We are just past halfway along the Giant's Ring, and the captain has brought us nearer again to the current. The rock wall eerily looms in the distance, surrounded by the mist of sea spray.

The wind has slackened, and the sails are constantly being adjusted to account for luffing. Positively consequential to this frailness of wind, the sea has eased to gentle rolling waves. It has been twenty-one days since Simon's accident, and as predicted by the doctor, the professor had recovered enough from his injury to be walking about unsupervised with the doctor's consent by the fourth day.

He is still sore on the occasion that he moves too quickly or bumps into things, but it is little enough now that he has dumped his tainted tea overboard and stopped taking anything to take the edge off. He has described the pain nightly since the accident, for the doctor's assessment, and last night, he had described it as a dull ache, with occasional throbbing, and a pain rating of no more than two at the worst (ten being the most unimaginable pain possible). He has taken to short walks around the ship to exercise himself after being bedridden for three days, but dares not enter the brig. He did so on his second day on his feet, and I'd laughed very hard at his description of the odor and the utterly disturbing behavior of the Aquians, who have claimed the area for themselves. I almost thought to explore the place for myself, but the idea of seeing those weird creatures (could they actually be called people?) swimming in fish barrels, slurping barnacles, and clicking and humming to each other in their creepy tongue reminded me that I have a keen interest in avoiding the beings. Especially Rootwig.

The werewolves skulk in a cell in the brig, now, too, and are little more inviting.

When the professor is still, reading either on the deck, in the mess hall, or in our cabin, Dr. Oswald and Lydia annoy him endlessly with periodic checkups. Truly, Simon is indefinitely fine, and I think they know it just as well as I do. I think they're just bored and caring for him gives them something to do.

I pick at an orange and watch Harvey Cobbe angrily putting together a batch of plug—the tobacco that he's constantly chewing and spitting. He's been disarmed, and for good reason. Since the captain had privately reprimanded him, he has been consistently agitated, and even more ready to claw the eyes out of anyone near him.

Increas Langley puts a hand on the goblin's shoulder, and Cobbe throws a punch at him. Langley catches his fist easily and takes away the gunner's bowl of tobacco leaves and molasses. They exchange a few words. It's an order, I can see that much. Langley is giving Cobbe an order.

Harvey bitterly obeys. Reclaiming his tobacco, he slinks sullenly for the captain's cabin, where Captain Clarke greets him at the door with a warning. I don't need to hear him to know it is a warning. It's written all over his face.

Langley then makes his poised and graceful way to Simon. The officer gestures him towards the cabin, too.

At the stern, Leslie is chatting up Dr. Oswald and Lydia. All of them, to the cabin.

Because we're almost there, aren't we?

The captain promised us he'd spill his secrets when we were halfway along the Giant's Ring, and he is a man of his word. Troubled, I watch the adults make their ways to where he graciously waits to invite them inside. The officers don't come to get me. I feel wounded.

I'm in the open, they can't have missed me. My frown deepens.

Insulting.

Taking action for myself, I hop off the cannon that has been acting as my seat, and purposefully march towards the party. Officer Langley holds out his hand to stop me from barging inside.

"Poor form, Mr. Avery," he reprimands.

Captain Clarke chuckles. "Ehh, no reason not to have him with us. Let him through, let him through."

Langley obeys, nodding to the captain and joining the others inside.

I glare at the captain, because I know very well why he didn't invite me specifically. It dripped from his words like hot wax. Because he doesn't respect me, because he thinks I'm too young. Age is a number. I deserve to be a part of the discussion as much as Dr. Oswald or Simon or Lydia. "It's my map."

"It's my map," he parrots. He ushers me inside and closes the door. The lock has been fixed, surely by Dorian. The fox is a remarkable craftsman. In the mess hall, he had completed his work on the day that Simon had been allowed out of bed, and he'd shown me and the professor how to use the device. It was a pulley-run lift that ferried the dishes from the hall to the galley with ease and cut the work and the time taken to clean up after meals by more than half.

