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Aron was waiting in the navigation room, leaning against the wall with a smirk plastered across his face.

‘You can stop that right now,’ I snapped, relieved when the door shut behind me and I could breathe normally again. ‘Nothing happened.’

Aron held his hands up defensively and chuckled. ‘Didn’t say anythin’, lass.’

I rolled my eyes, following him out into the crisp morning air. The storm clouds crowding the horizon had lifted. The fallen yards had already been replaced, and the sails miraculously mended; but those white cerements remained – a line of bodies awaiting their seaborne burials.

‘What did you want, Aron?’ I asked, trying to soften my steely tone.

I should be thanking him. That thought presented a far more unwelcome question. How far would things have gone if he hadn’t interrupted?

Aron held out a small vial, the amber liquid inside gleaming in the rising sunlight. ‘Got this fer His Majesty,’ he explained. ‘Mors reckons it works wonders fer burns.’

I eyed the bottle archly. ‘And what exactly do you expect me to do with it?’

He at least had the tact to look sheepish. ‘Thought ye migh’ be able to apply it to his back . . .’

‘I’m supposed to be his prisoner, not his nurse.’

‘I know,’ Aron assured me. The rings under his eyes ran deep. It seemed he’d had even less rest than I had. ‘I’m sorry to ask – ye’ve done more’n enough – but . . .’ He glanced behind us at the crew shifting debris and muttering prayers over their fallen crew mates. I could see the fractured sorrow in his gaze, in the dip of his heavy brow. ‘Could ye do me a favour, just fer today?’

I snatched the vial from his outstretched hand with a huff. ‘Just today,’ I agreed. ‘And only because you’re asking.’

‘Owe ye, lass. Ten times over.’ Aron shoved his hands into his pockets, studying the toes of his boots for a moment with a quiet intensity. Then he backed away with a wink, heading for the side of the deck where the rest of the crew had gathered, anguish seeping from their slumped shoulders into the sunlit sky.

I returned reluctantly to Sebastien’s room, finding him right where I’d left him, arms braced against his knees, head bent in thought. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to slip straight back into his embrace. A single touch – a momentary lapse – and my body was practically begging for more.

The smell of salt and blood followed me as I crossed to the windows and threw open the thick curtains. Daylight sliced through the latticed windows, filling the chamber. Perhaps light, if nothing else, could guard me from the pull of his shadows.

‘The hell are you doing?’ Sebastien snapped, shielding his eyes as he glared at me over his shoulder.

‘It was too dark in here,’ I replied shortly, bustling over to the nightstand and soaking a strip of cloth in the bowl of water that rested atop a stack of books. ‘Take your bandages off, I’m going to clean your wound.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Just do as I say so I can leave.’ I kept my tone clipped and cautious, but my cheeks felt hot, my breath a little short. ‘I’ve seen the promise of death that fever brings. You’re just too stubborn to admit you aren’t invincible.’

He seemed to sense my impatience, reaching back to unwind the long strip of bloodied bandage from his torso with a heavy sigh. I tried to avert my eyes, but I couldn’t tear them away from his muscles, rippling beneath the light.

I’d never seen a desert but I’d read of them. I imagined his skin was like that – deep gold dunes, sands shifting with the wind, ridges draped in heat.

Sebastien pulled the final piece of cloth away and a small gasp fell from my lips. His flesh had been stripped away, scourged by flames. But the skin had hardened and begun to scab over, as if the wound had been inflicted several days ago.

I settled on to the mattress behind him, using the wet cloth to wipe away the dried blood as gently as I could. I uncorked the vial and tipped a little ointment over the wound. Sebastien’s entire body tensed as the amber liquid trickled over his raw flesh.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, spreading it lightly over his skin with my fingertips.

The muscles of his shoulders corded tight as I worked, tensing with my every touch like it was torture. I tried to be gentle. He was hot, his damaged skin smouldering like dying coals.

‘You’ve seen fevers?’ he asked through gritted teeth. ‘When?’

It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about, surprised he’d even been listening.

‘My sister, Felicie,’ I explained as I traced the jagged edge of his wound. ‘She’s always been prone to sickness – bad lungs, I think. I took care of her often, especially when our father was away on business.’

Her last fever had been one of the worst, seven long nights of blue lips and sweat-drenched sheets. Eighteen years, and it was the first time I’d seen fear in Aberdeen’s eyes.

‘You’d really do anything for her?’ Sebastien mused.