"Archer."

He drifted awake, the sunlight warming his face.

"Wake up, love, come on."

He blinked and saw Silta, her face fused with uncharacteristic expressions of terror and panic.

"I thought this was what I wanted," she was saying, the words spilling out over each other, tumbling out all at once. "I thought it was, Archer, but I promise you that it's not—I'd take it back if I could, love. I would take all of this back if I could but I can't."

Archer sat up, dizzy. Thoughts of Adrian Everson came filtering back through his mind. Silta's long fingers were curled around his shoulders, gripping him tight. Salty waves of her hair fell over her arms, the rims of her irises stark in the daylight.

"Listen to me, please, Archer. I need to tell you something."

He sat up more, her urgency seeping into him like the red sea into the white sheets. He pushed her away a little. Something was wrong.

"What I wanted to do to Bardarian," Silta was saying, her voice hazy. "Do you remember what I told you about the chest?"

Archer swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing her away again. Something was out there. The day was warm and the sun was shining, but something was out there.

Reaching for the door like he was in a blind trance, he stumbled as Silta desperately grabbed every part of him that she could.

"Just wait, love. This won't be so bad if I tell you first."

Archer turned the doorknob. She covered his hand, but he was stronger, so he pushed her aside.

Something was out there.

He walked down the hallway. He got to the stairs.

"Archer!" Silta's voice came out as a scream; it wasn't the scream she'd done when she was injured in Port Harver or the scream she sometimes put into a shout now that she wasn't as great with her poker face. It was a solid, desperate kind of scream that came from a completely lucid mind. She pulled at every part of him, did everything to stop him from getting to the topdeck. She tugged on his shirt, on his arm, on anything she could find. Archer shrugged her off.

He crested the stairs, shielding the sunlight with his hand.

Something was here.

"Archer please."

Silta didn't beg for things. She had never begged for anything. There was that husky, sensual tone she'd use when she wanted something from someone, but she never begged. Still, there was the unmistakable tremor of pleading in her voice now. Maybe he should listen to her. But no, he couldn't. Because something was here.

His eyes began to adjust to the sunlight. The Avourienne was enjoying an uncharacteristically sunny day while sailing Bloodsea, the red water sparkling like the sails. The deck was already full of bodies, and Archer took a moment to realize there was a ship beside them.

The Starling was written on the side, but it wasn't the problem.

"Archer?"

That was the problem.

He spun around because he knew that voice. He knew that voice well, but it shouldn't be here. His heart was completely absent, the feeling of it beating vanished from his chest.

He completed the turn. His veins were ice, his heart was stone, his mind was useless. He took a sharp breath of air.

"Archer," Jeanne whispered to him. She stepped forward, raising her hands over his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace.

He didn't move. He didn't touch her, because her skin was dead. It was still that pale, smooth colour, but it reeked of death, as if she'd been buried and dug up. Her golden hair was pulled back with one of those yellow bands she used to wear—the one with the white polka dots. Her eyes were blue and wide, like the water of the Cobalts, as she stepped back.

"Angels, I missed you," she whispered, taking his face in her hands. Her fingers felt cold—not ice-cold, but dead cold.

He couldn't move, paralyzed like that on the deck. His entire body shook at the sight of her. He lifted his eyes, slowly and carefully, to Silta.

She was still by the stairs, watching with something undecipherable. She held Archer's gaze.

"I—don't—" he began. "I don't understand this."

"Everson brought her back," Silta said, her voice wavering.

"Is she—is she—"

"She's real," Silta said. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but she's alive."

Archer lifted his hand to reach out and touch Jeanne. His finger brushed over a polka dot on her headband, and she smiled.

"You're here," he said simply.

"I'm here," Jeanne replied. Her smile was sunlight, her voice honey.

The crew around Archer were gathered and confused. Most of them had been there the day he'd put a bullet through Jeanne's head. Some of them had even hefted her body over the rail. Over the rail, and into Everson's hands.

Jeanne was pulling Archer closer. "You must come with, Arch. Aboard the Starling. We need you there."

The other shoe dropped. It hit the deck with a loud bang and rolled across the deck, but he didn't bother to look at it.

Archer raised his hands in surrender. "Somebody just tell me." He looked to Silta. "You. You tell me."

"The chest distorts people," she said, her face stony, the panic gone. "It lets them live again, but they feel loyalty to whoever brought them back."

Archer closed his eyes. A thousand little elastics snapped inside of him, violently slicing through his organs and his blood.

"Oh, excuse me. Sorry, I need to get through. They're talking about me. Kingsley?"

Archer smiled, because this wasn't funny at all. He rolled his gaze over to that man of centuries, that eternal schemer.

Everson grinned as he pushed through the crowd. "That's mine. She's loyal to me."

He was so ordinary. It was the first thought he'd had about Corpher, and it was the same thought he had now that he knew it was Everson. He wasn't attractive or imposingly tall. He was slightly shorter than Silta, his body lithe and lean like a man trained in combat and not in weights.

Jeanne was smiling at the sight of him. "That's Adrian, Archer. You'll love him. He's smart and brave—just like you!" Her throat bubbled with laughter.

Archer nodded slowly. "He is smart," he told Jeanne. "He's very smart."

Everson smiled. His teeth were slightly yellow, just like a pirate's should be. His eyes were the colour of death and darkness, his arms wide.

