I clench my throat tightly and swallow invasive nausea. My other hand crawls over the partition wall behind me, feeling its stability and hoping to find some for myself. All those men, just starting to deteriorate in the constant action of the sea, had scarred me. But, the admiral was Simon's father? And Simon had to look and see the corpse, a puppet to the current with a rope noosed at his neck.

I think of my mother and dive for the bucket under Lydia's bed. Each of the savants keep a bucket under their bed, supplied for our predictable seasickness. I hug the bucket to my chest and woozily fight the urge to hurl. My bandaged head throbs.

Professor Woods clamps his hand over his mouth and turns away. "Dead!" He takes a hold of my hammock's rope to steady himself. "And I'll be joining him! Right here! Where I'll never, ever be found!"

Just as I've been thinking. My eyes, pried open and glued, look back to the wake. The night sky is above, and the full moon laughs at us from its safety through a crack high in the cave's ceiling. The cave gapes from behind, the H.M.S Swallowtail lying on its side just at its opening.

"We will be all right, Simon," Lydia insists, taking his hand.

I sit against the wall and hug my knees to my chest. The ship swerves, and swerves again, and continues to do so frequently enough that I have to place my hand on the floor to stay up. I fix the bucket between my knees. The doctor curls against the window. The others sit down and hold on to their beds.

Rocks shoot past in the window, safely maneuvered from. The seamanship of the captain to miss them all so cleanly! It's shameful that we ever doubted. Cannons sound, and I watch rubble of rocks and ships sinking in the wake.

"It is honorable for a navy man to die at sea," Lydia says quietly, pressing two fingers twixt her brows in solemn prayer, "and for a captain to go down with his ship."

Simon had mentioned, in his convoluted way, that his family was involved with the navy. This, I recall. And so, I can see. With my own eyes, I saw that Simon's pa was strangled by his own lifeline on his own proud Praedor ship, skin bleached by the glowing waters. An admiral, but with only one ship. Blown asunder in a storm, perhaps? Carried by the powerful current of the Giant's Finger.

The professor cradles his pistol on his lap.

There aren't so many shipwrecks anymore. Only the best sailors could survive this far.

A light, armored ship built of steel is halved on a boulder that quickly shrinks away.

"What are the chances?" Simon questions, and to me he sounds annoyed. Irritated. However, I think it may be anguish. And indeed, what are the chances?

"Simon...," Dr. Oswald begins softly, but fails to continue. His expression says everything, each wrinkle warped in a compassionate sympathy.

"He deserved to die," Simon pointedly sniffs. "I'm only upset that I couldn't kill him myself."

"That's not true, Simon."

"It is," the professor insists, and looks right back at the doctor. He looks injured, and queasy, but persists even so. "I couldn't kill him myself. I couldn't. I'd like to think I could, but I absolutely know that I could not look a man in the eyes and kill him. I simply..." he sighs and tosses the pistol to the other end of his bed. "Couldn't."

"That's not a bad thing. You are a good man, Simon."

"I've been plotting my vengeance since I was sixteen—Walter's age. Did you know that?" Simon crows. "Every little trip I took away from you, I went to a different gun range, and perfected my shooting. And yet, every year I was too afraid to go and face the behemoth. And here he is, dead, and I didn't have a hand in it at all."

"Revenge?" I splutter, ogling the man. "You learned to shoot for revenge? Against your pa?"

And he'd scolded me for my own plans, the hypocritical...

I do feel terrible for my lack of sympathy. I do.

Or is that just the motion sickness?

The professor fixes me with a stern eye. "Oh, now, don't you be judging me, Walter," he sneers. "At least I had a plan."

"Are you saying I don't?"

Lydia huffs. "Boys! Don't you dare start an argument. Simon has just lost his father!"

The professor snorts bitterly and looks away. "I lost him years ago. It doesn't make a difference."

But the man is upset. I can see his reluctant grievances lurking under his arrogant façade. I think we are more alike than he'd like to admit. Except, he's gotten his revenge. His father is dead. The man that had kicked him out of his home for falling in love is dead. And now, he can cry, for Sandy is avenged.

Just as I'll be able to cry when I avenge my mother.

Except, I'll have a hand in my revenge.

The doctor whispers a prayer and shakes head. "Does it truly satisfy you to see your father dead, Simon? Let it be a lesson to Walter."

"Sandy's death was on his hands, Cornelius, among so many other crimes."

"Does it satisfy you?"

The professor fixes his cold blue gaze on his tightly folded hands, then drops his icy eyes to the floor. I wait, expecting wholly a yes, despite his peculiarly restrained mannerisms.

"Simon?" the doctor presses.

"It was a disturbing image," Simon stubbornly grumbles.

"Did it satisfy you to see your father dead?"

"It was a haunting image," Simon elaborates.

"Walter is going down the same path, Simon."

Simon's face scrunches up. "Don't be ridiculous. Walter's having his hand held by the captain and being led right to the people that murdered his mother." My jaw drops and I attempt protest, but he continues over me. "He'll get to watch the killers die. All I've done is stumble upon a body that I've dreamed of burning."

