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  Saturday braced herself for the sisterly drama, but none came.

  “The mollymawks bring luck, if they stick around. Their dung’s good luck too. High Simon wears an umbrella for a hat.”

  Saturday squinted up into the bright sky at the crow’s-nest. Simon was a common name on the sea for men hiding from the law. “How many Simons are in your crew?”

  Thursday took a moment to count them all. “Seven,” she said finally. “Plus Crow and Magpie, whom you’ve met.”

  Ah yes, the duo that had delivered Thursday’s trunk full of treasures that spring. The daggers in their boots had fascinated Saturday almost as much as the men themselves. One of them had a funny accent. She couldn’t remember which. She looked forward to seeing them again. “And your cabin boy,” added Saturday.

  “Ashes-on-the-Wind.”

  “She doesn’t seem like much.”

  “If her brains were as smart as her mouth, she’d be Queen of the World,” said Thursday. “Pay her no mind.”

  If the girl had half as much gumption as Thursday and Saturday, she was in the right place. A gust of wind whipped Saturday’s hair over her shoulder, and she was glad Mama had taken the time to braid it. The birds screeched at each other overhead, dancing in and out on the currents of air as if they were braiding it themselves.

  From beneath her brightly colored kerchief, Thursday pulled several strands of hair and handed them to Saturday. The bits of titian curled around her fingers. “Monday said I should give this to you. Not quite sure what for, though.”

  “My bracelet.” Saturday slipped the small dagger from the opposite side of her swordbelt and pressed gently at the seam in the blue-green fabric. Two small stitches gave way, and she shoved Thursday’s hair into the thin sleeve. When the rough edges were pressed back together the fabric seemed to melt back into itself, as if there had never been an interruption.

  “That looks familiar. Friday’s handiwork?”

  Of course Thursday recognized the fabric; it had been she who’d sent it to the towerhouse in her infamous trunk. That same trunk had borne the brush-and-mirror set.

  “She made me a dress for the first night of the royal balls, just like you requested,” Saturday told her. “But then I . . . I wasn’t able to go the second night, so Friday used bits of my dress to gussy up everyone else’s gowns. She sewed up pieces of their hair into this remnant as a memento.” Saturday had hated those balls and everything about them. The bracelet was a trophy, marking her triumph of will at defying Mama’s wishes.

  “That’s sweet of her.”

  “That’s Friday, silly and sentimental. After the evil king was dead and the dust cleared, Trix and Peter and Monday gave me bits of their hair to add to it. Yours was the only one of the siblings’ I didn’t have.”

  “Besides Jack and Tuesday.”

  Saturday gave her pirate sister a sideways glance. Had the sun bleached her brain along with her hair? “Right,” she said. “Besides Jack and Tuesday.” Not that she meant to go digging up graves.

  Thursday had to shade her eyes to look up at Saturday. How had she ever won a fight being so short?

  “You’ve certainly grown quite a bit bigger since I last saw you,” said her tiny sister.

  “Her mouth has grown proportionately. So has yours.”

  Erik’s presence delighted Thursday—as did almost everything else, it seemed. The seaman’s garb he wore now still covered as much of him as possible, but the material was lighter and blew like the sails in the wind. Saturday would have thought it strange to see Erik without livery and armor, but the relaxed look suited him.

  “It’s been too long, Erik,” said Thursday.

  “You were but a girl when Jack was cursed, and little more than that when you eloped with your Pirate King. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you for not saying goodbye.”

  “You cared about me too much,” said Thursday. “You would have talked me out of it.”

  “Damned right, I would have.” There was a hint of that serious, disapproving look on Erik’s face with which Saturday was all too familiar. She was pleased to not be the only recipient.

  “So, considering a life on the sea yet? I could do with a Red Simon.”

  Erik chuckled, and the seriousness vanished. “I’ve missed you, lass, but I’m not sure I could. I’ll give it some thought.”

  “You’ve got time,” said Thursday. “The sea is patient. Unless it’s called up by one of my sisters.”

  Saturday changed the subject. “Your skin seems to be faring better.” On the skiff it had been close to blistering; a pale pink blush was all that tinted Erik now.