Clarke gestures me to the corner where his banjo is lying in a small heap of assorted cushions. Officer Cobbe sits on a cushion, molding his tobacco into a block. "Have a seat, lad. Keep an eye on the juvenile."

"Fuck you, Hank," mutters Harvey, glaring at Simon's back. "The weedy bastard started it."

"You just behave yourself, Harvey. Sit down, Walter."

I pull out a cushion and sit, quite cross with my position. The captain strolls to the armchair behind his desk. Dr. Oswald, Simon, and Lydia are all seated in front of him, each supplied with a glass of, I would guess, either brandy or rum. Officers Langley and Leslie stand at either ends of the room, and Dorian reclines on the captain's bed. There's a tall hat over his face, and I can't tell if he's sleeping or just disinterested.

"Yeu and me, son," Harvey grumbles, drawing out a carving knife. I discreetly move my cushion another few inches away from him. He isn't looking at me. He doesn't notice. "Lessly apreeshee-ated, not given the respect we deserves, eh? Time-out corner. That's what we's sitting in, boy."

I'd already gotten that feeling. At least he had been invited. He slices a piece off his plug and offers it to me, and, naturally, I decline. Spitting those juices out all the time as he does is terribly unsanitary. Consequently, at my thought of it, he spits a gob into his bowl, right on top of the fresh stuff. Impulsively, I cringe. He starts massaging the used gob into the block with his filthy hands. I can't bear to look.

"So glad to see you've recovered, Professor," begins Captain Clarke, clasping his hands neatly on his desk.

"Oh, please," mutters Simon testily, "two minutes from now, you'll be calling me 'Teach' again. I don't know why you even bother with the formalities, Captain, if you never have any intention to keep up with them."

"Touchy," clucks Clarke. "Very well, Teach."

The professor sets his unidentified liquor down on the desk, uninterested.

The captain raises his own glass, which is undoubtedly filled with rum. Not filled, actually. Just an inch's worth of liquid pooled at the bottom. A smaller formality. A mimic of high-class society, where manners rule out the act of guzzling spirits from the bottle. He's wearing his best coat; his admiral coat. This discussion must be more important than I'd initially thought.

He lifts the safe that we had seen on our first day aboard, and idly turns the dial. "As you likely know by now, there are only two ways in and out of Riven Isles, and only one of those entrances has been mapped. We will be taking the unmapped entrance." He draws the map of the isles out and lowers the safe to the floor.

"Against my counsel," dryly adds Officer Langley.

Clarke prods some clutter aside and smooths the map over his desk. "Increas has painted the boundaries to make them clearer. Where the color stops, it's dead straight waterfall. Sheer drop-off." He looks Dr. Oswald dead in the eye. "A ship that hits the bottom of that full force can be pummeled to flotsam in minutes. Even seconds at the right angle. Death on impact for all of us aboard."

The savants gawk at the map. Sorely left out, and very, very interested, as well as outrageously concerned, I join them at the desk, where I stand between Dr. Oswald and Mrs. Marks. Death on impact? Death? The captain raises a brow at me.

"It's a crater," Dr. Oswald repeats uncomprehendingly. "You mentioned this before."

The captain nods. "I did, when we met."

"You said a hundred feet."

"More like a hundred and seventy. I didn't think you'd agree to hire me if stated it as it was."

"Then how in Laod's blessed name can we survive it?"

"Simply. I've done it before," Captain Clarke replies. "Excuse my gloating, but I'm proud to have been the first captain to successfully navigate to the islands with a full crew and ship intact and safely anchored. The only, in fact, to do so without mechanical assistance. Since my first, again, the first ever, anchoring, the natives—that is, Dorian's race—installed a very impressive lift at the first entrance to take ships up and down the falls safely."

"And, we are not using this lift?" Dr. Oswald asks, mildly aghast.

