementioned wine. The two former soldiers had fallen to talking of past battles, only to discover that they’d both been at the Siege of the Royal Sail, though on opposite sides. Stephano had offered Dag a job with the Cadre of the Lost.

No one knew the full history of Dag’s past except Stephano. The others knew only that Dag was a former soldier and small-time crook, now reformed.

He asked Dag about how the repairs to the airscrew and propeller were coming. Dag had good news. The repairs were finished.

“That shot Piefer made was one hell of a shot, sir. You said he was using one of those muskets with the new rifled barrel. I’d love to see one. What did it look like?”

Stephano replied that he hadn’t really gotten a close look at it, but from what he had seen, it looked similar to a musket except the barrel was thicker, which would make sense; the grooves were cut directly into the metal. They spent the next hour walking back and forth to keep warm, discussing modern weaponry. Neither lowered his guard, however, and when they heard footsteps on deck, both whipped around, reaching for their guns.

“Don’t shoot!” said Rodrigo, lifting his hands in the air. “I surrender!”

“You sound awfully damn cheerful,” Dag grumbled, lowering his blunderbuss.

“That is because I have a solution to our predicament,” said Rodrigo. He was wearing a coat made of sheepskin with the woolly fleece on the inside for warmth, and matching sheepskin gloves. “I dreamed of chocolate layer cake.”

“What does cake have to do with anything, except remind me that I’ve had nothing to eat but smoked fish for the last two days and not much of that,” Stephano said irritably.

Dag grunted. “I’ll toss him overboard, if you want, sir.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. He’d only come back to haunt us,” said Stephano.

“I’ve been going about repairing the magic in the wrong way,” Rodrigo explained. “Gythe placed layer after layer of protection spells over the ship, one on top of the other, like the layers of a chocolate cake. Now, any professor at the University will tell you that magic simply does not work this way. Her spells should have gotten all mixed up with the construction spells laid down by her uncle when he was building the boat. In other words, we should have chocolate pudding, not cake.”

Dag’s stomach rumbled loudly.

Stephano could almost taste the chocolate, and his mouth watered. “I don’t suppose you could use a different analogy.”

Rodrigo grinned. “This is the only way I can explain it to you lay people so that it will make sense. Gythe’s protection spells are stacked on top of the original magic. In order to reach that magic, I’ve been trying to punch a hole through the layers. That doesn’t work. What I need to do is to have Gythe remove the layers, take them off one by one until I can reach the constructs underneath and repair them.”

“Can that be done?” Stephano asked.

“Not according to the textbooks,” said Rodrigo blithely. “According to the so-called wise, what Gythe did can’t be done. And yet, she did it. I have reached the conclusion, my friends, that our Gythe is a savant.”

Dag glowered. “Is that an insult?”

“Far from it, I assure you,” Rodrigo said hastily. “The term ‘savant’ refers to a crafter who is a genius in magic, someone who ‘has magic in the blood, not just in the fingertips’ as one of my professors termed it. Savants are very rare in this world. And that is why she was able to create a veritable layer cake of magic.”

“Did I hear someone mention cake?” Miri asked eagerly, opening the hatch and coming out on deck. She was wearing a wool hat and a thick wool coat over pantaloons made of soft, supple lambskin tied at the ankles so as not to get tangled in the rigging.

“Only in regard to magic,” said Stephano.

Rodrigo explained his plan. Miri listened, her head cocked to one side.

“It might work,” she said. “The problem is Trundler magic is secret. We don’t let Outsiders see or hear how any Trundler casts spells.”

“We’re not Outsiders, Miri,” said Stephano. “We’re friends.”

“I trust you. I would tell you if I knew. But the magic is Gythe’s . . .” Miri hesitated.

“And by the looks of these protection spells, she doesn’t trust anyone. She’s terrified of removing them,” said Rodrigo. “But that’s the beauty of my plan. She won’t have to remove them. All she has to do is pick them up long enough for me to repair the damage on the original constructs. Then she can let them fall back in place. Picture a chocolate cake with sugar icing and almond paste in between in each layer—”

“For God’s sake, sir, make him stop!” Dag pleaded.