  “Simon Cook gave me a pot of salve to use to ward off the sun. Said he stole it from a witch on a troll ship.” He looked to Thursday for confirmation, but the Pirate Queen only shrugged. “He also told me you bested a kraken on the way here.”

  “A kraken? Really?” asked Saturday.

  “Really,” said Thursday, as if fighting giant sea monsters was something she did every day. “All sorts of things got churned up when your ocean decided to visit.”

  “Do you think we’ll get to see anything like that?” Saturday asked. Knowing her luck, they never would.

  “With permission, milady,” hissed a soft voice above her.

  High Simon alit on the deck from the rigging above. He landed gently on bare toes as yellow-green as the rest of his compact, muscular body. His eyes were slits above a long nose with a bit of a hook to it. His waist-length black hair was wrapped in a leather tail. He wasn’t wearing a hat at the moment, but Saturday could see bumps in the hair along his crown where one had sat.

  Saturday guessed that one of High Simon’s parents had been a goblin, not that she’d ever seen one. She sensed that her usual brusque attitude might cause him to disappear back into the crow’s-nest just as quickly as he’d arrived, so she tread lightly.

  “Yes,” Saturday said politely. “What is it?”

  A strong green arm pointed steadily out to sea beyond them, toward the back of the ship, where the giant-winged mollymawks still dove for treats in the wake. “Look there, along the horizon. Can you see the strip of indigo?”

  Saturday squinted hard into the bright sun, not sure if she was actually seeing something or forcing herself to believe it was there.

  “Here,” said Thursday. Saturday turned and realized that Thursday was offering her magical spyglass. She hesitated, but her pirate sister dropped the heavy glass in her hand anyway. The gold was warm in her palm. “Go on. Take a look.”

  Saturday lifted the glass to the spot where High Simon had pointed and gave her eyes a moment to adjust. Then she twisted the focus ring and the indigo line sprang into crisp view. She swayed a bit and steadied her elbow against a thick, coiled rope hanging from the nearest mast. “I see . . . are those spikes or spines? And are those two heads? What is that thing?”

  “A lingworm,” Thursday answered. “A legendary creature few have ever seen. It has three heads: one for truth, one for compassion, and one for wisdom. I’m guessing one of the heads was damaged in the storm. But not to worry,” she said at the furrow in Saturday’s brow, “it will grow back.”

  “Will it attack us?” asked Saturday.

  “I feel it safe to say that no Woodcutter is in danger from that particular lingworm.” There was something else Thursday wasn’t telling her. Instead of intriguing Saturday, the mystery only rankled.

  She slapped the spyglass back into Thursday’s hand. “I’m not a fan of secrets.”

  “Some secrets aren’t ours to tell, Saturday.”

  “Nor are they ours to keep!” She was beginning to feel as trapped on this ship as she’d been at the towerhouse.

  Thursday collapsed the spyglass and fit it back into her belt, next to the sheath where she kept a thin rapier with a cupped basket hilt. “Shall we settle this properly, then?”

  Saturday’s hand fell to her own sword. “Oh yes, please.”

  The two sisters drew their weapons a
nd the crew cheered and gathered round. Erik leaned back against the rail to watch his student apply his teachings.

  Saturday’s sword was longer and wider than Thursday’s rapier, but its weight put Saturday at a disadvantage, as did her balance. The constant shifting of the deck was second nature to the Pirate Queen. They were not evenly matched, but what Saturday lacked in experience, she made up for with exuberance. And a magical sword.

  “Here, Captain, use mine.” One of the Simons offered Thursday his strangely curved scimitar. “You might break that piskie stick against her hand-and-a-half.”

  “No, use mine!” Crow offered up the mop with which he’d been swabbing the deck.

  Saturday’s sword could be used in either a one- or two-handed attack; the soldiers on the practice grounds called it a hand-and-a-half. At the moment she held the sword in both hands, squaring her shoulders, while the lower half of her body stubbornly concentrated on keeping as much of the soles of her boots as possible on the swaying deck. Saturday also knew, from practicing with Erik, that in order to have any sort of upper hand in this fight, she needed to make a preemptive strike. She lunged at Thursday, forcing her sister to jump back in surprise.