The captain shakes his head. "No. Tactically, it's vulnerable. We'd be gunned down instantly. The lift is constantly watched by the Witch and her men. It's in the open, in front of the main settlement."

"Gunned down?"

"No quarter."

Dr. Oswald looks faintly to his companions, including me. He looks back at the captain, who is sure of himself and his abilities where we doubt him. "If I'd known we were sailing to certain death, sir, I would not have taken any interest in this expedition. None at all. In fact, I would be in favor of turning back now."

Clarke smiles pleasantly. "Oh, I'm afraid that isn't an option, Doc. You see, I intend to reach the Isles with or without your approval. I don't care about your money. Whether I live or die, it was always my intention for this to be a one-way trip for me, so your currency means nothing. The rest of you are baggage, and insurance for a better shot at winning my personal little war. It's nothing against you. It's just... personal." He looks at me with those twinkling eyes. "Walter understands."

Because the Witch killed my mother and killed his men.

Lydia gasps at the man. "I have a husband at home! The doctor has children! We have families, sir! For their sakes we can't—"

"My lady, the long boats are free." Captain Clarke smiles tightly.

"You're mad."

"I'm driven." His expression sharpens. "Shall I carry on with my plans to assure your survival, or will you continue to doubt me?"

"He may have a fucking nerve," drawls Dorian, muffled under his hat, "but it hasn't failed him yet."

We are silent. Reluctantly, wearily silent.

The captain nods and continues, pointing again to the map. "We know that the second entrance is through a cave, like the first. However, we do not know the length of this cave, or what is inside it. Scout skiffs and sloops have been sent in the past, but there were never any survivors—only fresh flotsam in the bays. Roughly two-hundred men were lost in those few expeditions, four sloops, and two skiffs, so we can assume that the cave is dangerous, and..."

"We cannot assume that we can even fit through in this large a vessel!" Increas Langley interrupts shortly, his peculiar accent surfacing in his irritation. He hasn't agreed to the captain's plans, it is clear. Leslie doesn't seem any more eager. "It could be shallow, the cave interior could be too narrow or not high enough to clear our masts."

"I'm willing to take that chance." Captain Clarke snaps.

Langley mutters to himself, shaking his head, "Too bold, too bold."

"It's dead certain we'd be blown apart at the mapped entrance. This way, it's not certain that we'll survive the journey, but it is certain that if we can get through that cave, we won't face enemy fire immediately. We'll arrive safely into the far bay and be prepared to give Darling a real fight."

"I-I don't want to fight anyone," says the doctor.

"Then, you can help the wounded."

Dr. Oswald takes a drink. Lydia does the same.

"Assuming we do get through this cave," Simon begins, "how would we manage the waterfall?"

"Ah! That's the easy part! Dorian has been hard at work making this ship capable of flight! Or, parachuting, really. And the doctor has had a hand in it, too."

Dr. Oswald blinks in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Flight?" I ask.

"Why, the new sail, doctor! I designed it myself. Dorian fixed the main and topsails to tilt at just the right angle to, not fly, exactly, but glide. Only briefly, and only with my special touch. It's how I made the first expedition successful. My Gift, sirs, madame, will be essential."

Simon clears his throat. "It doesn't sound plausible to me."

"You know, some things you won't find in books, Professor Woods, but that doesn't make them impossible. It makes them a challenge."

"Or headstrong and foolish."

Captain Clarke rolls up the map. "Weapons will be loaded upon arrival, as we will likely have been spotted. I would think that our war would be waged as soon we've landed. I will leave a handful of men aboard to fire the canons, and the rest of us will row ashore. I will take Darling myself. You and Harvey will cover me, Mr. Woods."

Simon's eyes widen. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I'd trust no other not to hit me. You have impeccable aim, sir."

"I have no intention of fighting your fight."

