The new moon party had left the deck in shambles; a mess I hadn't noticed in the dark of the night. Drunk men had drooled and relieved themselves in their sleep wherever they had collapsed.

On top of that, there was the puke, and the overall smell of it all. I took one look, and one whiff, upon waking, and had decided very firmly to stay below. During an oddly quiet brunch, where only a half of the crew (and not the captain or the sailing master) showed up, I found that it had all been cleaned up.

Who by? Surprisingly adhering to the captain's challenge the previous night, the soberest men on the deck. The rules were clarified during our meal, for Leslie did not like to see us so puzzled as we were. Pete and Mike had been caught on the deck at midnight, the time was very specific, a drink or two from perfect sobriety. There had been soberer men aboard, indeed, but Barker and Walsh and Boots (and the doctor and Lydia, though they were told) knew from experience that it was best to stay below if they weren't drinking. Boots had been playing his fiddle at midnight, but had been let off the hook because of his contribution to the evening.

I haven't gone to look at their deck-swabbing, yet. Officer Langley appeared at the end of the meal to give summons to Lydia and I, and told us to fetch our blades. Lydia had taken to carrying hers, while I left mine in the cabin. She followed him immediately out, and Dr. Oswald left shortly after with Walsh, the ship's best musketeer. Harvey sought out Simon, but the man wasn't there. He hadn't shown at brunch. I haven't seen him all morning.

It is supposed to be his job to clean up after the meals, remember. Elian doesn't look up to doing it all on his own, even with much of the crew absent.

Dorian hands Stevey a saw by the mess hall wall, and points to the low ceiling that hangs out of his reach. I don't know what they're doing, but it looks more destructive than constructive.

Elian starts to pile the dishes, yawning, swaying slightly on his feet. Guilt floods my gut. I could be helping, but I am not. I am on my way out the door. Where is Simon? This is his responsibility.

"Are you going to your cabin, Walt?" Elian asks.

I turn, and I nod.

"Would you ask Simon to come give me a hand?"

Simon hadn't been there before brunch. I had been playing cards with Lydia and the doctor. "Sure. If I see him."

He waves me off. "Thank you!"

I nod once again and stroll into the narrow hallway.

Heading towards my cabin, I have to skirt around a man called Arty. The bulky pirate grunts at me and picks up another two barrels to haul down the stairs. Of the long line from last night, only three barrels remain in the corridor. It would be interesting to know how many were emptied after the festivities, and, thinking such, I regret that I hadn't peeked when I had the chance to this morning.

I dip into the cabin and close the door behind me. Simon kneels on the floor, hunched over a book. He runs oil through his hair and studies a piece of white rock. He ignores my entrance, and half-consciously finger-combs his hair to one side. His attention switches between the rock and the book.

"Good morning, Simon," I greet, in the attempt to politely rouse him from his transfixion.

He shakes his head, and mutters, "A rock can't cure werewolfism. It doesn't make sense."

"Is that a new book?"

He lifts the volume for me to see for myself. Geologic Compendium of The Northern Hemisphere. There were others still that I hadn't seen him open yet. He lowers it once again to the floor. A book on rocks.

"Ah. Geology," I drawl, in the most exasperated, sardonic, condescending tone I can muster. "Even more thrilling than werewolfism."

"It isn't about the thrill, it is about the knowledge, and as it turns out, this book is more or less useless!" He slams his hand down on the pages, startling me with his aggression. "There is no such thing as a rock that glows in the dark, Walter! No such thing according to the most up to date record of geology in the northern hemisphere!"

"Perhaps it is from the southern hemisphere," I suggest uncertainly.

"No, we know where it is from," he snaps. "What makes the Riven Isles so special that its endemic rock glows? And the Aquians are convinced it is the cure to the werewolf disease! I cannot fathom how. I can't find anything remarkable about it. I am not a geologist!" He smacks his palm to his forehead and moans. His freshly oiled hair jumps with the movement.

It could do with a wash. But, so could mine. It beats me why he bothers with trying to look neat. He manages it well enough, but why? Everyone looks a mess aboard the ship. At least, our party does—the ruggedness seems to suit the rest of the sailors. Ruggedness would not suit Simon and his dainty little spectacles. I can't imagine him with a scruffy beard, or disheveled hair, or ridiculously wrinkled clothes. Can he even grow a beard? Is he physically mature enough?

I take my sword and sheath out of my hammock and strap the belt around my waist. "You should find a better hobby," I dismiss. At this rate, he'd mature too fast, physically. I can see it happening: wrinkles. Stress lines. It simply wouldn't befit him. "Elian asked for you. You're supposed to be helping him clean up the brunch bowls."

He draws his notebook from his waistcoat. "Last night made me certain of everything." He doesn't really listen to me, I don't think. He just carries on with his own train of thought. His own peculiar train of self-absorbed, paranoid thought. He thumbs through the pages. "There are eight."

"Eight what?"

"Werewolves." I should have known. "Come the full moon, we'll be torn to shreds. They are savages, these beasts."

"Right." I roll my eyes and open the door again.

"You won't be rolling your eyes when you find that I am right, you impudent boy!" he barks, offended. "Why don't you ask your best buddy, the captain? He's a wolf. A wolf, I say. My notebook knows! My methods of investigation are flawless."

As if. I may not know much about werewolves, but I have heard that a main identifier is their aggressive dispositions. Captain Clarke has shown no aggression towards me. Harvey Cobbe; now, him, I could see as a wolf. Still, it's a preposterous accusation.

Clarke handpicked the crew himself and had sailed with them all in the past. He wouldn't have hired an unstable werewolf that would tear us to shreds come the full moon. Stuck on a ship, in such close proximity, it would be a great danger. They are powerful creatures. They say the moon's light becomes their stamina and grants them strength until dawn.

