I'm going to drop him, I know it. Any moment now.

My shoulders are being pulled from their sockets, I swear. I try to pull him up, but can't move him at all, so I just hold him, dangling, and the sail wildly flaps above me. It starts to quiet. I pay it no heed as I stare below and try to will the sweat away from my palms. He's slipping. There are tears in his eyes, and he looks at me as if he wants me to just let go, but despite his quivering jaw, he can't speak, and I'm starting to slip with him. I'll let go before I let myself fall with him. I know that. I'm guilty of that.

Increas Langley brushes against my side, laying his gloved hands over mine in the nick of time, and I feel strong again. "With me, Avery," he says, and his confidence empowers me. "Ready, and..."

I plant my feet against the nearest stanchion and heave, and Langley does the same on another, and Simon comes towards us, through the gap between us, polished shoes scrambling to get a grip on the hull. The overhead, powerful flapping has stopped, and we are safe. Everyone is safe. Simon curls up on the deck, wheezing. I sit back, and gulp in breaths that are mostly just to calm myself, and I hug myself and rub my sore, sore shoulders. They're on fire.

Increas Langley, stone-faced, swivels and stalks across the deck, growling what I presume to be swears in whatever angry-sounding language he speaks. Leslie ties off the corner of the jib sail and the two officers start to bicker with one another. Dr. Oswald appears with his business face and rubs my shoulders and asks me if I'm hurt. I tell him I'm fine.

Simon moans. "I think I've c-cracked a rib or two, Cornelius. Or three. Oh, d-d-dear, or six."

"Hush, hush," clucks Oswald. He gently pulls Simon's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you to the cabin. You too, Walter."

I get up, and help Simon, bringing his other arm around my shoulder. Dr. Oswald and I lurch over the deck. Simon trips down the stairs, audibly wincing. I'd brought him to the bow deck. I'd been the one that had wanted to watch the sail go up.

I swallow. The stairs below the decks are very awkward to descend, but we manage, and we hobble down the hall together, and Lydia follows us down the stairs with askings of what is going on.

The left cabin door is open. Wide open.

Simon's cot is stripped, and the simple sheets are strewn about the floor. He gasps and stammers.

"There are more important things, Simon," Dr. Oswald mutters, and we set the poor man down on the doctor's bed. He leans against the wall.

Dr. Oswald pulls out his bags of medical equipment. Lydia crouches beside him.

I kneel by the mess at Simon's bed, where all his belongings are haphazardly unpacked and cluttering the floor. On an impulse, I find his box of tea.

Opening it, I pull out a tea bag and sniff it. "By Laod, Mr. Woods," I breathe, nose wrinkling at the odor of alcohol, "Your tea has been tampered with."

The most surprising thing to me is that Simon had somehow not noticed. The bags not only smell of the liquor but are damp with it.

"The question is 'why?'" Simon replies, stripping off his vest. Lydia pours him a brandy.

I put the bag back and replace the box's lid, then climb into my hammock. I sit cross-legged and watch the doctor. Simon unbuttons his blouse, his breath shuddering as he strips it off. Lydia kindly helps him to raise his singlet, and she leaves it scrunched just above his ribs, so that it could be easily pulled back down to cover him up.

It isn't a surprise to me that he's scrawny and without upper body strength.

The bruising on his sides looks awfully painful—a rainbow of ugly purple, yellow, blue and green.

"Simon, please." Lydia reminds him of the brandy, holding it nearer. He takes it.

"How's your breathing?" Dr. Oswald asks.

"A little strenuous, doctor," Simon winces, downing the liquor. He coughs.

"Lots of swelling, Simon. We don't have any ice, I'm afraid. All I can do for ribs is a bandage, and even that isn't the most effective."

"I know."

"Take deep breaths."

"I know."

"When you sleep, prop yourself up on a pillow."

"Yes, I know."

"I know you know," Dr. Oswald sighs gently, tolerantly.

