As soon as Alice shuts the cabin door behind her she’s confronted by a distant argument. It sounds like it’s coming from the boiler room, and more important, it drives whatever strange thoughts are lurking in it from her mind.

“I said, no!”

Alice grins. Someone’s arguing with Gunny, and it’s not going well for them. She heads towards the sound, and quickly determines a few things — it’s Fahrn and Gunny arguing, and Gunny would really rather get on with the shopping part of her day than continuing arguing with Fahrn. So Alice ducks just her head into the boiler room.

“Gunny? We going to get supplies or what?”

Gunny gives her a look that’s somewhere between relief and annoyance. The relief is a tad stronger — as much as Gunny wants to win the argument, it’s pretty clear that’s not happening with someone like Fahrn.

“Yes, let’s go,” Gunny says.

“Oh, come on,” Fahrn says. “Your captain’s already approved it! Why are you being such a—”

Gunny turns on her heel and peers very closely at Fahrn. “A what?”

“A — a—”

“That’s what I thought,” Gunny says firmly. “You’re not willing to insult me to my face, only pitch a fit when I don’t agree with my captain on something. Or am I wrong about that?”

“This rather seems like pitching a fit, to me,” Alice says. Fahrn gives her a withering look, but she finds she doesn’t care. She’d rather support Gunny than the man who’s been surprisingly unhelpful with getting their cargo where he wants it to go.

“Fine,” Fahrn says, throwing his hands in the air in disgust. “I won’t come with you, then. Good luck docking at Lonely Palms.”

“We could also not deliver it,” Gunny says. “It’s up to you.”

“And where would you take it, if you didn’t take it to Lonely Palms? You happen to know someone who would be interested in goldenfish elixir?”

“I can think of a few, if it really has the properties you’d described. Or even if not — only gotta offload the cargo once. And some people will pay anything for something magical.”

“Very well. Go on your own. And like I said, good luck getting in.”

“You didn’t seem terribly concerned with our prospects when the subject came up in Mal’s cabin,” Alice observes.

“I didn’t really expect you’d be foolish enough to leave me behind again. But if you really insist…”

“I do.”

Gunny’s tone is firm and brooks no argument. “Fine,” Fahrn says. “I’ll see what I can do. There might be a ship headed that way. Can’t guarantee it’ll get there ahead of you, unless you dawdle some — which I can’t, in good conscience, recommend.”

“And we’d like not to dawdle here any longer,” Gunny says swiftly. “Come on, Alice. We’ve got some food to buy.”

And with that, Gunny leads her out of the boiler room and into the hold. They make quick time to the docks, then down off them into the heart of town.

On the ground, Gunny takes quick stock of their surroundings. Then, she heads off with such confidence that Alice has to remind herself that Gunny’s never been to Headstone before. She’d never guess that from the way Gunny comfortably weaves between hordes of strangers and down twisting alley streets that seem sure to lead to a dead end.

All of a sudden, they come on a massive marketplace, filled to the brim with people. It’s overwhelming for an instant, filled with so many people shouting the merits of their wares and why you should trust one fishmonger and not the other that Alice gets swept up in the exciting hum of being in the center of so much activity. She takes a deep breath — the overwhelming smell is that of fresh fish, and then the pungent odor of people and animals living on top of each other. It’s comforting and familiar and she spots at least a dozen easy marks in this foolish town that doesn’t expect pickpockets.

“Let’s make this quick,” Gunny says tersely. Alice turns to her, about to tease her about not liking the city, when she notices that Gunny’s expression looks actively strained, not just uncomfortable. It makes Alice much more willing to just get down to business.

“Right,” she says. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I can certainly carry things. Lead the way?”

Gunny nods, and they make an efficient circuit of the market. By the time they’ve completed it, Alice is carrying three decent-sized crates and a sack of potatoes. At least she’s only beginning to regret offering to carry everything. Gunny, for what it’s worth, is managing a barrel of salt fish on her own.

Between the two of them, they manage to get everything back to the Nameless without incident. Only after they’ve stowed all the food in the galley and returned the remainder of Mal’s purse to his lock box does Alice finally bring up the subject of watches.

