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Nah even that White-Christ God o’ yours, eh, who you was t’ serve an’ praise your whole life long? But the Sea herself be my goddess, Cap’n Parry; far more our kin than yours, both we Rusks. So perhaps it follow we might know more’n you about some t’ings, whether ya like t’think so or nah . . .

Parry shook what he presently called his head, impatient to clear it of such trash. And sent out an imperious call, demanding, of any whose souls might linger close enough to be listening—

All they who made up the Nymph’s complement, I know you perceive my power; come now to my command, swiftly, and with courtesy. Which of you, in life, was Doctor Haelam Attesee?

At last, he heard the reply, weak and warped, issuing from somewhere inside that murky cloud of wrack and decay—

I . . . sir, ‘tis I, I think. Who, once, was . . . he . . .

Squinting harder still, Parry was just able to make out one more drowned man—Attesee—clawing towards him through his fellows’ detritus, a clumsy crawl executed with stiff limbs. He was torn at the throat and the chest, skull perforated with at least two close-quarters shots and bruised all over as well, as though every man aboard had wanted a crack at him by his life’s sorry end. Floated upright, he appeared barely five-and-thirty, nothing like old enough to have a child Miss Clione’s age . . . and nothing like her in other ways, either, with his puzzled brown eyes and his once-florid, now-peeling skin; upswept in the current, his wig-shorn hair was a green-tinged shade of blond rather than black, holding not a jot of her snaky, luscious curl.

Yet nevertheless: Sir, Parry addressed him, your daughter has found shelter on my ship. I would know what passed here. Tell me, if you can.

A salt-logged sigh. Oh, my Clione . . . poor girl. Poor girl.

Yes, ‘tis she I mean. I have put her under my protection, and will see to her comfort as well as I may, ‘til we can put her ashore. Now—what trouble cut your vessel down, that I may avoid the same?

The corpse shook his head, neck-bones grating, perhaps severing something; his skull fell sidelong, throat bulging unpleasantly.

Poor girl, he repeated. Not . . . her fault. She does not, cannot . . . cannot know. ‘Twas I who . . . erred, terribly. And all paid the price . . .

Parry frowned. ‘Not her fault’ the ship sank? But why would it be, Doctor?

Another shake: now Attesee’s jaw flapped open, one grind away from swinging free. A fish had made its home inside his throat, blinking out at Parry’s “face.” Cannot . . . the doctor managed, voice a mere mucky groan. Oh, my poor creature! These men, too . . . so many. ‘Tis all my . . . if I had . . . only . . .

—But even as Parry thought to press him harder, the man Clione Attesee claimed as parent gave way, resolving into a quick-unravelling scum of bones. The fish darted off, no doubt headed to seek out less unstable shelter. And now there was a new voice beating down through the water, reeling Parry back in, pulling him up to the Salina’s decks once more, where he wrenched back inside his body just in time to find the bo’sun (whose Christian name he never could recall) leaning in over him close as the protective circle’s flames would allow, repeating—

“—Must have words wi’ ye, Cap’n, on a matter of some urgency . . . do ye hear me, Cap’n Parry? I said, do ye—”

“I hear you, sir, yes; one could not fail to, really. Now give me some room, and bloody well wait your turn.”

It took a sad amount of concentration to snuff the circle, pry his stiff legs apart and lever himself up gingerly—shins to knees, knees to feet—without causing injury; the bo’sun tried to help, but Parry waved him aside. “I am still capable of standing without aid, thank you. Now: what matter do you bring me, that it must be put with such urgency?”

“Sir, ye gave orders that the woman, the passenger—”

“Miss Attesee is her name.”

“—that she not be disturbed, and set your . . . Dolomance to watch on her, ‘fore ye bent to whatever you was just engaged in. Now there’s two hands bit and one stabbed, all for a-knockin’ on your cabin door wi’out permission.”

“I gave Mister Dolomance no such task. As to the other—why would they trouble her?” The bo’sun shot him a look. “Well, for one reason, of course, and more fool they, for thinking I would not learn of it. But otherwise.”

“Word is, there’s some thinks she’ll bring the ship t’ grief. That she’s some sort of, uh—”

“Jonah,” Parry said, the word ill-tasting yet, memory-poisoned. “God damn them all.”

A rage kindled, draining the ocean’s chill; Parry stood straight, eyes sparking—possibly literally—and was coldly pleased to watch the bo’sun cringe back. “She is under my protection,” he confirmed. “Who moves against her moves against me, with all that entails. What more need be said?”

This would have cowed better men, which the bo’sun most certainly was not. Yet he stood fast.

“I understand that, sir,” he replied, carefully. “Truly. But . . . there’s some others don’t, an’ that’s a problem.”

In which he had the right of it, of course. Annoying, contemptible man!

Aye, a good sailor, that. You’d do well t’ keep him close, my Jerusha.

Parry hissed. You do realize your very opinion of the man makes me disinclined to.

Naturally. Now go and see what that creature of yours is up to, before—