"It's the same principle. You desired a man to be dead. He is dead, and fate has brought us into his path to teach a lesson." I've never believed in fate. I don't think that everything happens for some already decided reason, following some plan made in the stars. I don't believe that decisions I make or any else makes are already made by some game-master god up above. The doctor leans closer to Simon. "Does seeing your father dead satisfy you?"

The professor clenches his jaw and releases an angry whine. He stands up and staggers in the rockiness, falling nearer the door. "No!" he cries and pulls a bottle of wine from the rack. He studies the label, pressing his palm against the wall. "It's like all my loathing for him has rebounded right back to myself!"

"Shouldn't you be sad?" I ask. "Didn't he raise you?"

"Raise me? Hardly. He put the navy above family—my word! He put your Henry Avery above me. He spent most of my life chasing your father. Isn't it ironic that it killed him? He found Riven! He found Avery's little home away!" He spits. My eyes widen. Is this why he dislikes the captain, so? Is this the secret that they shared—a relation to the Swallowtail's admiral? "The only opinion of him I ever had was the opinion I was told to have, and the opinion I fantasized. Until I woke up, that is, and realized that being in the navy doesn't make a man a good man." He shakes his head. "No, I'm not sad."

As if. There is power in the bond of blood. I know because I'm sure that if the captain died, I'd grieve him—even if I barely know the man, and don't think that I like him much. I open my mouth to speak again, but find's Lydia's hand on mine. She shakes her head. Perhaps it is not the right time for my questions.

The professor pulls at the bottle's cork, but it resists him.

Dr. Oswald mutters and shakes his head repeatedly in disapproval, and Lydia mumbles her agreement. Is it disapproval? I think... it might be skepticism. I'd agree with skepticism. I'm sure that Simon is trying to hide from us that he is upset. Were he alone somewhere, he might express his emotions more freely.

Simon swears and tries the cork again. There is a corkscrew on top of the rack, but I don't point it out. His face reddens.

Goodness, he must be embarrassed with all our eyes upon him.

The ship bounds off a rock somewhere on the port bow, and those of us seated cling to our supports while Simon is hurled back to his bed. He fumbles with the bottle, trying to keep a hold of it, but he lets it fall when his shins crash against his bed's wooden frame and he lets out a howl of curses so foul and unrefined that I would only expect them from Harvey Cobbe. The bottle breaks, and wine sloshes over the floor and splashes up to his knees.

He pants while Lydia asks for Laod's forgiveness for him under her breath.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Captain!" he whines in anguish, staring at the dampness of his pant legs. How could he blame the captain? That brilliant sailor had sailed us through labyrinths at shocking speeds! Watching out the back, I see the rock that we hit, which curves like a crescent beneath the rapids.

Simon forces the ball of his palm against his forehead and inhales a long, shaking breath through his nose. Upon exhale, he holds out both his hands.

"I'm fine. It's fine. I'm sorry."

I hear an order from the deck to take in the sails.

Simon nervously and awkwardly spreads his arms, but his elbows stay close to his sides. "Hugs?"

What is he? Twelve? I make a face.

Lydia and Dr. Oswald both spread their arms in response and beam warmly back at him. He steps over a large shard of glass from the bottle and shuffles over to Lydia, who is closer to him. She stands for him. They hug, and he apologizes for the dampness of his slacks. She gives him a squeeze.

"Don't you worry, Simon."

"I'll clean up the mess," the professor promises.

The wine and glass spreads more and more with every roll of the ship. The smell starts to tickle my nose, and I'm grateful to have my bucket with me. The reek is sickening. Foul grapes, isn't it? Wine? It's just rotten grape juice with a glorified title.

Simon curls up with Dr. Oswald on the floor against the window, and I can't help but be reminded of a cat.

"We're slowing down," I say, pointing out the window. The current has slackened considerably, no longer bombarded with the strength of the sea. The inner and outer walls of the ring shelter us from the wind.

It grows darker and darker and then light as the stern of the ship, with us in it, passes into the opening at the inner wall. The cave is similar to the former, but the ride is much calmer. The current doesn't hurry us along. It is less like braving the rapids, and more like floating down a lazy river.

The pretty blue lights, like sorcery, slither across the surface and glitter like gold. Above us, they twinkle like stars, and all seems strangely peaceful. Sounds of water dripping is echoed around the cavern, making it feel all the more... empty.

I push away my comforting bucket and crawl to the window to peer down. It's shallower than the other cave, but not to the point that it is dangerous. The channel is plenty deep. There are skeletons, likely carried here in the currents. I can't make out many details, but I try.

Blanched white bones pricked with holes, like chicken legs broiled for far too long. The eyes are dark and large and hollow, with cheeky grins that taunt. I see many as we drift along, mostly incomplete. A femur here, a skull there, a ribcage every now and then. The water is so clear.

It is beautiful and serene, despite the reminiscence of long-dead sailors.

"I can't help but feel..." says Simon, gradually easing himself off the doctor, "that something dreadful is about to happen. As if we are in the calm before the storm."

"Let's just enjoy the peace, dear boy," Dr. Oswald chuckles.

I lie on the floor and breathe.