Medical men. They blink at each other, and it looks sad to me. They look sad for one another.

"How did this happen?" Lydia asks, and she's sad, too. It's a somber time.

"It was an accident," replies the doctor.

"They were putting up the sail, and lost control," Simon explains.

An accident. No.

It wasn't an accident. Simon was right to be paranoid—there was someone out to get him. They'd flushed him out of his room. That must have been what the alcohol was for: because it made him feel sick. He'd said it openly on the deck, four days ago, during the new moon.

While he was out, they'd ransacked his things, searching for something that I have. His notebook, I'm sure of it. Evidence against the evil aboard. It makes sense.

When they had the chance to kill him, him and his knowing-too-much, and make it look like an accident, they seized the opportunity.

I pull Simon's notebook from my shirt and flip through to find the table of evidence. To find precisely the man I was looking for. The werewolf.

"It was Mr. Brutus," I say, with absolute certainty.

Simon gives me a quizzical look. His eyes fall on his notebook, and they widen.

"The wind was strong, and the sail was torn out of their hands," the doctor says calmly. He shakes his head. "There is no reason to accuse anyone of anything. It was an accident."

I shake my head right back. "No. I saw him walk away. He let go of the rope."

"I told you they were out to get me," Simon mutters.

Lydia rubs an ointment onto a long bandage roll. She has the patient turn his back toward us. The bruising is worse. So much worse, and everywhere. I cringe. She rubs the ointment over the injury. I'd be crying. I'd be bawling like a newborn.

Dr. Oswald gets out his pipe. "That's a serious accusation, Walter."

"And I'm serious about it. I know what I saw."

There's a mark on Simon's back, like a tattoo. No, a branding, lower than the bruising. Lydia starts to wrap the bandages around his ribcage, and Dr. Oswald lights his tobacco. I stare at the mark. It's a symbol that I recognize—something religious.

I've never been terribly religious. My mother wasn't, so I was never exposed to it. I knew things that I heard. I picked up expressions like 'By Laod!' and 'Daim's curse!' from the time I spent in the marketplace. Laod has the symbol of a wave, and it is holy to the devout. The crest of Laod.

Daim is like the evil Laod, I think. He embodies all things wrong in the world, like alcoholism and fathers that abandon their families. His symbol is two waves. The trough of Daim.

The trough of Daim is branded onto Simon's lower back, seared into his skin. It must have been done a long time ago, judging by the stretching of it, as though he'd grown out of it. Lydia moves into my view, fixing his bandages as though the mark weren't there.

"May I see this notebook?" Dr. Oswald asks, reaching out. I hand it over.

He studies it.

"What's that mark on your back, Mr. Woods?"

Dr. Oswald frowns at me, and I get the feeling that the mark is personal, and I'm not worthy enough to know Simon's personal information.

Simon doesn't answer. He hisses to Lydia, "Looser, looser, looser."

Lydia loops the bandage around him looser and finishes the last two straps around his chest. She ties it off.

"Is that all right?"

"Just fine. Thank you."

The professor coughs and strains to get a breath in. Lydia presses Oswald's pillow to his chest, and he hugs it. He coughs more. He points to his things, but can't speak. His hacking takes a moment to subside. "The rocks. Are the rocks there? They were in the chest."

I leave my hammock behind to have a look. I open his wooden chest, where his travel-sized chemistry set remains as a pile of glass and an oily pool of cold, bubbling liquid mixture that spoiled the velvet cushioning. There's a residue of white dust floating atop the liquid. "They're not here. It's all broken."

"Damn them," Simon mutters bitterly. "Well, I don't know what more convincing you need, Doctor. I've been drugged, and twice nearly killed in the very same afternoon, and my area has been ransacked, and the rocks are missing. Rocks that were, according to the Aquians, the cure for werewolfism."

He had been asking for Harvey's attempt at his life, but I don't say this. Harvey Cobbe, according to Simon's evidence, is a werewolf, too.

