They walked a while on the plateau, Clotilde often looking back at the halt. Bethany spied a stone folly near the edge and they made their way to it. The partially ruined turret was made of the same rock as the mountains. It had possessed proper windows once, bits of glass remained in the panes, and tarnished lamps hung on the walls.

“This cannot be as old as it looks, there was nobody here to build it until 150 years ago,” Bethany pronounced.

“It looks as if it was somebody’s tea house, see the table there,” Clotilde pointed.

Bethany began to set up her easel in the folly’s lee.

“Can we not do that inside?” Clotilde protested.

Bethany looked into the folly and shook her head, “the light is too poor.”

Sighing, Clotilde sat down on a stone outside.

“I can see why someone would trouble themselves to build here, this is a lovely spot,” Clotilde mused. She was right, and Bethany regretted that the setting of her unfinished painting was already in place, for the view behind her subject was far more interesting. The turret lent mystery to it and beyond was a rocky slope pocked with green scrub, rolling down to the Naval Depot with its small harbor. Moderate wind gave whitecaps to the flinty sea; Bethany suspected the water here was far colder than what had consumed Dux.

She painted in silence for, though she had told Clotilde she was free to talk and move, she tended to sit as if she was getting her photograph taken. Compared to the painted version of her from a few months before, Clotilde looked more wan. It was easy for Bethany to believe her father’s claim that she did not sleep at all well. Further, though she seemed truly happy to see Bethany, there was a wistful turn in everything she did and said.

“I’m glad we could see each other again, you’re fine company,” Bethany told her.

“Truly? No one has ever told me that before,” Clotilde replied.

“Nobody has ever been pleased to see you?”

“Well they say so, it’s the latter part I meant: fine company. I’ve come to accept that I’m rather dull.”

“You won’t be anymore. I know going to sea is not what you would have chosen - it wasn’t a choice for me either - but at least now, when you return, you shall have stories to tell. Besides, you don’t strike me as dull even now, who called you that?”

Clotilde rose from the stone, “would you mind if I moved about a little? That rock is terribly cold.”

“Of course, there’s no hurry to finish,” Bethany assented.

Clotilde came toward her, looking over Bethany’s shoulder at the painting, “that’s rather lovely, I almost regret that is of me - hanging it up would nearly be boasting.” She wandered away from the easel to gaze across the plateau, “as for being called dull, that’s just the trouble, nobody called me that, nobody paid me enough mind to make such a pronouncement.”

Bethany stood, approaching her. The ocean wind had blown a lock of hair over Clotilde’s eyes and though it did not seem to be bothering her, Bethany reached out and gently moved it away, tucking it behind an ear. Clotilde stifled a flinch and, flushed, turned to her.

“I’m sorry..” Bethany began. Clotilde hushed her, “oh no, it’s alright. Only I wasn’t expecting it. It’s not - you see my mother’s gone, to Letitia I’m a house-guest, my father spends all his gentleness on Carolina, and I’ve not courted anyone yet... what I mean to say is, nobody has been as tender as you with me since I was almost a child…”

“It’s no matter, Clotilde,” Bethany replied uncertainly, “are you ready to sit again?”

Clotilde shut her eyes for a moment, “yes, let’s get back.”

They made their way along the edge of the plateau, looking down at the sea and the nests that white birds somehow managed to lodge in the cliffs. When they were nearly to the folly, Clotilde stopped walking.

“Bethany, do you see that?” she asked, pointing southward.

Bethany followed her gesture and saw the outline of a ship in the distance, “I do. Is it Strator?”

“No, she is in port at the depot.”

Bethany turned to look toward Holman Quay and spied the masts of both their ships peeking just above the plateau “Well it cannot be Fletch or Tess.”

The ship was gray and riding low in the water, as it drew closer it became clear that it was listing badly.

“Has she a flag?” Clotilde inquired.

Bethany wondered why this question was put to her, for she could not see anymore than her companion, but she nevertheless scanned the rigging of the approaching steamer, “none as far as I can tell.”

