The sea is choppy today. The sails flutter, and the ship rises and falls and crashes onto crests in rough and jagged movements. It's sickening. The waves, though small, one or two meters high, are plentiful and fast-moving. Larger, slower waves are easier to tolerate. I'm quite used to it now, though the morning had me stumbling and clutching my throat. Around ten o'clock, the choppiness had smoothed out enough for the sailing to become tolerable, which was in good time for brunch.

Further away, off the starboard bow, the waves are almost nonexistent, but reflections of the sun on their rippling crests show their rapid movements, giving the illusion of a rushing river rather than an ocean. Leslie explained to me earlier that this was the Giant's Claw: the current that runs towards the Giant's Ring. Our course will be taking us along the skirt of it, and merge much farther on.

The sail that Dr. Oswald had adjusted will be raised today. According to the quartermaster, it is designed for easier and more precise control, which will be essential while riding the currents. To me, it looks like an ordinary sail, with a couple stitches out of place.

Simon staggers onto the deck and keels over the rail. He hasn't brought up his studies yet, today. In fact, he's not spoken a word but to complain about his tea tasting as though it had been tampered with. I think he is starting to take some shame in his paranoia. None of us approve of his strange ideas, and after last night's discussion, he knows it very well.

When he recovers from his nausea bout, he pauses for a few long breaths. I get back to my mopping. He starts coming towards me, and I stop again.

"Walter," he breathes, and it really disturbs me. He'd been fine at brunch. Why is he suddenly so... distant? His eyes are dim and foggy. Elian had seen it before me, I think. That's why he hadn't asked for Simon to help clean up. Is he sick?

He fumbles with his bright handkerchief, drawing it across hi brow, then rolling it in his fingers.

"Walter," he repeats, standing in front of me. He looks unsteady, like when you look up at a tall building and it gives the illusion of toppling over. "I know you don't believe me."

There is a faint slur to his words. "Are you drunk? Simon? Ill? What is... What in the world...?"

He opens his mouth to respond and suddenly looks rather upset. He flounders and struggles to answer. He grabs his hair in his fists and looks away. "They tampered with my tea! I said it, I said it. I shouldn't have kept drinking. I'm stupid. But of course, everyone was saying, it was all in my head! All in my head!" He pulls on his handkerchief, twisting it between his hands.

My brows pinch. I lower my mop to the deck. "Someone actually put alcohol in your tea?" It would surely have been a stupid prank. How would anyone have even managed it? The professor is notoriously observant. "It would have to have been pretty strong stuff."

"I'm not crazy," he insists in a whimper, and I feel sympathy for him. He sounds almost as if he doesn't believe it himself.

He is undoubtedly tipsy, and too shaken to have been drinking on his own. If even just for pity's sake, I believe him.

"Okay," I decide, "How can I help?"

"Just... listen. Listen."

I pick up my bucket and mop and jerk my head in the direction of the stern stairs. "Let's go there."

He clumsily nods and follows me over. I dump the water from my bucket over the side of the ship first, then tuck the mop away behind the stairs, and turn the bucket over to sit on. Simon clambers on the water barrel. He pulls out his notebook and opens it, dabbing his brow.

I restrain my impulse to grimace.

He turns to a specific page and passes the notebook to me. "Please. The other doctors are in denial. You're too young to be close-minded." Across the two pages is a neat chart, with perfect cursive labels and an orderly key to explain the different markings made in the different categories. "You're clever."

Does he think that sucking up to me will present his case better?

The names of the crew members are listed down and carry on to the next page. The labels run along the top. Vestigial Muscle: Pinnae, Temperament, Vestigial Trait: Arrector Pili, Coccyx Activity, Teeth.

"Explain?" I ask.

"The pinnae are muscles that we have in our ears which have evolved to no longer function in humans. Not noticeably, anyways. It's the muscle in wolves, and other animals, that turns the ears towards sources of sound. It becomes strengthened in werewolves, and in human form, you can see their ears pivot towards sounds, just slightly."

"Ahah... and temperament is that they get aggressive?"

"That one has a lot of variables. Focus on the certain facts. Like the teeth. When the change occurs, their teeth are permanently replaced. It's apparently one of the most excruciating parts of the first transformation."

I can't help the grimace on my face now. I can image the pain. "Human teeth replaced by wolf teeth?"

"A mixture of wolf and human. Th-the form they take is not specifically either, but a terrible, hideous mixture. Their teeth are sharper. Longer incisors, larger molars of uneven heights."

At least talking is making him feel better. There's some color coming to his cheeks. There's some coming to mine, too. The color green.