That's what they say. It's sounds a bit bogus to me.

"Go help Elian."

"Yes, I shall," he sniffs. That's good enough for me.

I leave the door open as I depart, because if it's open it might inspire him to move sooner—even if just to close it. Up the stairs I go, out into the open. The deck is in far better shape, but Pete and Mike are still grouchily sloshing their grubby water over the wood and carrying on cleaning under Leslie's supervision.

Increas Langley eyeballs me from the stern. He makes my skin crawl. He stands so utterly still, and yet seems lither than even I, at sixteen. His hair and one-shouldered cape move as fluidly as the waves. I obey his summons without much thought and take my place beside Lydia in front of him. Thenshie plays with her blade on the other side of the physician's assistant. The hilt is stuck to her weird fish-person hand.

"I expect you to be more prompt in the future, Mr. Avery."

I bow my head. "Yes, sir."

He has a faint accent. It's hard to pick it out, but it's there. If he spoke faster, it might present itself more clearly.

"En guarde."

Lydia draws her blade and holds it out. I don't think she knows what she's doing any more than I do, and Thenshie is entirely clueless. I copy Lydia and unsheathe my weapon.

Langley scowls down our line and steps forward to correct us.

Forgive me for not speaking pirate.

He bashes Thenshie's elbow with the hilt of his elegant rapier, just hard enough to give her a shock. Her blade clatters to the floor.

"Pick it up."

Thenshie barely has to bend. Her long arms reach easily, and she blankly blinks for further instruction. Langley gets into a stance. It's like a squat, but not as deep or awkward.

It remains to be awkward.

"En guarde," he repeats. His seriousness makes the gawky position appear normal. Lydia mimics his stance, then I, then Thenshie.

The sailing master stands straight once again, and with one hand behind his back, begins to fix Thenshie's stance with the flat of his blade. He prods different parts of her body.

Elbow out. Feet ninety degrees. Knees bent, back straight, face forward.

Lydia takes account of the corrections, and when Langley scans her, he gives a respectful nod. No corrections for her.

He narrows his dull gray eyes at me. He pushes my elbow out. His blade feels cool and controlled. I am in no danger of being cut.

"Very awkward," he says, tapping at my heels.

I move one foot further back.

His expression tenses, not in one place, but all over, and only very slightly. It relaxes to the expressionless mask once again. "Better."

He steps back and sweeps his rapier in front of us. "This is 'en guarde'. You will use this stance while learning for better balance, control, and speed. In a true fight, there will be no rules, and the stance becomes... expendable."

Then what point is there in learning it? It feels ridiculous. Dr. Oswald's eyes twinkle at me from across the poop deck. Mr. Walsh barks at him to pay attention to his own musket lessons, and the doctor looks away.

Langley starts to teach us his commands. He says them first, and if we don't understand what he wants (I, for one, don't understand any of his orders), he shows us or explains things. I know he expects me to remember everything. I can see it in his eyes. Simon has the same look. The teacher look; the look where they know that they've taught you something, so they have every right to punish you or blame you for your lack of expertise.

He's quite intimidating. I feel like I'll have a hard time forgetting.

***

It's invigorating to hear that both Lydia and the doctor agree with me that Simon is putting too much serious focus on his werewolf theories. Simon, of course, has no interest in our opinions, but at least they are there; and united.

The professor insists that we should trust him, and that he is doing it all for our protection.

"You won't be safe come the full moon. We'll have to confront the scoundrel captain about it. If we lock the wolves in the brig, everyone will be safe."

"Simon, please," hushes the doctor.

"I shall keep it to myself if I must, but my methods are sensible and factual. I have studied the disease, and, like any other disease, it has identifiable symptoms. Consistent reoccurrences of all of the symptoms indicates werewolfism," the professor knowingly growls. He pauses and considers whether or not to continue; as if continuing would contradict his own standing.

"What aren't you telling us?" Dr. Oswald presses suspiciously. The professor is as readable as his books.

Simon sighs and adjusts his specs. "Or, it could be false symptoms," he admits in a dismissive manner. Lydia, the doctor and I deepen our frowns and increase our skepticism. Simon doesn't notice; or if he does, he doesn't show it. "There is a tick, discovered only four years previous, that transfers most of the physical and psychological aspects of the disease—though the teeth remain human—while not causing the host to 'change form' at the moon's peak."

"Ah hah," remarks Lydia, "so these men may have these ticks, you could be imagining things, or they could be werewolves, specifically eight, that somehow have survived sailing with each other in the past."

The professor scoffs, his pride taking obvious injury. "I assure you I am not imagining things. I have spent the past week studying these people; narrowing it all down. And the tick is entirely irrelevant, I promise you. In the hundreds of thousands of werewolves in captivity—it is war, and we do have big numbers to study from, which makes our results very accurate—only six instances of the tick's bite have made themselves apparent. These men, aboard this ship, could not have—at the very least not all of them—been bitten by the tick. Statistically."

I slip off my shoes and climb into my hammock. If anything, he bores me. Spewing all this repetitive nonsense. Perhaps it may be me who is in denial. Of course it is possible for werewolves to be among the crew. The disease has affected at least a hundredth of the world's population. It just seems unrealistic.

Call me a sucker, but I trust the captain's ability to choose a regular, safe (albeit grumpy, alcoholic, or trigger-happy) crew.

"You are doctors! I can't believe that you are doubting science," Simon scolds. "Walter, I can understand. He hasn't even been to a school at all, has he?"

My eyes widen and I sit up. "I was home-schooled! I'm not uneducated or stupid or—"

"Enough," Simon snaps. "The wolves know that I know. But, I can protect myself." He lays a hand over his pistol. "They wouldn't dare try to silence me."