Chapter 47
Forty-Seven
Sorcha
Isat in the captain’s office in my most expensive tea gown, crucifix tucked under my dress so it didn’t show, cradling my belly to deliberately make it look bigger than it already was.
“It was some kind of occult ceremony,” I said, voice a half octave higher than usual, diction perfect, tone deeply offended.
“The crew is allowed to practice their own religion, miss,” the captain soothed. “No matter how atypical.”
“I don’t mean icons and incense, Captain,” I continued. “I mean something properly disturbing. Pagan.”
“Are you absolutely certain that you . . .” the captain began, but Ansel didn’t let him finish.
“Think about it, Captain,” Ansel said. “Think about where the engine room is. Think about the young, isolated, impressionable passengers the engine crew is working nearby.”
“I’ll look into it,” the captain soothed.
“You’ll solve it,” I said sharply.
“I’ll solve it,” the captain agreed.
I woke sweating at quarter to six having slept through the night for the first time since we got out to sea. Neal was still fast asleep, curled up with me and the cats and one too many blankets.
I hadn’t woken last night. The fish hadn’t dispersed.
I disentangled myself and slipped out into the sitting room. Ansel was already up, dressed, nursing a coffee.
“Stood up in the engine bay all night,” Ansel said. “They got—swear on my blessed mother’s grave—a rabbi to supervise. Couple lads from security as enforcers. Engineers looked mad like hornets, but they behaved. No kraken. No portal. No dead pigs etched with symbology.”
“So now Guinevere is our only major source of tension?” I asked.
“She’s more than enough,” Ansel replied, “believe me.”