It took two years to repair the dock, another two to pump and refloat the hull, a fifth to back her in. The day they set her hull in the braces, sealed the doors, and drained the water from the dock was the most anxious of Michael’s life. The braces would hold, or not; the hull would crack, or it wouldn’t. A thousand things could go wrong, and there would be no second chances. As a layer of daylight appeared between the receding water and the bottom of the hull, his men erupted in cheers, but Michael’s emotions were different. He felt not elation but a sense of fate. Alone, he took the stairs to the bottom of the dock. The cheers had quieted; everyone was watching him. With water pooling around his ankles, he stepped toward her cautiously, as if approaching some great, holy relic. Clear of the water, she had become something new. The sheer size of her, her indomitable bulk—it staggered the mind. The curvature of her hull below the waterline possessed an almost feminine softness; from her bow jutted a bulbous shape, like a nose or the front of a bullet. He moved under her; all her weight was above him now, a mountain suspended over his head. He reached up and placed a hand against her hull. She was cold; a humming sensation met the tips of his fingers. It was as if she were breathing, a living thing. A deep certainty flowed into his veins: here was his mission. All other possibilities for his life dropped away; until the day he died, he would have no purpose but this.

Except to sail the Nautilus, Michael had not left the isthmus since. A show of solidarity, politically wise, but in his heart he knew the real reason. He belonged nowhere else.

—

He walked to the bow to look for Greer. A damp March wind was blowing. The isthmus, part of an old shipyard complex, jutted into the channel a quarter mile south of the Channel Bridge. A hundred yards offshore, the Nautilus lay at anchor. Her hull was still tight, her canvas crisp. The sight made him feel disloyal; he had not sailed her in months. She was the forerunner; if the Bergensfjord was his wife, then the Nautilus was the girl who had taught him to love.

He heard the launch before he saw it, churning under the Channel Bridge in the silvery light. Michael descended to the service dock as Greer guided the boat in. He tossed Michael a line.

“How did it go?”

Greer tied off the stern, passed Michael his rifle, and climbed onto the pier. Just past seventy, he had aged the way bulls did: one minute they’d be huffing and snorting, looking to gore you; the next you’d find them lying in a field, covered in flies.

“Well,” Michael offered, “she didn’t kill you—that’s a plus.”

Greer didn’t answer. Michael sensed that the man was troubled; the visit had not gone well.

“Lucius, did she say something?”

“Say? You know how this works.”

“Actually, I’ve never really known.”

He shrugged. “It’s a feeling I have. She has. Probably it’s nothing.”

Michael decided not to press. “There was something else I wanted to bring up with you. I had a little run-in with Dunk today.”

Greer was coiling rope. “You know how he gets. This time tomorrow he’ll have forgotten all about it.”

“I don’t think he’s going to let this one go. It was bad.”

Greer looked up.

“It was my fault. I was egging him on.”

“What happened?”

“He came down to the engine room. The usual bullshit about the stills. Rand and a couple of guys practically had to pull him off me.”

Greer’s brow furrowed. “There’s been too much of this.”

“I know. He’s getting to be a problem.” Michael paused, then said, “It may be time.”

Greer was silent, taking this in.

“We’ve talked about it.”

Greer thought for a moment, then nodded. “Under the circumstances, you may be right.”

They went over the names: who they could count on, who they couldn’t, who was somewhere in between and would have to be carefully handled.

“You should lie low for now,” Greer said. “Rand and I will make the arrangements.”

“If you think that’s best.”

The spotlights had come on, drenching the dock with light. Michael would be working most of the night.

“Just get that ship ready,” said Greer.

—

Sara glanced up from her desk; Jenny was standing in the doorway.

“Sara, you need to see something.”

Sara followed her downstairs to the wards. Jenny pulled back the curtain to show her. “The DS found him in an alley.”

It took Sara a moment to recognize her own son-in-law. His face had been beaten to a pulp. Both of his arms were in casts. They moved back outside.

Jenny said, “I only just saw the chart and realized who it was.”

“Where’s Kate?”

“She’s on the evening shift.”

It was nearly four o’clock. Kate would be walking in the door any second.

“Head her off.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Sara took a moment to think. “Send her to the orphanage. Aren’t they due for a visit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Figure it out. Go.”

Sara entered the ward. As she approached, Bill looked up with the eyes of a man who knew his day was about to get worse.

“Okay, what happened?” she asked.

He turned his face away.

“I’m disappointed in you, Bill.”