"Walter?" The captain eyes me expectantly, giving me purpose somehow. The way he waits for my answer, and my thoughts... it gives me purpose. It makes me feel good. He slides Simon's untouched glass towards me, and I take it as a symbol of our partnership. Our vengeful partnership.

"I will fight, and I will trust you to keep us alive. I believe that you can handle whatever dangers we may face." And I mean it. He nods to me, flattered and pleased and respectful at the same time, even if he didn't invite me to his quarters with everyone else. "I trust you as a captain."

"Walter!" Dr. Oswald breathes, taken aback at my quick allegiance.

I cringe. Lydia gives me a scolding eye. Simon averts his disappointed gaze to the window as soon as I catch it. Should I be ashamed? We could either be with this man, or against him—and being against him did nothing for us. He would not be changing his course, and despite the voiced dangers, I wouldn't want him to.

He was right about me. I do want revenge. I want to see Darling's pulse blink out like flame. I want justice for Lisa Avery. I crave it, and this man can help me get it. This man, I would trust above any other to get it.

He raises his glass to me. "You will get what you want out of this voyage if you stick with me, Avery. I can promise you that," he declares. "Revenge."

He drinks.

Revenge.

I raise my glass, too, but everyone important to me ogles me so incredulously (except for Simon, who directs his disappointment in me to the floor) that I feel quite overwhelmed, because I want to be on everyone's side, don't I? I take the very smallest of sips of the strong liquor, which I recognize definitely as rum, my eyes awkwardly flicking to those around me as I take barely a tongue-full. I don't repeat the toast.

Harvey Cobbe bursts out in a full-belly guffaw at my reluctance. Dorian lifts the hat from his snout to peek at what's so funny. He snickers at me. Because I'm blushing and it makes me look stupid, and I'm embarrassed.

I can't say sorry to my friends for siding with the captain, and I can't say sorry to the captain for not participating fully in his toast. I've tried to reach a solid middle point between them. Dr. Oswald takes the rum away from me and passes it to Simon, who tips it onto the floor.

Captain Clarke frowns at the mess. He stands up to fold his blue and gold rug away from the spillage. "Harvey." He points to it. Harvey grumbles and takes off his bandanna, which causes his tufty white dandelion hair to fall over his face. He trudges over to mop the spill with the material. He's in the doghouse.

"Leslie?" Captain Clarke addresses. "I think we're finished here."

Leslie bows his head, "Aye, Captain."

"Hoist the colors, gentlemen."

All four of them stand at attention before him. Harvey holds his wet bandanna to his chest, Dorian holds his hat. Leslie presses two fingers to his brow, and Increas gives the most graceful of bows.

They all bow, bringing their fists to their hearts. "Captain Avery," they dutifully acknowledge, and I almost want to join them, because the respect they have for him is so vast that it fills the room and it fills me infectiously. I set my jaw under the appalled scrutiny of my peers. Lydia gives me a confusingly reassuring smile.

The captain nods to each of his officers, and they depart, one by one. He spreads his arms when we are alone. "It's a new chapter, gentlemen. Welcome aboard."

"The colors," Simon whispers, and he stands up in alarm to rush to the door. "The colors aren't yours to change!"

Dr. Oswald's eyes bulge in recognition. "We sail for Praedor!" he cries, rising to chase Simon out. "We sail under Praedor and His Majesty, King Cadencia!"

"I sail for Riven Isles, gentlemen!" Captain Avery calls after, receiving no acknowledgement.

Lydia rises, neatly laying her hands over each other behind her back. She meets the captain's eyes with the same fierce respect as his officers had displayed, and his poise falters in surprise. His eyes look her up and down.