Dr. Oswald sighs. "We should confront the captain when you are rested."

"I don't need to rest. I've a bone to pick with that man, and now that you are with me, I'd like to hash it out," he stops for a deep breath, "right away." He hugs the pillow tighter. "By Laod, I think the shock is wearing off. Let us go before it does."

"Simon."

The professor pulls down his undershirt and grabs his blouse. Lydia helps him to dress himself when he struggles to raise his arms to their respective holes. She buttons it for him.

"Simon, please," the doctor endears, lowering his pipe. He sets the notebook on Simon's bare mattress.

I stand up to go. If Simon wants to go now, then we should go. Rather sooner than later. The professor rises, leaving his shirt untucked and his vest off. He hunches, stiff-legged. I open the door.

"I have some opiates," Dr. Oswald says, "to help the pain."

"The brandy will hold me," dismisses Simon, even if it's obvious that the brandy did very little, if anything at all. The professor straightens his back and exits the room in such a manner that I am awed. I'd thought of him as a crier. The moment I met him, he'd come off to me as the kind of weakling that would lie in bed for days kicking his legs and moaning about having a common cold. He's not at all like that. He's strong. Surprisingly strong.

Lydia follows behind him. Dr. Oswald carries the notebook under his arm and murmurs his concern quietly under his breath. He follows me out, bringing with him a bag of what I presume to be the opiates.

Up the stairs we march, held back by Simon's struggle to ascend. Lydia and Dr. Oswald both coddle him at the top, because they're all friends, I guess, and he's suffering, and the ship is rocking. His balance is off. The doctor says something about him getting dizzy. Simon recovers his breath from the climb and we continue to the captain's cabin, as a team.

The door is dismayingly locked. Where I would have given up, Lydia kicks it. She kicks the handle right off the door, and it opens. Like a character from an action-adventure. She's obviously done it before. I have no time to gawk, because everyone else is already inside. I hurry in and close the door, but because it is busted, it swings open a crack even so.

The captain ogles us, utterly baffled, through a pair of funny glasses with magnifying lenses. He fumbles to get the glasses off his face, as if they embarrass him, and quickly sets them on one side of his desk. We've interrupted him from working on building a model ship.

Dr. Oswald's smoke mingles with that from Clarke's pipe and drifts out the open back window.

"By the stars! You're full of surprises, aren't you?" Captain Clarke exclaims, looking very dismayed at his broken door. His pipe falls from his teeth—a mite overwhelmed, I think. He stares at Simon as the professor steps towards him with painful strides. To my surprise, the captain stands up immediately. "Mercy be, you're tougher than you look, sir! You should be dead. Sit down, please! We wouldn't want your good luck to fall short, now. Take care of your injuries, for Laod's sake." He scurries, quite accommodatingly, to his bed and gives it a pat. "Here, sit!"

Simon stands still before the captain's desk, pointedly glaring. "Yes, I'm sure you'd very much like for me to be dead."

Dr. Oswald snaps a warning under his breath. Lydia tells Simon to be respectful. I'd also like for Simon to be respectful.

"Dead?" the captain repeats, eyes wide. He puffs on his pipe. It isn't as elegant as the doctor's. "No, sir, I don't want you dead. I tried to steer into the wind as fast as I could, but the ship can't respond instantly, it's too large. I couldn't prevent your injury, I'm afraid. It's remarkable that you survived it at all. Many sailors have been lost to such incidents, and you should count yourself lucky. Very lucky." He bows his head in a rare act of humbleness. "I-I'm so sorry that it happened on my watch. I should have waited for Leslie to return from taking care of Harvey. I miscalculated the strength of your men. I'm sorry. I really am sorry, and that's all I can say. Human error. And furthermore, I must apologize for Harvey's behavior, too. I've been giving him too much leniency. I'm sorry. I'll correct my poor judgement in the future, on my honor."