“So,” she says, closing the lock box with a click. She’d managed to find and unlock it fairly quickly, but she figures putting it back where Mal expects it is at least some help. Hopefully. “Earlier, after we’d talked to Fahrn, Mal and I got to talking. And he, uh, offered me a job. On the Nameless.”

“Did he offer, or did you ask?” Gunny asks shrewdly.

Alice blushes a little. “I asked,” she admits. “But he did agree to it. And he told me I’m on your watch.”

To her surprise, Gunny nods. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Oh,” Alice says. Then she hesitates, unsure whether she can say something more without things getting uncomfortable. “Gunny?”

“Yes?”

“Actually, you know what, never mind.”

“Are you sure?”

Alice sighs. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t really know how to put it into words.”

“Try.”

“I’m not sure I even know where to begin… Why’d you tell Fahrn off earlier? Was it that bad to have a roommate?”

“It’s not about that,” Gunny says. “Something about him strikes me as — shifty.”

“And I don’t?”

“I’ve had time to check you out already,” Gunny says. “What’d you think, Mal’d hire you without making sure I was okay with it? That would be absurd even if I were just his first mate.”

Alice narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Mal has absolutely no sense of people’s character,” Gunny says. “You’d think he’d’ve learned, with the number of times it’s burned him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s not always so conscientious towards the people who have slighted him in the past, but ‘til you do… He relies on me to actually do the kicking out. ‘Cause it wouldn’t be him who realized the latest character is a bad influence.”

“You say this like you’ve seen a number of… interesting influences come into Mal’s life,” Alice says. What she’s really trying to ask here is so you’ve known Mal how long, again? But it never comes out quite that clearly. “Have there been many?”

“There’ve been a few,” Gunny agrees. “Here and there. Mal’s a fair hand with the ladies. But he’s also a fair hand at pissing them off.”

“And that’s not something you thought I should know?”

Gunny shrugs. “I sort of figured you knew what you were getting yourself into when you signed yourself up for this. If not, I’m sorry, that was my mistake. Now, about the watches.”

Alice perks up. “Yes?”

“Go take a nap. And I mean it, you’ll want to be well-rested. I’ll come wake you in a few hours when it’s time for the watch to start.”

“Right,” Alice says. Then she heads for the cabin. Lying down for a bit doesn’t sound terrible, even if it’s not something she’d normally be inclined to do in the middle of the afternoon, but it can’t hurt to try, can it?

----------------------------------------

And so the days pass. Alice doesn’t get much sleep; Mal was right. It’s more a matter of not being used to being woken every four hours than anything else, which — hopefully — means she’ll be able to adjust. For now, though, Mal has to shake her awake and practically drag her from the bed in order to make her get up. Everything else blurs together in the meantime, but Alice knows that somewhere, some part of her is learning about robes and knots and climbing.

They take Fahrn’s advice and fly past the islands between Headstone and Lonely Palms. What this really means is that once they’re sailing into the port, Alice is more than happy to completely give up on everything related to sailing. For a short period of time, perhaps, but for a period of time nonetheless.

For all Fahrn’s dire warnings, they land without incident. No message has arrived forewarning their presence, but no one terribly seems to mind. The first person they ask gives them decent directions to the Institute, and “the Maestro”, what everyone seems to call the Mortimer fellow Fahrn had directed them to ask for.

Leaving the Nameless under Gunny’s watch in a secluded corner of the docks, Mal and Alice make their way past the edge of town and up to the Institute itself. They’ve barely caught sight of the impressive wrought-iron gates of the school before Alice has regretted not insisting on a carriage. For one thing, this island is hotter and muggier than the main belt ones she’s used to, and she’s had to shed her jacket in the hopes of not getting heat stroke. For another, she’s not entirely sure how they’re going to get in, without a carriage. It’s not like two people loitering around a massive gate is going to magically convince it to open, no matter how hard they hope for it. A carriage wouldn’t necessarily be much better on that part, true, but at least it would be more noticeable from a distance.

When their sweaty, dirty selves finally arrive in front of the gates, Alice realizes that all of her concerns were for naught. There’s a gatehouse here, and it’s got a guard in it who sniffs disapprovingly at their motley appearance but lets them through without question. From there, it’s just a matter of wandering up to the imposing building situated well back from the road.