Miri looked at Rodrigo in helpless confusion. “Is that even possible?”

“Oh, yes.” Rodrigo gave a firm nod of his head.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

She entered the hatchway leading to the cabin where the two sisters berthed. Doctor Ellington was either bored with sentry duty or hoping to persuade Miri that he was a cat deserving of smoked fish. He bounded off Dag’s shoulder and ran after her, his tail frisking.

“You’re a damn liar, aren’t you, Rigo?” said Stephano. “Moving layers of magic around is not remotely possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Rodrigo, shrugging. “Just not very probable.”

Stephano sighed. Dag muttered beneath his breath. Rodrigo hummed a few bars of a sonata. At last they heard footsteps. They turned to see Miri coming on deck, followed by Gythe with Doctor Ellington.

“She’ll do it,” said Miri. “But she doesn’t think it will work.”

Gythe affirmed this with a shake of her head. She was wearing a long fur cape with a woolen dress and flannel petticoats for warmth. She had wrapped Doctor Ellington in the fur cape, holding him close, her chin nestled into the top of his head. Engulfed in the cape, warm and happy, the cat gazed at them, eyes blinking drowsily.

“Imagine that you are playing your harp,” said Rodrigo. “The magical protection constructs are the strings. You pluck one, then another, then another . . .”

Gythe stared at him, her blue eyes widening. Her hair, damp from the mist, straggled down out of the snug hat she wore. She rubbed her face in the cat’s fur. Doctor Ellington began to purr loudly, a low rumble in his chest. Keeping fast hold of the cat, Gythe walked over to Stephano. She touched his lips with her fingers, then touched his heart.

“She’s telling you to keep her secret,” said Miri.

“As God is my witness, I swear,” said Stephano.

Gythe did the same with Rodrigo, who readily took the oath. She went to Dag and touched his lips.

“You know I’ll keep your secret, Girl dear,” said Dag.

Gythe gave the Doctor a kiss and then placed him on Dag’s shoulder. Dag and Doctor Ellington returned to sentry duty. Rodrigo and Miri and Gythe debated for a moment where to begin, finally deciding to start with the brass helm.

Stephano trailed after them. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can hold the lantern,” said Rodrigo magnanimously.

Seeing the dour look Stephano gave him, Rodrigo added, “Honestly, I need someone to hold the lantern!”

Stephano took the lantern. Rodrigo posted him beside the helm and showed him where to shine the light.

“Explain to me what’s going on,” said Stephano. “In words of a single syllable.”

Rodrigo gestured to the helm. “The constructs set in the brass allow the helmsman to control the amount of magical energy sent to the lift tanks and the balloon. Internal constructs arc that energy through the lift gas ‘charging’ it, creating buoyancy. Braided leather cables, set with additional constructs, act as conduits leading from the helm to the lift tanks and the balloon. Each of these symbols inscribed on the panel allows the helmsman to control a different part of the boat. You could increase the amount of lift in the tanks by sliding your finger up the arrow symbol on the panel, decrease it by sliding your finger down. The surge of magical energy caused by the bullet disrupting the magic blew up some of the sigils that form the constructs. I can repair them, but I have to physically touch and reconstruct them. And these are buried at the bottom of the chocolate cake.”

“They’re Trundler magic,” said Stephano. “You said you’d never seen some of them before.”

“True, but I spent most of yesterday studying them. With Miri’s help, I think we can get the boat up and running again.”

“When?” asked Stephano.

“Dag has fixed the propeller,” said Rodrigo. “Once we can reach the constructs, repairing them shouldn’t take too long. It all depends on Gythe,” he added somberly.

Gythe looked uncertainly at Miri, who gave her an encouraging smile. “Like playing your harp,” she said.

Gythe drew in a deep breath. She placed her hands, fingers spread, on the brass panel and began to sing.

Stephano had heard Gythe sing before, mostly when she was singing softly to Doctor Ellington, sometimes when she was puttering about the houseboat or at his house, helping Benoit peel potatoes or washing dishes or in the park for money. She had a sweet voice, perfect pitch. He had come to recognize some of the tunes over the years, for they were simple and easy to remember, and she sang the same ones over and over. He’d often catch himself humming one or two of them.