"High compliments," Everson said, "from a man like yourself."

"Novari?" Archer said, calling out to her like he was a terrified child. "You have to kill—"

"I have, love," Silta replied from behind them. "Many times. He comes back."

"But then—" Archer stuttered, his hand on Jeanne's shoulder, tight and gripped. "Then why is he—" He took a step back, taking Jeanne with him.

"Listen," Everson said, making his way through the Avourienne crew, so stunned they let him by, "there are two kinds of smart people: those who work for centuries to be brilliant, and those who simply are. The latter group always seem to be faster, and you see, Kingsley, Novari belongs to the latter. Myself, the former. Novari is, while I truly do hate to say it, smarter than myself. Smarter than you."

That was true. But Jeanne was here, so that had thrown Archer's mind into a slow, mulchy grind. "I know that," he said blankly.

"Then don't play coy. Don't act as if this is some surprise to her," Everson said, nodding to Silta.

"Right," Archer said, nodding. "It's revenge. Jeanne is revenge." He said the words, but he wasn't sure if he heard them.

"Silta has her angles; I have mine," Everson said. "Silta—as clever as she can be—is a fragile queen of glass. Without some tether to reality, the last of which I believe you murdered, she'll spiral into a pit of insanity, and I quite like that ending. So leave the Avourienne, Kingsley, cut Silta off by stepping out of the game, and Jeanne is yours."

"She's loyal to you," Archer said.

"She's loyal to me, yes, which means she does what I tell her to do. If I tell her to worship someone else, she'd be happy to do so."

Archer laughed again, because this wasn't funny. "Right," he said. "Your move is her revenge."

"I don't understand why Jeanne could be a bad thing for you," Everson said, taking another step closer. His hair was void-black like his eyes, reflecting not even one ray of sunlight.

"Because you can't play with people you don't understand," Archer said. "You don't get morality. She does, though." he turned around to see Silta. "You do."

Silta closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

"I murdered Bardarian," Archer said. "I have to pay for it, right? This is me paying for it?"

"Archer, lad," Everson said again. "This isn't a bad thing."

Archer nodded. "No, no, you're right. This isn't a bad thing." He stumbled away from Jeanne, away from her dead skin and her dead eyes. "This isn't bad. This is the woman I was supposed to love, in front of me, but she doesn't have a singular thought in her dead mind. This is the only thing I've ever wanted, but she doesn't have her own opinion or her own voice—she's just a dead thing that looks like Jeanne."

"Archer," Jeanne said softly. "You don't mean that."

Archer shook his head. "You're dead. Nobody gets out of death without a price." He turned to Everson, grinning. "Sorry, Adrian," he said. "But Silta wins—she's type two smart, isn't she? Just that step ahead of you, of me, of everyone. But I killed Bardarian, so I deserve this. Right?" Archer spun around to see Silta. "Right?"

Her eyes were dull, expressionless.

"You're smart," Archer whispered to her. "Is that what you want to hear? That you win?"

She held his gaze, everything about her still.

"Call this a grand success," Archer told her. Tears stung in his eyes as Jeanne put a hand on his arm, tried to tell him that Everson was good. Hot, salted tears brimmed in his eyes. His body was being ripped in half, every tendon and nerve severing.

"You win," Archer said to her, tears beginning to spill over his eyes. Why would he feign disinterest, feign being detached? He was not ever-calm and emotionless. He was Archer Kingsley, constantly broken-hearted by a crippling morality. "You win," he said. "You've shattered me into a thousand pieces and tore me apart bone from bone. Is this what it felt like? To carve up Bardarian? Was this what it felt like?" He shook Jeanne off, not breaking Silta's gaze. Tears were pouring down his face, down his neck, his voice a whisper as he pointed to her, "You win."

"Archer," Everson called from behind. His voice was rising in panic.

Silta looked past Archer. "Off my ship, Everson," she said. "Take Jeanne."

"Archer," Everson said again. "There's nothing dead about her. She's—"

Silta took a step forward, pointing to him. "Get off my ship, Adrian."

"You win," Archer whispered.

"Take Jeanne," Silta said, taking another step. "Take Jeanne, Adrian."

Everson was panicking, realizing that Archer was not caving. "Kingsley—"

"Cannons," Silta said, hand signalling to Britter. She looked over at him, stunned and frozen. "Britter. Blow that ship to pieces."

Everson took a few steps back as Britter finally began making orders. "Doll," he said to Jeanne. "With me." He beckoned her forward.

Jeanne was tugging at Archer. "He saved me, Archer, but I love you. Just come with, Arch, please?"

"Doll," Everson said, backing up to the plank. The Avourienne crew were moving, getting ready to shoot.

"You win," Archer said mindlessly, stumbling back to the stairs.

Jeanne retreated at Everson's call, rushing back to the Starling. He knew they were going down now, knew there was no point in fighting this next death of his. He paused on the plank, arms wide, chin nodding to Silta. "It could still be you!" he called to her with a grin. "All these years later, doll. I'd take you back. If you beg, of course."

Silta took a step forward as she slipped the knife from her boot, never breaking his eye contact. She threw it with all the strength she had, and he didn't even bother to duck. He fell back onto the deck of the Starling, dead.

The Avourienne still fired, blowing the Starling to the pieces that Silta had asked for.

Archer found his way down the stairs, not bothering to assist or help or think.

She won.