Mal uses the heavy knocker set into the door to send three loud knocks through the building. Once he’s pulled his hand away, Alice has a chance to admire the knocker. It’s brass, a simple loop hanging from an ornate plaque depicting two doves carrying—

“Are those paint brushes?” Alice asks. But her question is quickly forgotten as a window on the second floor of the building gets flung open suddenly.

“Benjamin!” someone calls out excitedly. The visitors look towards the call — neither of them are Benjamin, true, but that doesn’t mean they’re not interested in finding out who someone thought they were. A pretty young blonde lady is hanging half out of the window, but she’s clearly disappointed to see these two instead of whoever she was expecting.

Stolen novel; please report.

However, before anyone can clear the situation up, another window gets thrown open, on the same floor but further to the visitors’ right. “Mal?” demands a voice. This definitely gets his attention.

“Rebecca?” Mal says incredulously. The brunette nods vehemently and waves a little. “What are you—?”

But before Mal can finish his thought, the huge door in front of them finally opens. A well-dressed older butler stands in the small patch of space between them and the interior of the building. Alice strongly gets the impression that the building before them was built with the kind of wealth that created the Pierson estates.

“Can I help you?” the butler asked.

“Yes,” Alice says quickly. “We have to speak to Mort — to the Maestro.”

“And is the Maestro expecting you?”

“Oh, let them in, Jeremiah,” calls a voice from the stairs. “Mal’s an old friend.”

Mal grins and waves at the sprightly little brunette on the stairs. Alice must have a good six inches on her; she’s not quite five feet tall with a soft, round face. She’s pleasant enough to look at, pretty, but not beautiful—

Oh, really, Alice? Alice thinks, angry at herself. You haven’t even met the girl, and you’re worried about which one of you is prettier?

Jeremiah, the manservant, steps aside to let the three visitors inside. He grumbles something under his breath as he does, but Alice doesn’t catch it. She’s too caught up in the fact that once they’re inside, the girl — woman — on the steps comes running to Mal. He engulfs her in a hug that lifts her off her feet, and she squeals in delight.

“Rebecca, this is my — one of my crew, Alice.”

Rebecca looks between Alice and Mal just once before grinning widely. “So you’re still going after the brunettes who are far too young for you, hmm?” she teases.

“Hey! At least this one flirts back,” he protests, grinning widely. “Alice, this is Rebecca. She was — good lord, you were twelve when we met, weren’t you?”

“There abouts,” Rebecca says, grinning.

“My how you’ve grown. I’d say up, but…”

Rebecca shoves him. “Mal was one of my daddy’s crew. Daddy was always a bit over-protective of me and Noah. Can’t say I blame him, when Mama died having us. But it was certainly unusual for us to grow up on a ship. Worked out for Noah, at least.”

“He’s got his own ship then?”

“Oh, yes,” Rebecca says quickly. “Daddy’s got a whole fleet, now, and Noah’s captaining one of the ships. Last I heard, Daddy was considering giving him the flagship, but then they’d have to live under the same roof again, so I don’t really know how that’ll turn out. But what about you, Mal? Surely you’ve been having more fun adventures than I have! Have you gotten the leg yet?”

“About a year after I left the Dauntless, yes,” Mal says. “I’d show you, but I’d be worried about making girls swoon…”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “Then let’s go into the sitting room. We can’t shut the door, but we can at least make it difficult for people to simply happen upon your terribly malformed flesh.”

Mal’s mouth quirks towards a grin. “As much as I appreciate the pun, we’re actually looking for someone named Mortimer.”

Immediately, Rebecca’s demeanor changes. She stands up straighter, and looks a little hesitant when she asks, “What do you want with the Maestro?”

“Just to talk. It won’t take long, really. And I promise we can catch up afterward.”

Rebecca frowns.

“We have something we want to give him. Something we’re supposed to give him, actually. Sent by a friend.”

Rebecca sighs through pursed lips. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll show you to him. But you’re not running off on me again Mal, you hear?”

Mal nods. “I promise we’ll come chat after. Just gotta get some work done first.”