I frown skeptically. "You've written that the captain has suspicious teeth. His teeth are perfectly normal. He smiles all the time."

"Sharper incisors," Simon insists, "filed down to be of more or less normal length. The rest of his teeth are filed. The same goes for Leslie, Langley, Mike and Pete. Cobbe's teeth are perfect example of werewolf teeth; but you wouldn't notice, because he's a goblin and their teeth are animalistic, anyways. Stevey's are rotted, but I'm sure they are different beneath the decay. Brutus has a few missing, and it makes it look as though his teeth are chipped; but they aren't. They are natural werewolf teeth, I swear it."

They don't look filed to me. Furthermore, in Simon's chart, he has accused a good twenty men of having abnormal teeth, which doesn't convince me. Pirates have bad teeth. And scurvy. I point to the next label. Vestigial Trait: Arrector Pili. "This one's mostly indeterminate."

"Some of the men are always covered up. The arrector pili are what gives us goosebumps when we're cold, but it's initial function, before our evolution—and its current function in most mammals—was to raise hair for insulation and warmth, or to make a creature look bigger. They become active again in werewolves, and so whenever a werewolf feels threatened or angry or cold, their hair raises; especially along their arms and legs. It's indeterminate for many of them because they wear long sleeves and such to hide it."

"Right. Then what is the coccyx?"

"Tailbone. It wags when they're happy."

I laugh. "What? That's ridiculous!"

Simon reddens. "It may seem silly, but it is science! We all have tailbones, but theirs are active." He pulls a face and groans, pressing his handkerchief to his forehead. "I feel sick."

I close the notebook. "Honestly, I don't see why anyone would bother tampering with your tea. It's not stopping you from doing anything, is it," I comment.

"There will be a reason."

"It could just be a prank."

"Walter, it isn't!" he harshly barks. He glares at me and shakes his head, moaning, "Hold onto my notebook. I'm going to be sick." He slides off the barrel and staggers a step. "Again," he bitterly adds. He tromps off, muttering about his hatred for sailing and pirates and alcohol.

Responsibly, I trail after him. I drop his notebook down my shirt.

On the bow deck, they're unfolding the new sail. Arty and Reuben carry the older one to the fore castle.

"The new sail is going up," I tell Simon.

He groans and wrings out his handkerchief.

"Do you want to watch?" I ask.

He dabs at his lips. "Not even slightly."

I frown. I do. I grab his wrist and start to pull him. "Come on."

Simon does nothing to resist me. He whines a weak protest and stumbles with me to the upper bow deck.

"It will be interesting. Something new," I assure him. I've had enough time at sea to feel starved for entertainment.

Leslie and Officer Langley give orders to a handful of men.

Simon drapes himself dramatically over the rail. "I would like to sleep."

"I won't stop you."

"It's too rocky and sickening and miserable to sleep."

"Then stop complaining."

He moans again.

Leslie hands a rope to Brutus and gives him a command, which I don't catch. Langley balances on the bowsprit and secures a different rope near to the tip. Boots climbs up the rigging.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Simon carps.

Honestly, I should have just left the man to fall overboard. "What is it, now?"

He stands straighter, dread-filled gaze cast to the lower deck. I follow his gaze to find Harvey Cobbe coming in our direction. The goblin starts up the stairs. Simon moves to straighten his tie, but only further skews the bow. He doesn't notice.

"Oi," hails Cobbe, spitting a gob of tobacco overboard. "Oi, Twigs. Yous was s'pposed to train wit' me yesterday, and you know it. Told you you'd have ta make up for it after brunch today, but yous was gone again." The little gunner stands with his hands on his hips, narrowing his eyes at Simon in a challenge. "You avoiding me, Teach?"

"He's not feeli....," I attempt to cover for him, but the ungrateful professor flicks a hand in front of my face to quiet me.

He tilts his chin up and peers down at Cobbe through his spectacles. "Yes," he smiles, and I choke on his arrogance, on the way his chest swells and he makes it so blatantly obvious that he is twice the size of the gunner. "Because I don't like you," he continues very plainly. "Not one bit. To be frank, I find you as crude and as brittle as my left sock." He lifts his slacks to reveal his polka-dotted blue sock. "Which, I'll have you know, has a rather large hole at the toe."

"Simon!" I cry, shocked.

My eyes are on Harvey as Simon continues, and all I can hear are the gears whirring in Lucy—in that giant, giant mechanical weapon, because Harvey has a temper and a willingness to fire, and Simon has disrespected him, and Harvey is raising the gun to his shoulder, and aiming for Simon's head.

"SIMON!"