The song she sang now was far different from her “Doctor Ellington” song or her “housework” song. This song was ancient, primitive and wild, harsh and discordant, plaintive and sorrowful. A song of yearning and seeking and finding. A song of power that Stephano could feel in his own body, a tingling, shivering sensation that went through him in waves, raising the hair on his arms.

Dag stopped dead, turned to stare. Rodrigo gazed at Gythe in slack-jawed astonishment. Miri watched her sister with fond pride. And then Stephano saw the magic. He saw what he’d always longed to see. He saw sigils, simple and complex. He saw the lines connecting them, myriad lines, myriad sigils, blue-and-purple shining lights, dazzling and beautiful. And confused. Like a spider spinning web over web over web . . .

Down below the blue-and-purple spiderwebs, he could see sigils set into the brass helm and the sigils with the lines connecting them dancing along the braided leather cord. These sigils were brown in color, nothing pretty about them. They were working sigils. He saw large gaps between some of the sigils. No lines ran between them. These sigils were damaged.

As he watched, awestruck, Gythe reached out with her hands and, still singing, she took delicate hold of one strand of blue-and-purple shining magic between her fingers, like plucking a harp string, and lifted it up into the air. Letting it hang, shimmering with light, she picked up another and another. Stephano counted seven in all. They arched over the brass panel, quivering and fragile as a rainbow.

Miri nudged Rodrigo with her elbow. “You can get to work now.”

Rodrigo blinked his eyes and drew in a deep gulp of air. “Right. Sorry. Forgot to breathe there for a moment. Now, let’s see what we have here.”

He bent over the helm, with Miri working to channel the magic when he instructed her. Gythe continued to sing, her voice sweet and sad, young and lovely, old and wise. Stephano noticed Dag wiping his nose and brushing his sleeve across his eyes. Stephano felt his own eyes burn and a lump in his throat.

Rodrigo touched the brass panel, drawing sigils with his fingers at Miri’s direction. He waited a moment for the sigils to sparkle to life and when they didn’t, he swore softly in frustration, deconstructed them and began again. This time, the magic worked. The sigils began to gleam beneath his hand. He gave a whoop of joy and flung his arms around Miri, who laughed delightedly.

Rodrigo quickly returned to his work and, now that he knew what he was doing, he drew a great many sigils in rapid succession. He spoke several words and drew lines connecting them. As these began to glow, Rodrigo performed a few dance steps in celebration and went to work extending the sigils along the braided leather.

Gythe stopped singing, perhaps for lack of breath, but the magic continued to shine. She held the blue-and-purple arrays of lines and sigils and they floated out from her hands and drifted over the boat like radiant banners, encircling the balloons, sparkling on the sails, glimmering on the propeller blades.

Stephano watched, fascinated. The bright light of the flaming sigils illuminated the night. He might have worried that they were now a well-lit target, but Gythe’s song seemed to ease the disquieting feeling that there was something sinister out there in the mists.

Rodrigo flung off his coat and began to climb the mast to reach the sigils on the balloon.

“Where did you learn to climb like that?” Stephano asked him.

“Crawling up trellises to reach ladies’ bedrooms,” Rodrigo returned.

“I’ve never seen the like,” said Dag in solemn tones. “If a man didn’t believe in God, he would surely believe in Him now.”

“If a man didn’t believe in Rodrigo, he would believe in him now,” said Stephano.

“I suppose the rascal does have his uses,” Dag conceded with a grudging smile. He reached up to stroke the cat on his shoulder. “He does more tomcatting than the good Doctor here. Perhaps his brush with death has taught him a lesson.”

Stephano hoped that was true, though he had the feeling that the first sight of smiling lips, blonde curls, and a buxom bosom would erase the terrors of the dueling field from Rigo’s mind.

The sigils on the balloon began to glow. Lines flashed between them.

“Gythe, you can let go of the protection spells. Dag!” Rodrigo yelled from where he was clinging precariously to the mast. “You say the propeller is in working order?”