Either he's an incredible actor, or he means it truly and sincerely. I believe him. Call me gullible, call me naïve, but I genuinely believe him.

"That's very professional, and we thank you, sir," says the doctor. "We'd like to discuss some worries of Mr. Woods', here. Please excuse his agitation. He's refused the painkillers."

"Cornelius!" Simon barks, "I'm doing just fine."

He looks peaky. Lydia hovers behind him, in the case that he falls over. I can't decide whether to think of him as arrogant or resolute in his investigation. Arrogant would be more appropriate, but his injuries are enough to persuade me otherwise. Pity points, I suppose. It can't be helped.

The captain gestures to his bed again. "You should sit down." He leaves it when Simon makes no move to accept his offer, and moves on to investigate his door, his interest in us seeming lost. He looks... impressed? "This was you, Mrs. Marks?"

Lydia nods. "We have very pressing matters to discuss."

"Ahh," he chuckles, "You have more man in you than any of these pansies combined." He holds his hand out to me before I can voice my insult at being called a pansy. "Sorry, Walter."

I scowl.

The captain drops a pillow in front of the door, pinning it shut temporarily. He straightens and looks back at us. "When we reach the ebb of the Claw, where the current ends, just beyond the Ring, I will divulge my plans to you. You have my word. Until then, I'd like you to stop asking. There are variables," he deliberately eyeballs me here, calculating, "that I can't control."

"That isn't why we're here," Lydia assures him.

He squints. "Ah," he smiles, "I see."

After reading Simon's notes, I find myself scrutinizing his teeth. He does have sharp incisors. Is that paranoia?

He swaggers past me. His humbleness has left him entirely. "Well, let's hear it before Teach passes out, eh?"

Simon leans a hand on the captain's desk. "We know...," he inhales deeply, "About the werewolves." Another breath. "And we know... you are one. What happens... during the full moon?"

"During the full moon?" the captain repeats, stroking his whiskered chin. "We keep sailing our course as charted. Nothing changes."

"You'll tear the crew to shreds!" Simon exclaims, and he coughs afterwards. Painful-sounding coughs. The captain waits patiently for him to finish.

"No one is in danger of being 'torn to shreds'. I would be a poor captain if I were ever to let such happen." He pouts sardonically, "Your lack of faith wounds me. Have I not been reliable thus far?"

"Not particularly," Dr. Oswald blandly replies. "You are keeping a great deal of information from us, about the course, and the island..."

"And you are denying that you are a werewolf! I have evidence!" Simon cries, irritated.

Captain Clarke laughs and waves a hand. "I haven't denied anything. I've only said that we aren't a danger to you, or anyone else. What was it that gave us away? How many have you picked out? If we really thought your noising around was a threat, we'd have tossed you overboard as soon as we saw your book, you know. Honestly, it's been more of a game between us—gambling on how long it would take you to work it out. Entertainment, as it were."

"Teeth," Simon answers. "Temperament. Adaptations lost to humankind resurfacing... Among other things... There are eight of you."

"Teeth?" Clarke frowns and lifts a handheld mirror from his desk. He runs his tongue along his teeth, examining them. "I'd thought I'd done quite a good job with them. It was hell doing it." He turns back to face Simon, brows raising humorously. "Eight? That's four too many. Not so flawless in your observations as you may think."

"No." Simon covers his mouth for another hacking fit. "There are eight."

"There are eight," I agree.

"Eight." Dr. Oswald confirms, though I don't think he's sure of such at all. He opens Simon's notebook and thumbs through the pages.

Lydia peers over his shoulder.

The captain smirks, shaking his head patronizingly. "No. I've sailed with all these men before. I'd know if I had another werewolf aboard. I wouldn't have brought one. I don't have enough of the rock."

"So the rock is the cure?" I question.