I jump up without even thinking and lock my arms around his neck, yanking him down to his knees at the same time that Leslie yanks Harvey upwards, and the gun fires far, far out into the ocean, and whatever satanic ammunition it possessed erupts into flame on the water's surface which suddenly becomes flat all around, and all the sound in the world is sucked out of the air to make pure, unbroken silence. A ring of tan-colored smoke and blazing fire bursts from the landing place, and breaks against the hull, and the waves follow it; three freak crests rising all the way up to the decks and rocking the ship so precariously that I must cling to the railing so as not to slide across the deck. Simon clings to me, more stunned and shaken than I, but only slightly. The sound returns with a WHOOOSH, and the water rushes with it, until the sea returns to normal, as if nothing had happened, and Leslie starts to shout at Harvey Cobbe, dangling him in the air by his singlet, and I just stare at the gun.

It rolls across the gently rocking deck and clanks against the railing stanchions. It idly rocks. Peaceful, as if it hadn't just shown a horrific display of power. Simon lets go of me.

He gropes at the railing. My ears are still ringing. I bet his are, too.

"No gun," he mutters, eyes wide, "No gun should be that powerful."

Leslie carries the kicking Cobbe and his doomsday device away. The gunner howls and spits and bites and claws.

"It isn't intended to be used in close range. Or even on people," says Officer Langley, crouching besides Simon. He speaks at a normal pace; a faster pace than his typical drone. His accent becomes more pronounced. Blatant, in fact. His 'e's sound like 'ih's, and his 'o's sound like 'ah's. He studies Simon, prodding the professor's ear. "Hih'll be poinished. It would bih best if yuh apahlahgized fihr whotihvihr yuh saiyd tah upsiht heem, yes?"

His accent is quite thick, but he is easy to understand.

Simon takes a moment to consider him. He covers his ears, shielding himself from the sailing master's injury probing. "Apologize! I think not," he snarls, though his words are airy, as though he had just run a mile. "Get away from me. I know what you are."

"Oh, yes. We are well aware of your theories," Langley replies, and his accent is again lost to the lethargic speed of his words. He looks past Simon, to the sea. "Take note that Leslie has just saved your life and give him your thanks when he returns. If we wanted you dead, Mr. Woods, you would not have survived your first day among us. Your marksmanship has been deemed useful."

The officer rises with perfect grace and promptly dismisses himself to attend to the sail's raising. He spares no further time on Simon, and I do understand why. He was ungrateful. Leslie did save him. How could he be suspicious of that?

"Mr. Brutus! Hold fahst to thot rope," Officer Langley orders. "Let go, and she'll be flapping wilder than a lady's skirt. Wind's picking up."

I press my elbows to the railing and hoist myself up. I offer Simon a hand, but he ignores it. He stands up on his own and combs through his hair with his fingers. Goodness, he looks nervous. He has every right to be. His hands shake.

It's been a very unlucky day for the professor. A spiked drink, a close call with the most terrifying weapon I've ever seen... granted, he was asking for it, nosing around all the time, and then upfront insulting Harvey Cobbe to his face.

"You look like you could use a cup of tea," I remark.

He shudders and turns to face the water. "At the moment, I feel like wine would serve me better, I daresay. The excitement has left me quite sobered. I'd almost rather return to inebriation..."

I grimace. I'm sure I'd get a clip on the ear if I were ever to say anything about wanting a drink. Not that I would. We honorable and respectable Praedorians have principles.

The sail starts to lift from the deck. Rabbit and Brutus hold the corner rope around a cleat, easing it off as Boots and Arty heave from above. Langley supervises, standing back, a meter from Simon.

The heap of material starts to flap.

"Luffing," cautions Langley. "Keep the tension, gentlemen."

Rabbit puts all his weight on the rope. He looks ridiculous in his skin-covering garb.

It's a grand thing, the sail. It's so very large.

It flaps again.

"Tension! Put another round on the cleat!"

Rabbit tries, but the rope slips through his hands. Brutus, his spotter, I catch walking away in the brief half-second before the sail fills my vision, and Increas Langley hollers at the top of his lungs to duck, and I duck, and Simon isn't looking, and the sail goes WHOOSH over my head, and it thumps Simon so hard in the back that swear I hear his spine snap, and he screams.

And once again, my arms are moving faster than my brain is thinking, and I'm halfway over the side with Simon's wrist in my two hands and he's slipping because he's too heavy for me, and I can't even begin to fathom how I managed to catch him. He just stares down at the water, stunned. Sometimes when people nearly die, they get adrenaline boosts, don't they? Not Simon.

He locks eyes with me, his spectacles precariously teetering at the end on his nose, and he whimpers. The waves thunder below, hungry. And I doubt myself. I'm going to drop him.