The nurse shakes her head sternly. "I respect you, Captain," she says. My jaw drops, because I had not gotten such an impression from her prior. "Your crew has nothing but good things to say about you and your skills at sea." I'd forgotten how much time she spent with the pirates. She was as much a part of the crew as the captain's hired men. "Though I do not feel comfortable with passing through the Ring, now that you have explained its risks, and as much as I fear not returning home to my husband, I do fully believe that if anyone is to get us past the dangers, I'd trust you to do it. Each time you speak, I realize you are more stubborn and headstrong than any other man I've known, and if dumb luck isn't on our side, at least your sheer ambition will be, and your seamanship."

He swells at the flattery, and with his most charming grin, parts his lips to respond.

She silences him with a sharp glare, and he deflates. "But, with all due respect, sir, you have no right to change our flags on our expedition, without our consent."

Captain Avery falters, disheartened. He recovers quickly, clearing his throat and clasping his hands. "My apologies, Mrs. Marks. It was impulsive of me. But, it won't be changing. As I have said, I sail for Riven, and will wear their colors with my own, not Praedor's."

"And I cannot persuade you otherwise, but my colleagues and I will not be comfortable with it. Dr. Oswald hired you very reluctantly, sir. You have betrayed what little confidence he had. Sailing under pirate rules was already disturbing, and as has been your attachment to liquor."

"Madame, I...," he begins with a scoff.

"He is a man of principles, and as is Professor Woods," Lydia carries on over him. "The flag was our tie to the laws we are comfortable with. I have always traveled and have little attachment to any specific place, but both my colleagues have never left Praedor and are fiercely loyal to their country. Loyal, sir. You say you are loyal to this Riven. If you were very plainly barred from sailing for your islands, would you not be injured and torn to two parts? One part guilt for not representing your people, and one part loathing for the one that barred you from doing so?"

She blinks at him expectantly, and I'm sure of her words' impact as much as she most certainly must be, because her delivery is so convincing that I, I who had no real qualms with the change in the flags, feel a spike of scorn for the captain, and even a faint, patriotic defiance for my country.

"If you seek their loyalties, Captain Clarke... Captain Avery," the nurse continues, after a moment of his silence, "then I would advise that you do not disrespect where their loyalties presently lie."

Captain Avery bows his head and takes pause for consideration. His brows pinch, stumped. Mildly stumped, but stumped even so. He turns away, and I catch just a glimpse of the frustration on his features. He does not take long to himself. When he faces Lydia again, he is calm and cool, and ultimately professional. "I will compromise. I will raise your colors at mizzen, but I will not lower mine from the main."

Lydia nods. "That is a start. Good afternoon, Captain Avery."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Marks," he dismisses, with an air of puzzlement. His forehead wrinkles.

I follow her to the door.

"Stay, Walter," invites the captain.

I feel queasy, because I know that the savants will be waiting to see where my loyalties lie on the other side of this door at this moment, and I don't want to let them down. I must leave with Lydia. "I... I don't think..."

"Stay, Walter." This time, it isn't an invitation.

Lydia pats my shoulder, and I'm glad that I'm not the only one that doesn't despise him. She offers me a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Walter. They're good men. They won't hold anything against you."

She closes the door behind herself and I, alone, face him. Gosh, the shame hits me hard, even despite her. I avert my eyes.

"I thank you for your loyalty."

I nod, but it is forced. I should be with the others.

He drifts to his desk. "Walter, do you know why I didn't invite you to join us?"

"Because you think I am too young," I answer blandly. "Sir."

"No." He uncorks a bottle and refills his own glass, and the one that I had used. I don't want any. I don't. "And yes."

What does that even mean?

"I trust you, Walter." He offers the glass. When I shake my head, he sets it down.

I'm dubious. He is repeatedly using my name again, and I know it's manipulation, but somehow it works, and I don't get it because I know that it's wrong. It just makes me feel oddly important and cherished and worthwhile. I swallow.

"I trust that you want what I want and you will follow me to the ends of the seas to get it. Am I right?"

I nod again.

"Well, Walter, knowing this, I thought it would be silly to bring you into a room to explain myself and my plans. Because you don't need to know them to..."