“It is!” Dag shouted. “Not much to fix, really,” he added in an aside to Stephano. “The bullet knocked the blade askew. I had to take off the blade, reposition it. We were damn lucky.”

“Not luck. Well protected,” said Stephano, glancing at Gythe with a smile.

She let go of the spells, and they settled like layers of wool blankets (Stephano refused to let himself think about cake) onto the boat. Rodrigo slithered down the mast and landed on the deck below.

“I’ve done as much as I can do, Miri. Let’s see if we can bring the Cloud Hopper back to life.”

Miri gave a nod and walked over to the brass helm. Gythe came to stand close beside her. Too nervous to speak, she reached out to squeeze her sister’s chill hand.

Stephano waited tensely, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, Dag muttered something in his own language, Guundaran. Either he was swearing or praying, Stephano could not tell which. Stephano said a prayer of his own, making it short and to the point. “Lord God, let this work!”

Rodrigo leaned over the helm. He had forgotten to put his coat back on and he was shivering and too tense to notice. Miri placed her hands on the brass panel. Her fingers spread wide. Gythe slid her arm around her sister’s waist and began to sing. Everyone on board stopped breathing except for Doctor Ellington, who sneezed.

Miri placed her fingers on the symbols inscribed on the brass, her hands darting over them with loving, practiced skill. And then, as if God Himself were breathing life into the little boat, the sigils caught fire. The houseboat blazed with magical light. The balloons swelled. The sails billowed.

Gythe stood gazing upward, the light shining on her face. She seemed radiant as an angel at that moment. An instant later, the magical light died. Stephano could no longer see the sigils, but they continued to work. He could feel the warmth in the air as the Cloud Hopper started to rise.

Dag gave a mighty shout that startled Doctor Ellington, who leaped off his shoulder and ran to his favorite hiding place beneath one of the cannons. Rodrigo and Miri were dancing together, capering up and down the deck. Gythe grabbed Doctor Ellington, hauled him out, and began to dance with the cat in her arms.

Stephano felt giddy with elation. He turned to Dag. “Shall we join them?”

Dag grinned. He took hold of Stephano’s hands and the two of them began to lumber clumsily about the deck, arguing about who was leading, until Stephano tripped over Dag’s feet and fell on his backside, rendering everyone helpless with laughter.

The mists parted. They could see the stars shining in the heavens and their laughter died away. They stood together and gazed upward in silence.

Miri returned to the helm. Using the stars as guide, she was able to calculate the ship’s position. “We’re near the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” she reported to Stephano. “The nuns are friendly to Trundlers. They’ll give us safe harbor and a hot meal. We can rest up and then sail on for Westfirth. I don’t usually like to sail at night, but Rodrigo says the fixes are only temporary. He needs to do more work. We should reach the abbey by dawn.”

Dag and the Doctor went down below to get a few hours of sleep. Rodrigo, exhausted, had fallen asleep in a deck chair. Stephano draped his coat over his friend.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” Rodrigo murmured and rolled over.

The Cloud Hopper sailed near to the shoreline. They could see the running lights of other vessels: houseboats like theirs, a convoy of merchant ships traveling together for fear of pirates.

Stephano caught himself about to yawn and managed to close his mouth on it. He was too late, however. Miri had seen him.

“Go to bed,” she told him. “You’re still not fully recovered from your wound. There’s nothing more you can do,” she added, seeing him about to argue. “Gythe and I will take turns steering the boat.”

Stephano felt weariness seep through him, starting at his feet and spreading upward. He gave Miri a brotherly kiss on the cheek and another for Gythe, who only grinned at him and shook her head, then he headed for his hammock.

He paused in the hatchway to look back. Miri and Gythe stood together at the helm, the wind blowing their hair wildly. They were sharing some private joke, apparently, for both were laughing softly.

Stephano thought how much he loved them, loved all of them. His family. Safe. He lay down in his hammock. The rocking motion of the boat lulled him to sleep.

When Stephano heard the cannon fire, he thought, like Sir Ander, that the booming noise of battle was part of his dream.