So Rebecca leads them up a flight of stairs and down to the end of a corridor. She knocks on a door indistinguishable from the others except for a small wooden plaque hanging on it. In the plaque is carved an image of a violin, but no words.

“Maestro?” Rebecca calls through the door. “It’s Rebecca. I’ve brought you some visitors…”

There’s no answer, so Rebecca simply shrugs and tries the handle. It’s unlocked, so she lets them all in.

The study inside is an absolute mess. It’s littered with bits and pieces of things — the springs and gears of clockwork creations, but also a number of string instruments in various states of destruction and re-construction. The most assembled pieces look vaguely like they may have been violins in their past lives.

“Shame Gunny isn’t here,” Mal says. “She’d be going all googly-eyes over those violins, I’m sure.”

“Who’s Gunny?”

“My first mate,” Mal says. Before Rebecca can ask any further questions, however, a new voice greets them from the doorway.

“Giving tours of the Institute that include professors’ offices now, Rebecca?” asks a voice from the doorway. The three people in the office turn to find an older man with hair and goatee long graying standing in the doorway.

“Actually, Maestro,” Rebecca says, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “They’re looking for you. This is Mal and Alice.”

“Pleasure,” the Maestro grunts generically. “But please, call me Mortimer. Maestro is just what the students insist on calling me.” He steps into the office, shutting the door behind him. Then he takes a closer look at his two visitors. His gaze lingers on Alice. “You’re Helene and Fahrn’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Alice blinks a few times. “Yes, actually,” she says, though she’s not entirely sure the resemblance is that obvious. In another world — one where she hadn’t recently met Fahrn — she would have a million questions for someone who knew her parents without being prompted. But now it’s become the least of her concerns. “As a matter of fact, it was Fahrn who sent us.”

“Of course he did. I got his letter not an hour ago, and he did mention an unnecessarily hasty crew… Regardless, it appears you lovely folk have a cargo of goldenfish elixir that you’re hoping to unload.”

Rebecca gasps. “But — we haven’t lost any? Right?”

“Unless you’ve lost about a dozen crates, this isn’t yours,” Mal says firmly. “Fahrn seemed to imply it belonged to the Company. Or at least a Pierson.”

“It’s possible,” Mortimer says. “I mean. Assuming anyone could get their hands on the resources to make it, it’d be the Company. And they’d certainly want it. You said a dozen crates?”

“There abouts,” Mal says. “Might be more. I didn’t actually count.”

“And where did you get it from?”

“A — fairly reliable contact. I wouldn’t trust him with my life, but…”

“Good,” Mortimer says. “He’s likely dead.”

Alice inhales sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“If he provided the elixir to you, and the Company found out about it, absolutely the first thing they would do is try to find out where it had gone. Likely by torturing and killing anyone who’d come in contact with it.”

“You think they’d go that far for this stuff?” Mal asks. “Its effects sound pretty impressive, sure, but surely the Company isn’t that bad…”

“It can be,” Alice growls. Mal rolls his eyes, but surprisingly, Mortimer chuckles.

“You’re more like your parents than I thought,” he says. “You know, I thought you had that look about you.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re here to stir up trouble. Never known two students who were better at it than those two. Didn’t hurt things that there was plenty of trouble to be caused in those days.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, rebellion, for starters.”

This gets everyone staring at Mortimer. “Oh,” he says, as if he should be sorry about revealing this tidbit of information, but in fact isn’t. “Didn’t you know? Both your parents were crucial in the formation of the earliest rebellion. And they’re most of the reason why the Tuanakis stayed independent. But by the looks on your faces, it seems you didn’t know that. Shame. I could really use your help with the next one.”

“The next what?”

“Why, the next rebellion, of course.”

The silence in Mortimer’s office is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Then, hesitantly, Rebecca breaks the silence. “Maestro…”

“Oh, don’t start, Rebecca. I know what you’re going to say.”

She heaves a sigh heavy with irritation. “Then I don’t have to say it, do I?”

“Rebellion’s only gonna get us hanged if we get caught,” he says dismissively.

“I still don’t know why you have to go around trying to sell everyone you meet on rebellion,” she snaps.

