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Inside the anonymity of her hood, Lucy snarled at them for their calm indifference. But then, sailors spent most of their lives beyond the Pale. Lucy stumbled, her throat closing. Fools.

She worked her way up the quay to the harbormaster's terminal. Stern-faced Hornets in charcoal uniforms trimmed in saffron and emerald guarded the entry. Lucy paused long enough to show her customs badge. They nodded and waved her on.

She hesitated, turning to gaze out through the mouth of the harbor. Merstone Island rose mistily out of the ebony water like a sleepy ghost. Beyond were the vast black waters of the Inland Sea. She had a lot of friends out there. Her chest tightened. She did her best to avoid thinking about them. Else she'd chew her fingers to bits with constant worry. But in a gale like this—

Unwillingly, she thought of Jordan. His ship ought to be coming in soon—she'd expected him more than a sennight ago. She frowned, her jaw jutting out in defiance against her sudden fear. He was an excellent captain. Few were better. He'd been sailing since he was a boy. He was too careful, too cunning to be caught by sylveth or any of the other dangers the Inland Sea had to throw at the ships that dared its depths.

She tried to make herself believe it. But even the most brilliant captain didn't have a chance when the sea unleashed its fury. Braken's fury. Lightning flashed, sending jagged spears of white light across the entire sky. Her eyes closed against the knife-bright glare. Hard on its heels, thunder cracked. The air shook with the angry concussion. Lucy swallowed hard. And the sea god was pissed.

Abruptly she spun about and headed for the doors. Once she was submerged in work, she wouldn't be able to stew about Jordan or anything else. Besides, he was too arrogant, stubborn, and obnoxious to allow himself to be changed by sylveth. She allowed herself to take comfort in the thought, but promised herself she could strangle him if he let himself be hurt. He was, after all, her best friend. She had a right to beat him up for letting himself get into trouble.

She stepped into the vast maple and marble entry, the sounds of the wind dying as the doors swung closed. Footmen stood ready inside, taking Lucy's dripping cloak and offering her a towel. She took it, her lips thinning as the burn of majick closed around her like a cloak of nails and nettles. Her scalp prickled and her mouth tasted like polished metal.

The footmen watched her, curious at her immobility. She forced herself to walk deeper inside. It wasn't easy. The harbor terminal was thick with majick, far more than most places in Sylmont. That was one of the reasons she avoided coming here as much as possible. The biting pain did not fade, but every step Lucy took was firmer as she adjusted to it. The hurt was all too familiar and nothing she could not handle once the initial shock had passed

A footman trailed after her at a discreet distance, wiping up the watery trail she left on the parquet floor. Marble pillars marched along the walls and rose like a scattered forest throughout the entry in support of the ornately plastered ceiling. Lucy shifted the strap of her satchel on her shoulder, dabbing at her dripping forehead with the towel.

Halfway across the room she paused, her attention snagging on the dramatic sculpture set up on a pedestal shaped like a thirty-two-rayed compass. A larger image of the compass was inlaid into the floor. The sculpture depicted the sea god Braken carved in ebony. His fluid, muscular body lay prostrate at the silvery feet of the Moonsinger, Meris. Black waves washed over her feet—like pleading hands, like shackles. She stretched her hand down to her lover, but her eyes were turned upward toward the featureless figure of Hurn, the Hunter, carved in translucent green windstone. Meris's face was a study of longing and pain and violent passion. It was without a doubt the most moving rendition of the terrible triangle Lucy had ever seen. She never passed by without stopping, caught by the threat of impending tragedy in the piece.

Thunder boomed again. Lucy eyed Braken's prone form with foreboding. The sea god's love for Meris was furious and vengeful, not to mention desperate. The Moonsinger could not seem to choose between him and the mysterious Hurn. Their jealous arguments turned into vicious storms that scoured the world and churned the black waters of the Inland Sea.

That sort of passion was entirely alien to Lucy, though she liked men plenty, and had had her share of lovers. But she never got so attached that she lost her mind. Turning away, Lucy walked briskly away toward the sweep of green jasper stairs on the opposite side of the room. But she'd hardly gone two steps when the thunder clapped again. She froze in place as the pillars bracing the roof vibrated, making a guttural grating noise. Her gaze lifted uneasily to the ceiling as dust filtered through the air. Silence fell like a shroud.

Then between one breath and the next, a skin-chilling siren ripped apart the stillness. The sound galvanized Lucy. She gathered the length of her dripping surcoat and pelted up the stairs, taking two at a time. Clerks and servants joined her on the steps, their faces set and pale. They flowed upward to the harbormaster's office—in reality a gallery that took up the entire length of the third floor. The seaward wall was constructed entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. On the interior wall stretched an enormous map of the harbor. All the docks were carefully delineated—red, pink, and orange for government docks, green for private, and blue for foreign ownership. Pinned into the occupied slips were various bits of paper with the ship's name, owner, and status. These corresponded with files held in the banks of cabinets filling the vaults on the second floor. Spiraling brass ladders led down into the vaults at intervals along the gallery. Desks and tables crowded the rest of the space and an army of clerks bustled about, shuffling papers, scratching with pens and making adjustments to the map. Or they would have been, if they weren't all clustered at the windows, staring out at the harbor.

Lucy pushed through the crowd, looking for Hammond Wexler, the recently appointed harbormaster and yet another Rampling—a third or fourth cousin. The siren continued to wail, its majickally enhanced tones echoing across the harbor and through the streets of Sylmont. It drowned the buzz of voices and the pounding thud of Lucy's heart.

She found her gray-haired cousin bent over a spyglass atop a tripod just inside the window. He wore a closely fitted dark blue uniform with parallel rows of gold buttons rising up over his chest and circling around his shoulders. Gold piping circled his back-turned sleeves and ran down his pants legs. He wore a pocket watch and chain across his slender waist and a collar of office around his neck. Like Lucy, his royal pendant was hidden beneath his clothing. As she approached, he straightened, his craggy face bleak.

"Braken's eyes," he grated.

She didn't bother with any niceties. "What's happened?"

His gaze flicked to her and then back to the rain-streaked windows. There was little enough to be seen. Though the morning had begun to brighten, the pounding rain and gray mist obscured the southern headland across the harbor. Merstone Island could no longer be seen at all.

"Knucklebones. A weir's grown up in the channel. We're corked tight as a wine bottle. Wind is blowing straight at us. Well above forty-five knots. Ships will rip out their keels on the weir before they even know it's there." He paused, the muscles of his jaw flexing. "You're just in time, cousin. You're senior customer on-site. Better open the sheds. Take whatever you need from the terminal. I suggest you hurry."

He spun about and strode away, not waiting for her reply.

Lucy pressed her palm against the cold glass of the window, feeling heavy and frozen, helpless. Ships were coming. This close to Chance, there could be dozens just out of sight beyond the curve of the horizon.

"Sweet Meris, please don't let Jordan be on one."

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