Page 112 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’ll solve it,” the captain agreed.

I woke sweating at quarter to six having slept through the night for the first time since we got out to sea. Neal was still fast asleep, curled up with me and the cats and one too many blankets.

I hadn’t woken last night. The fish hadn’t dispersed.

I disentangled myself and slipped out into the sitting room. Ansel was already up, dressed, nursing a coffee.

“Stood up in the engine bay all night,” Ansel said. “They got—swear on my blessed mother’s grave—a rabbi to supervise. Couple lads from security as enforcers. Engineers looked mad like hornets, but they behaved. No kraken. No portal. No dead pigs etched with symbology.”

“So now Guinevere is our only major source of tension?” I asked.

“She’s more than enough,” Ansel replied, “believe me.”

Forty-Eight

Neal

It was the second to last night before we docked in Liverpool when Ansel came to our bedroom before dinner and started digging through our trunks.

“You need to change,” he said simply.

“Why?” Sorcha asked in response.

“Ball tonight. We’re going. Everyone is going,” he replied.

“Ansel, I have been talking to a whale for hours, and we were going to go watch for him after dinner,” Sorcha tried to protest.

“Appearances matter, lass,” Ansel replied, shoving Sorcha’s ball-gown bodice into her hands. “So change.”

“Fine,” Sorcha grumbled, shooing him out.

I was always mildly embarrassed to admit that I liked parties. Sorcha hated them. Ansel loved them. And I simply marveled at the logistics, enjoyed seeing my wife in a pretty dress, and liked an excuse to listen to a string quartet for a few hours. On a ship? Even more impressive.

I’d coaxed Sorcha into dancing with me then abandoned that prospect halfway through our first waltz when she looked immediately ill. We’d spent the better part of two hours seated at a booth in the dining room while she sipped chamomile, head heavy on my shoulder.

“We could try again,” she finally murmured. “I like the idea of dancing with you. Even if baby has mixed feelings.”

“Really?” I asked, taking her hand. “You want to?”

Sorcha nodded, finally smiling.

“We have to make up for our wedding,” she teased, letting me lead her out to the dance floor and pull her close with a hand against her low back.

“Guinevere has been staring daggers at Ansel all night,” I said as we danced. “I don’t know when. I don’t know what. But she’s going to try something. She’s mad.”

“He jilted her,” Sorcha said. “She’s allowed.”

“You’re taking her side?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not taking her side,” Sorcha corrected. “I’m saying that weddings bring up complicated feelings, and Ansel didn’t exactly handle it gracefully.”

A long moment passed, and she relaxed in my grip, then looked up and asked, “Want to give her something to talk about?”

I nodded as she stood up on her toes and kissed me full on the mouth. I expected her to pull away, but she leaned in—lips soft and warm against mine, tongue in my mouth, hand in my hair. Heat flooded through me as I felt her breath hitch. She was breathless and flushed when we finally separated.

“You’re liable to cause a scandal,” I murmured in her ear, “but you also don’t get to tease me like that. I will peel that dress off you and we will finish things when we get to bed tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Sorcha giggled. “Besides, now that there’s no more occult sacrifices people will need something else to talk about. Now hold me. I’m dizzy.”