  “Ten bones on the Giantess,” called Erik.

  “Twenty on the Captain,” yelled one Simon.

  “Fifty on the Harpy,” shouted another Simon.

  “Which one’s that?” asked a third.

  Thursday hopped up on the rail and walked down the length of it far enough to jump onto a collection of barrels that had been lashed to the deck. Saturday was forced to pick her feet up and follow her scampering bilge rat of a sister, shifting her weight and throwing her strikes off. Thursday attacked from each new position and Saturday parried. Thursday was all nimbleness and upper body strength. Saturday tried getting in past Thursday’s defenses and forcing her to lose her grip, but the larger blade only slid across the metal basket hilt of the rapier and left Saturday open for Thursday’s attack.

  Thursday winked, pulled Saturday’s braid, and skipped up to higher ground.

  Sweat got in Saturday’s eyes, as well as the sun, and she began to see why men around the world both hated and admired her sister at the same time. Thursday wasn’t a pretty figurehead on a ship—she was a captain. Saturday knew what it was like for a woman to be measured as a man. Thursday couldn’t just win some fights; she had to win every one until she’d earned the respect of her crew. Even then, she’d always have to fight just as long and hard as the best of them.

  Judging by the cavalier insults they tossed about, these men respected Thursday quite a lot. Thursday was toying with her, and Saturday knew it. It was good of the men to play along, but she did wish she could land even one decent strike against her sister.

  Saturday took her mind out of the fight a moment and instead of assessing Thursday’s attack, she assessed the field of play. The practice grounds were flat and typically free of obstacles; this was an area in which Saturday definitely needed improvement. From her current vantage point there were only two places for Thursday to go: back down to the deck, or a flying leap across to the roof of the captain’s quarters. Saturday decided which one was more likely and lunged.

  Thursday stopped on the roof to examine her torn sleeve and the thin scratch now visible down the outside of her arm.

  “First blood, little sister. Well done.”

  The men paused their taunting, waiting for Thursday’s next move. Saturday squared herself on the deck and readjusted her two-handed grip on the sword.

  “The gloves come off now,” Thursday said, and launched herself into the air.

  Saturday wasn’t quite sure where her sister was going with this—overboard?—until she noticed High Simon lying up in the rigging. He reached down and caught Thursday’s arm up to her elbow in what must have been a practiced trick. Thursday flew through the air like a bright, wingless mollymawk and landed on a stack of crates with the sun directly behind her.

  Saturday was blinded. “Cheater!” she yelled.

  “Pirate,” Thursday corrected.

  Saturday squinted, but the sun was overpowering. Without anything to shield them, her eyes began to water. She weighed the risks of letting one hand off the blade while Thursday . . . danced a jig? Saturday couldn’t quite make it out. Whatever it was, the men began catcalling and throwing things at their captain.

  Mercifully, large black wings blotted out the sun. The frigate bird.

  Thank you, fellow outcast.

  The shadow grew as the wings closed in upon the ship. It wasn’t the frigate bird. This beast was much darker and much bigger. It headed straight for them, and Saturday was directly in its path. The crew unsheathed their weapons, switching from humor to business in the space of a breath.

  “Heads up!” Thursday cried. The Pirate Queen’s blade scratched down the length of the enormous black bird, excising more feathers than blood, but doing some little damage all the same. Saturday leapt and swung her own blade at the bird, but it reared above the deck. Before Saturday could regain her balance, it caught her up in its giant talons.

  “MINE!” it seemed to call from its giant beak. “MINE!”

  “Give her back, beastie!” yelled one Simon.

  “There’s already one crow on this ship,” yelled Crow, or Magpie.

  “And that’s one too many!” added the other.

  “Chicken dinner!” yelled the cook.

  The giant raven let out a harsh caw that brought several of the crew to their knees.

  One of the men still standing drew an arrow from his quiver.

