Page 56 of When the Sky Breaks

“So you thought barging in like an intoxicated draft horse was more subtle?” I muttered.

“Bloody strange to have a storm on the Gulf at this time of year,” Ansel said, tossing his soaked coat through the connecting door and into his own cabin.

“Is she alright?” Andrew asked, gesturing at Sorcha as he leaned against the far wall, clearly trying not to intrude.

“Seasick,” I replied noncommittally.

“She’s pregnant,” Ansel said bluntly.

“Ansel!” I barked. “You don’t just go around telling people personal information about my wife and, need I remind you, our sovereign!”

“If it makes it any better, I’m really not planning to do anything with this information,” Andrew offered by way of an apology. Sorcha stilled as he spoke, and I recognized that telltale hitch in her breath that meant she was getting nauseous again. The roll of the ship—intensified now by the storm—couldn’t possibly be helping.

“Now some space, please,” I snapped at Ansel and Andrew.

“Pleasure invading your privacy,” Andrew called over his shoulder as they ducked out back onto the deck.

“At least one of us enjoyed it,” I muttered before tucking Sorcha closer and laying down to sleep.

The storm didn’t break for days. Our progress stalled and Sorcha’s body rebelled. Any hope of the steamship providing reprieve dissipated as I spent every waking moment caught up either trying to coax her to even attempt fluids or wiping bile off her face when things inevitably came back up. I barely saw Ansel and Andrew. We didn’t leave the cabin. Milkweed had stopped mimicking entirely, instead nuzzling at Sorcha’s cheeks, her neck, chirping in distress.

“She’ll be okay,” I said—not sure if the reassurance was meant for the jackalope or for me.

It was dusk on day three—still storming, still dismally behind schedule, Sorcha still barely keeping down water—when Ansel woke us early, with news.

“I think the storms are unnatural,” he declared, shaking Sorcha awake.

“What? Why?” Sorcha asked, rubbing her eyes and pushing herself to sit up.

“Because there shouldn’t be storms like this in the Gulf at this time of year,” Ansel said.

“Weather phenomena can be erratic,” Sorcha muttered, gesturing at me for the basin and vomiting again before Ansel had a chance to reply.

“She’s not wrong,” I added. “You need more evidence than climatological oddity before you can turn this into a monster hunt, Ansel.”

“We’re being watched,” Ansel said.

“Evidence exactly like that,” Sorcha replied.

Moments later lightning struck again, close this time, and the ship jolted as a wave battered the hull. Sorcha yelped, curling closer. Milkweed did likewise.

“There’s a man I’ve seen every time I’ve left my cabin,” Ansel explained. “Red hair, well-cut suits, dark eyes. He’s at the next table over every time Andrew or I go to the salon. He’s outside our cabins even when I check out the window at midnight. He’s tailing us.”

“And do you have any explanation as to how he could be summoning storms?” Sorcha pressed.

“Elementals,” Ansel said.

“What, like spirits?” Sorcha asked. “You think he’s summoning spirits. To cause the storms? Delay us? Kill us? Why?”

“He’s outside right now,” Ansel said. “Shall we find out?”

“Go ahead,” Sorcha conceded.

Twenty-One

Sorcha

Isat on Ansel’s bunk, basin in my lap, glaring at the red-haired man Ansel had dragged in by the scruff and tied to a chair. Neal sat beside me, and I could hear Milkweed repeating, “I have a right to be here” through the door, punctuated by the irate thump of his back paws.