They kept walking, though with less speed for they halted regularly to appraise the vessel. Just as Bethany began to sit before her easel she took a last look. On the forecastle she could now see two slim, round objects. For a moment she tried to believe they were bits of mast, but their position near the rail and the presence of three men near each suggested they were guns.

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Clotilde had sat again on the stone and was idly passing the fraying brim of her hat through her fingers, Bethany called to her, “it’s armed. At least I think it is, come and see.”

“I think it is,” Clotilde agreed, “we shouldn’t stay here.”

“What, do you think it’s going to shell us?” Bethany asked.

“No, no, but it is to the south, there’s not a living soul down there, it could come within a few arshins of the coast and not be spotted. We’ve only seen it because we are so high up. We have to warn somebody, if it means to land troops or otherwise attack...”

Bethany went back to her easel and began to pack it up, “you’re right. It may well be trying what we did on Kjell. If only it had come a little later we might have finished your portrait.”

They traipsed across the plateau to the railway halt and waited there a while. When there was no sign of a train Bethany went into the little hut on the platform. She found nailed to the inner wall a yellowed notice.

Bethany peaked out of the hut and asked Clotilde “Has it been four hours since we left the train?”

“Heaven knows, why do you ask?”

“Apparently it comes by every four hours.”

Clotilde stepped into the hut and read the notice herself. “Oh no,” she muttered, “I heard it go by maybe three quarters of an hour ago, when we were walking.”

“That is too long to wait,” Bethany opined, moving out onto the platform. She looked down the rail line toward Holman Quay and toward the depot.

“Do you know if the depot is nearer than the town?” Bethany inquired, “I suspect we are going to have to walk so it’s a matter of which direction.”

Clotilde grimaced, thinking. “When my father bought the tickets he might have mentioned that this halt was not so far from the depot. It is the last stop before it, after all, but I cannot be certain.”

“That’s more than I know. We’ll go to the Depot, then. If we follow the tracks the slope should be manageable.”

“We could split up. Truly I may well be wrong. What if we both end up taking the long way?”

“Then we do. If we are too late anyway and fighting starts it would be better if we are together.”

“So we can be thrown in the same prison ship?” Clotilde retorted.

Bethany faced Clotilde as the wind blowing from the pole cut them both, “I’ve killed men, I’m not a guest on my ship as you are on Tess, not any longer.”

Clotilde’s face sank and she was silent before bearing up enough to say “I’m sorry, that must be an awful thing, but how does that help us now? You are unarmed.”

“I have the talent, remember? I will grant it is not all that powerful but it is more than you have.”

“This is all so terrible,” Clotilde shuddered, “I feel as if I've just had my death warrant read to me and all that's left to choose is the manner of my execution. Shall it be shellfire? Starvation? A knife? Someones boot?”

“That ship may well be ours, chin up, we are only making precautions. Shall we go?”

Clotilde picked up Bethany’s paint box for her and began to walk down the center of the railway tracks, toward the Depot.

Though the grade was never too great - trains are not good mountaineers - the ties and rails slick with dew and the rough gravel in between made for hard going. Clotilde, unbalanced by the paint box, tripped after a half hour’s walking. Toppling, her brow struck a rail. Bethany, who had been ahead of her, whipped around. Clotilde neither stirred nor made a sound. Bethany knelt beside her but before she could say anything more, Clotilde lifted her head, slurring “oh, a thousand hells!”

Bethany started, “are you alright?”

“No.”

Clotilde was still lying on her front, where she had fallen. She rolled over, off the tracks, and Bethany saw that her forehead was bleeding badly. Her knees too were cut, the gravel had bit deep into them, ripping her dress.

“Can you walk?” Bethany asked.

“We shall find out,” Clotilde replied and made an attempt at standing. When she began to drop Bethany caught her, lifting her the rest of the way up and holding her until she seemed to steady. She let go and Clotilde took a few steps, meandering toward the paint box.