  Erik grabbed for Saturday as she slipped away. He managed only a solid grip on the tail of her long braid. Saturday cried out in pain. The winged monster launched itself higher into the air, easily taking both Saturday and Erik with it.

  Saturday watched the ship shrink as they ascended. With her advanced healing ability she might survive a fall from any height, but Erik certainly wouldn’t. Before they gained any more altitude, Saturday freed her sword arm, and her sword with it.

  “Let go,” she said to Erik.

  “No!” he cried.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” With that, Saturday cut off her braid.

  Saturday’s heart sank as Erik fell back to the ship. The archer pulled back on his bowstring, but Thursday stayed his hand. Saturday looked down at the ocean below, her sister’s ship getting farther away with every wing beat.

  Erik threw himself against the railing and let loose a battle cry toward the sky; the Simons dragged him back. Thursday—tiny now, like a dolly of the sister Saturday knew—sheathed her sword and placed a closed fist on her left breast in salute. The rest of Thursday’s crew saluted her as well. From inside the talons of the great bird, Saturday saluted them back.

  She never saw her mother.

  6

  The Deepest Wounds

  A CRASH ECHOED from the witch’s destroyed lair, cries both human and inhuman, and then silence. Wherever the witch’s raven had disappeared to, she’d obviously returned. Peregrine set aside the daggers he’d been sharpening at the whetstone. He slipped on his second-best boots and another fur wrap, having lost the first during the spell-induced collapse. He snatched the nearest torch from a notch in the wall and took off running.

  Betwixt scuttled out of his hiding place in the shadows and tried to keep up. The witch’s spell had triggered the chimera to change again; he was now a large scorpion with chicken legs and tusks where pincers would otherwise be. Running wasn’t one of Betwixt’s strengths in this new form. Nor was this one of the species that lent itself to communication, though his carapace did change color with his mood. After his transformation, Betwixt had been a shiny, serene shade of purple. Now he was red as apples and dragon’s blood.

  As the archways opened into the ruins of the spellcasting caves, Peregrine pulled the fur up over his head to protect him from the freezing wind. Cwyn’s return had been awkward and messy. She’d slid in and tumbled over, trailing
blood and feathers along the ice as she came. The massive bird was still the size of an ancient roc.

  The witch was slumped against the wall beside her familiar’s body, spellspent and blessedly unconscious. The deep blue tint of the skin around her eye sockets, behind her ears, and down her neck had faded.

  Cwyn’s feathers stank of salt and sweat and copper. Peregrine worked to extract her giant head out from under her body as gently as possible before she crushed herself under her own weight. Despite the grief and aggravation the witch’s familiar brought to his life, Peregrine worried about her. Every time he was tempted to hate Cwyn he reminded himself that the raven was just another prisoner in these caves, another slave to the witch’s desires.

  Betwixt carefully nudged himself under Cwyn’s body, wedging his tusks deeper and deeper between the dark feathers and the icy floor until he was almost completely obscured. Peregrine backed up against the bird’s gently heaving side, using all the strength in his legs to roll her over and assess her wounds. They only managed to budge her a fraction . . . but budge her they finally did.

  “There’s an angry scratch here under her neck.” Peregrine always spoke, even if Betwixt could not reply. He hoped the wound had been caused more by storm than sword. “I can’t tell how far down it extends, but it doesn’t look deep, or poisoned.”

  Betwixt nudged Peregrine gently in the calf with a tusk. His carapace had already lightened to a sunset shade. Did that signify relief? Concern? Peregrine patted the chimera on the tail, careful of its deadly stinging tip. “She’ll be fine, my friend.”

  Betwixt, unsatisfied, nudged again.

  From the opposite side of Cwyn’s hulking girth came a soft groan, lower and less keening than the moaning of the bitter wind that howled through the hole in the ceiling.

  Oh no. She didn’t. She couldn’t have.

  Peregrine mumbled another prayer to any god that might be listening and ran around Cwyn’s giant tail. There was Jack Woodcutter, grasped tightly in Cwyn’s great talons, a long, trouser-clad leg and a shock of frost-covered golden hair. Peregrine’s prayer turned to a curse. The lorelei had captured her prey after all.