The fading winter afternoon dimly lit the room. She huddled under the covers on the bunk, deeply asleep. The acid stink of vomit was thick in the small room. He leaned on his crutch as he shut the door, wrinkling his nose against the stench. That would never do; such a smell was very unappealing. It ruined everything. He would have to give her an extra dose of the poppy and mandrake sedative, and send in the ship’s boy to give the room a good scrubbing while she slept. Bitterly disappointed, he set the tray down on the table.

Her full weight hit him between the shoulders. He went down, tray, crutch, food, all falling with him in a clattering mess. His head struck the table edge as he fell. Her hands clutched his throat. He twisted around, tucking his chin tight to his chest to keep her from getting a good strangle. She had a knee in the small of his back, but as he rolled she fell with him. Her reflexes were slow, dulled by the drugs. If he had still had two legs, she would not have had a chance against him. As it was, he managed to grip her wrist for an instant before she jerked away from him. She scrabbled to her feet, panting and swaying, and backed away from him in the small room as he came to his hands and knee. Her eyes were wide and black. His crutch had fallen out of reach. He edged toward it.

“You bastard,” she panted raggedly. “You heartless beast!”

He feigned bewilderment. “Althea, what has come over you?”

“You raped me!” she grated hoarsely. Then, her words rising to a shout, uncaring of who heard, “You raped me. You killed my crew and burned my ship. You killed Brashen! You imprisoned Vivacia! It’s all your doing!”

“You make no sense. My dear, your mind is unsettled. Calm down! You don’t want to shame yourself before the whole crew, do you?”

He saw her glance about for a weapon. He had misjudged how dangerous she was. Despite the residue of drug that she fought, her muscles knotted convulsively. He knew the look of murder; he had seen it often enough in his own mirror. He lunged for his crutch, but in the next instant, she sprang not toward him, but to the door. She worked the latch clumsily, then jerked the door open, colliding with the jamb as she reeled out. He saw her strike the opposite wall, catch herself, and then stagger up the companionway.

The figurehead. She was trying to get to the figurehead. He got his crutch under his arm, caught at the table’s edge and polled himself to his feet. She would get a surprise if she got as far as the foredeck. There would be no Vivacia to beseech for aid. He was tempted to let her go, but he could not have her ranting and raving to his crew. What if Wintrow or Etta heard her?

He reached the door and looked out. Althea had slowed. She clung to the wall, stumbling doggedly on. Her dark hair hung in a lank curtain about her face. She was dressed in Wintrow’s clothing, soiled now with spilled food and vomit. She must have awakened, dressed and then huddled there, waiting for him. Quite a plan, for as much poppy as he had given her. He almost admired her. He’d have to increase the dosage.

The silhouette of a crewman appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall. Kennit raised his voice in a command. “Detain her. Bring her back to her room. She is not well. She attacked me.”

The figure took two steps into the darkened companionway, and Kennit suddenly saw his error. The crewman was Wintrow. “Aunt Althea?” he asked incredulously. He offered her a steadying arm, but she disdained him. He doubted that she recognized Wintrow. Instead, she lifted her arm to point a shaking hand at Kennit.

“He raped me!” She flung back her head to peer at the lad through her draggled hair. “And my ship is locked down deep in the dark. I’m drugged. I’m sick. Help me. Help her.” Her words ran down with her strength. She sagged against the wall and slid down it while Wintrow stood transfixed in horror. Her head swayed like a poisoned cat’s. To Kennit’s dismay, another crewman had arrived. Then, worst of all, he heard Etta’s voice behind him.

“What did that bitch say?” she demanded furiously.

Kennit turned quickly to face her. “She’s ill. She makes no sense. She attacked me.” He shook his head. “The loss of her companions seems to have driven her mad.”

Etta’s eyes went very wide. “Kennit, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed in horror.

He lifted a hand to his brow and his fingers came away scarlet. He had struck his head harder than he thought. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” He composed himself and spoke in a voice of both command and concern. “Wintrow. Be cautious but gentle with her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Watching Paragon bum has turned her mind.”