A Southward breeze crossed the foredeck and left Francis shuddering as he scurried aft. His course zigged and zagged as he kept an eye on his crewmates. He’d learned not to turn his back on them, for lots of reasons.

His lithe body spun to avoid a teasing punch from Cay, and Francis could only sigh. This was such a long way from Madame Jerome’s bedchamber. But that was a thought for another day. He needed to speak with the captain, if you could call him that.

Being captain aboard a mercenary vessel such as theirs amounted to having killed, marooned or paid off the previous captain. Francis bounded the steps to the quarter deck two at a time, mainly just because he could, and found himself eye to eye with Captain Dalley, one of the ugliest men he’d ever seen. Thirty years at sea had not been kind.

“Ye be in a rush, lad?” the grissled captain queried.

“Aye, sir,” our hero replied, looking shiftily left and right, “And we ought to be too, if ye’ve any interest in The Stone Lady.”