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.

“Help me,” Peregrine implored Betwixt. He hugged one of Cwyn’s talons while Betwixt hooked a tusk around another, and they pulled in opposite directions. Peregrine shouted a halt when he heard the telltale sound of steel against shell. He extracted Jack’s sword and laid it aside before it did either Betwixt or himself any damage.