“Not everyone. Only the ones who show promise.”

“And what about the ones who could sell us out?”

“They get recruited first. Hard to know what they’re saying about us unless we feed it to ‘em.”

Alice states blankly at Mortimer, trying to understand what he’s implying. However, Mal is quicker on his feet. “Say I have no interest in rebellion. What then? What do you have to keep us from running to the Company right now?”

“Well, now — Mal, was it?”

He nods.

“Well, Mal, I hate to break it to you this way, but your ship’s been, shall we say, liberated of its cargo. Which means you are left with what, exactly, as proof? Some things said by some old man who’s made his living teaching rich brats how to play violin on an island that doesn’t exist? Good luck getting the Company to believe you on that one. Plus, who are you to the Company, anyway? Some uppity elf who owns his own ship? Nice trick with the name, by the way. Or should I say, the Nameless?”

Mal fumes. He opens his mouth to say something — but then he glances at Alice, and closes his mouth. He stares Mortimer down for a moment, but Mortimer’s expression doesn’t waver.

“Mal,” Rebecca warns. “Be reasonable.”

“Fine,” Mal grumbles. “If you’re that sure our information wouldn’t be believed, even if we did tell the Company, why not tell us something actually interesting? You’ve been apparently selling this rebellion, but on the basis of what, exactly? The supreme joy of no longer being under Company rule? ‘Cause let me tell you, Company rule is fair better than no rule, and at least most of the Piers are—”

“I won’t tell you another thing about the rebellion until — unless — you swear to join us.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re disenchanted with your current way of life. Because you’re an elf — you know there’s something better than living under the thumb of the Company. An enclave elf, from the looks of it — you don’t have quite the self-consciousness a freed elf would. And, hell, I’d much rather convert you than kill you.”

Rebecca gasps. “Maestro!” she exclaims. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

He turns away from Mal and Alice with a shrug. “Not right away, I suppose. But without a good reason to keep them alive…”

He trails off into silence — or perhaps he doesn’t, but either way, Alice doesn’t hear anything else he says. There’s still one piece that’s not fitting into place. Somehow this situation escalated in a way that she never expected. “But — why? Why Mal?”

“Because I know an informant when I see one.”

Alice doesn’t quite process the sentence. “What?” she asks, and Mortimer helpfully repeats it. “But — an informant for who?”

“Piers, of course. Piers — say, didn’t your mother marry a Piers? Which one was it, again? Piers Charles?”

“Piers Daniel,” Alice whispers, staring at Mal, who won’t quite meet her eye.

“Ah, yes. Well, that’s going to be an interesting letter to write. ‘Dear Helene, It is with great regret that I must inform you that your daughter has been spying against your cause—’”

“I’m not a spy!” Alice protests vehemently. “I’m just a fucking thief!”

Rebecca gasps again. For some reason, it particularly grates on Alice’s nerves.

“Well, excuse me,” she mutters angrily. “At least I had the good sense to avoid being a whore.”

Rebecca’s hands fly to her mouth, and her eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. Alice gives her an exaggerated bow, a gesture somewhere between by your leave and thank you for finally shutting up, and then turns to Mal.

“Well, go on then. Defend yourself.”

“I can’t.”

Alice’s heart skips a beat. “You what?”

“I can’t. Deny it, that is. Not—” he glances sidelong at Mortimer, who is watching the scene with an expression of vague amusement “—in good conscience, anyway.”

Alice stares at him. “I don’t understand,” she says, but the words feel distant, like she’s hearing them, not saying them. Like she’s Rebecca, watching the scene with something akin to terror.

“Dammit, Alice,” Mal says. “I’m a fucking informant. For the Company. What more do you want me to say?”

Alice feels like she’s floating. Like she, herself, is not in her body any more — like it’s just a dumb shell, standing there, having such blatant falsehoods thrown at it that she can’t inhabit it anymore.

She says something — nonsense, probably, by the way the others look at her. She’s trying to regain control of her body but, surprisingly, it’s not that easy. Nothing feels real, in this instant.

And then, suddenly, everything feels a bit too real, as she’s pulling her bloody fist away from Mal’s face.