"I wouldn't say cure, exactly. More of a... stabilizer, I suppose? Pass me that notebook." He takes the notebook himself before it can be passed, fixing his pipe twixt his teeth. Oswald had already opened to the page with the table. "The officers and I... yes," he mutters over the wood, "Pete... Mike..." He starts so violently that the notebook flies from his hands and he chokes on his smoke. Gracelessly, he spits his pipe to the floor, coughing with as much force as Simon. He glares at us, animalistic. "These are your men!" he roars. "You half-wits! You're lucky you bloody confronted me in time, aren't you? FUCK. Daim's bloody trough! Accusing me of endangering us all! The nerve!"

He storms right past us, leaving his pipe to smoke on the wood. He dismisses himself, shouting for Leslie as he exits the cabin, kicking the doorstopper pillow roughly back inside.

I lick my lips and rub the back of my neck. Dr. Oswald twitches, because he knows he is the one that hired those men.

"Well," I pipe up, finding the bright side of his humiliation. "At least Rabbit isn't one of them."

"One out of five," the doctor says dryly.

"Oh...," breathes the very smallest voice I've ever heard. A loud thud causes all of us to jump. No, not all of us.

Not all of us, because the thud is Simon. The doctor lingers not on his poor hiring choices. Lydia gets to the professor before him. The poor teacher has passed out. Thankfully, we can see he didn't fall too far. He'd hit the desk and slid down its front. He sits awkwardly upright, head lolling, breathing shallow. Lydia rights his head's position.

The doctor sighs, concerned. "Walter."

"Sir?"

"Go and ask the cook if he has any mustard oil, or mustard seeds. If he does, put some into a bowl and bring it to the cabin."

I nod. Responsibility. "Yes, sir." I leave them to it. Brutus, Pete, Mike, and Stevey are all pinned to the deck, being openly interrogated and punished for concealing their diseases.

To our luck, Baxter is able to supply me with a good haul of mustard seeds, and I bring the bowl—no, the mortar and pestle—to the cabin as soon as I can. Before I do, the cook shows me how to get the oil out of the seeds by mashing them with the pestle, which is sort of like a miniature stone club.

The doctor and Lydia and Simon are waiting for me. Lydia is setting Simon's bed, fluffing pillows stolen from the captain's quarters. She tidies the professor's area while the doctor monitors the man's breathing. Simon is shirtless again, still unconscious. Elian Arrow is sitting in my hammock, and I find this confusing.

"I hope you don't mind," says Elian. I blink and do my best to ignore him. I offer the partially mashed seeds to the doctor.

"Get as much oil out of those seeds as you can, Walter, and warm that oil up," he orders. "Please."

"Yes, sir." And I'm obediently off again, to the kitchen. The 'galley'. I hope Simon is grateful when he wakes up. There I was, the only thing stopping him from being swallowed by the sea. Here I am, crushing the pungent juices out of mustard seeds for him, who knows why. Baxter takes the mortar and pestle from me and does the job much quicker than I was managing.

I ask him to heat it up, because I reckon I'd set the ship on fire if I tried myself. He kindly does so.

"For Woods?"

"Yeah."

"Ahlroight."

"Thanks."

When it's warm, I bring the oil back down the corridor and return to the doctor as promptly as I can.

"Thank you, Walt. Very, very helpful of you."

Simon is in his own bed again, lying on his stomach like a ragdoll. Lydia massages the oil into Simon's swollen back and sides. He cringes, and I almost think that he's awake. He isn't.

"Save some for later," the doctor advises. Lydia puts about half of the oil out of the way, on the cabinet shelf where the doctor's medicinal drinking liquor sits. She clucks her tongue.

"This has been opened," she says, "It must be what those devils put into his tea."

"That? He can barely tolerate wine. No wonder he was out of it this morning," Elian chuckles nervously. He cuts himself short, pressing his knuckles to his lips. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine."

"But, he is in pain?"

"It will subside to an ache in a few days," assures Dr. Oswald. "Until then, yes. He will be in a great deal of pain. He's a fighter, I promise you. He'll deny it all."

Foolhardy.