"You thought I was too young," I interrupt.

He chokes on his sentence. After a moment, he laughs. "Ah, it was worth a try. I know you're mature enough to join our discussions. I'll not make the same mistake twice." He shrugs and takes a drink. "Sorry, kid."

I frown. At least I can say that I didn't fall for his silver-tongued stories this time. "I'll be going. Don't call me kid. And don't try to manipulate me. Just tell me the truth next time."

"My name is out, Walt," he says, but I'm walking away. "Our name. Like it or not, we're blood, and the crew will all know it by the end of the day."

I put my hand on the door handle. What am I supposed to think? Why does that matter? "So?"

"So, they'll take an interest in you, son. And by and by, I predict they will take all your time, and you won't have any choice but to be on my side. When they start taking your time, Walter, your companions will get less of it. Do you know what will happen, then?"

"They'll think I'm a traitor to them." Nothing that hasn't happened already, right?

"Unless... we are all on the same side." He smiles. "Convince them, Walter, to trust my judgement and my seamanship. There is no reason not to. I may not sail for Praedor or Cardinal Codswallop, but I do sail for Riven, and am determined to survive the voyage whether I am in one piece or many. We are in this together, and I need their loyalty as much as I need yours, and Mrs. Marks's."

I linger for a moment to consider how in this world I could convince the savants to trust this man—the known navy deserter, the drunk, the manipulator. More importantly, how could I convince them that I am not devoted to him? Because they call me young, and think me malleable, but I am not so. I am loyal to Captain Avery, not because we are family, not because he has manipulated me, but because he commands respect, and he knows what he is doing. He knows what we both want. When you trust in him, he trusts in you.

And maybe the three medics do not want the same thing, but they do want to see the islands for themselves, do they not? And the Aquians, they assured us fate was on our side the very day I found the map. They insisted that Captain Avery was the right man, despite all physical evidence pointing otherwise. If a seer chose this captain, then who were we to argue with the word of prophecy?

"Doctor Oswald accepted me by word of the Seer. Remind him of the faith that the Aquians have in me, and I believe it may restore his own."

"What about Simon? Simon doesn't like the Aquians any more than I do, which is to say, not at all. And I don't think he trusts a single word out of my mouth. He dislikes me. Strongly."

"Learn to think on a broader spectrum, Walter. Think outside your little clique. Think cleverer. If he doesn't trust you, who does he trust that has faith in me?"

"Mrs. Marks."

"Broader, Walt."

I peer at my distorted reflection in the door handle, and it dawns on me. A pirate with manners, a pirate from Pradeor, and a pirate with enough care for our dear professor that he took watches when the man was ill. I look up again. "Elian?"

He grins and nods. "Now, you're getting it." With a wink and a raised glass, he dismisses me. "Au revoir, my boy."

The colors of Captain Avery flap high on the mast, accompanied by a strange pennant that I have never before seen. Avery's flag once lay folded on my mother's dresser; a great tease of Praedor, with mimicked colors and patterns that laugh at the country he forsook, forming the silhouette of a skull over crossed swords on the traditional black background. The royal blue skull of the jolly roger is that of an animal, which I now realize to be a simplified fox. Framing the skull is a thin white ring, with a golden crescent taking up one side. I'd always thought it to be just for decoration, but the symbol is repeated on the smaller pennant. A crescent within a ring, like the moon's phase. On the pennant, it is silver and intricate, designed to appear woven even from a distance.

Captain Henry Avery did not have his own flag until after reaching the Riven Isles, which explains the significance of the design. Before then, he'd sailed under command of another pirate. It was common knowledge that he sailed under another pirate, the Witch.

The moon symbol must come from Riven.

Simon and Dr. Oswald harass the officers to take it down. Lydia tries to calm the doctor, assuring him that the Praedor flag will be raised again. I sit on a barrel and wait. They'll calm down soon enough. Surely, they'll calm down.