“I’ll take that this time,” Bethany intervened, lifting it.

“Really, it’s only a scrape,” Clotilde protested, blinking blood from her eyes.

Bethany opened the box, extracting a scrap of rag she used to clean brushes. She approached Clotilde, saying “stop, that has to be bothering you” and used the rag to wipe her forehead. As she tried to clean her eyes she noticed a few tears, which she could not begrudge, and went on, wiping the blood from Clotilde’s cheeks.

“It’s a good thing you aren’t squeamish,” Bethany observed, tying the rag around Clotilde’s head in an effort to stem the bleeding, “I know ladies that would have dropped right off and not awoken for days.”

Clotilde picked at the makeshift bandage but left it in place, “Florian may well do it when he sees me.”

“Does he really mind the sight of blood? How can he captain a raider?”

“He’s dealt with wounded men well enough, but when my mother was dying - she would cough blood, you see - he could hardly look at it. It may be the same with me, since I am family.”

They went on walking, to her credit Clotilde lost little pace, and reached the bottom of the last switchback after a half hour. Bethany supposed they were a little less than a verst from the Depot, but, happily, it was level ground all the way. A stream that fed the inlet on which the Depot lay ran beside the tracks.

“Do you think that might be fresh water?” Clotilde asked, pointing to it. Bethany went over to the stream and gathered a little water in her palms. She tasted it, “it is.”

By now, despite the chill, they were both awash in sweat. They drank from the stream eagerly. Clotilde removed the bandage and washed it and her wound. Bethany knelt beside the stream, wetting her face and hair.

“We can’t dally long. We’ve not heard firing yet, so we are not too late, but we may have little time.”

They reached the depot, a handful of low buildings built from bare wood streaked with rust from the bent nails that strained to hold them together. Bethany spied an old clerk sitting atop a barrel, preoccupied with packing his pipe. He nearly toppled over when she approached him.

“Where did you come from? If I did not hear the train I am more deaf than I thought!”

“We walked,” Bethany explained, “we were...”

The clerk sprang up and rushed over to Clotilde, who had tried to keep out of sight for fear of exactly this “what happened, are you alright, dearie?”

“She tripped, she’ll be fine,” Bethany insisted, moving toward him, “I am worried for her too but we have a more pressing matter.”

The clerk turned, biting the stem of his pipe, “which would be?”

“We were up on the plateau, we saw a ship coming from the south, it is armed and I fear we are the only ones to have seen it. In the direction it was steaming it could sneak up on the whole of the island,” Bethany explained.

The sailor blinked, “well, aren’t you very perceptive - sincerely a remarkable piece of reasoning for a young lady, provided of course you are sure of what you saw.”

“We are,” Clotilde put in.

“...and besides, should you not at the least send someone to have a look, someone qualified to tell if it is friend or foe?”

“That we should,” the clerk nodded with satisfaction, as if had just led a student to the conclusion of a difficult exercise. He led them past a long warehouse to a small building capped by a tall, slightly askew tower for a signal light. He knocked on the door, “Lieutenant Winstanley, I have two civilians here who claim to have sighted an enemy ship out south.”

Bethany heard a chair move backward and a man stand, “you all may enter.”

The clerk opened the door and ushered them in. The Lieutenant was just inside, waiting to receive them but behind him was Florian Luft, marking in a ledger with a pile of Ritters at his side. He turned toward the interlopers and, laying eyes on Clotilde, pushed past the Lieutenant and embraced her.

“What happened? Did the ship fire on you! Mr. Winstanley I ask you to ready your cutter at once we are going after...”

Clotilde wriggled free of her father, “no, no, I merely fell over, when we saw the ship we knew we had to come down and tell about it right away or the whole island might be in danger.”

“Ha! Very good! You’re a little lookout now!” Luft smiled.

The Lieutenant, Winstanley, stepped forward again, “What exactly did you see?”

“A steamer, three masts, rigged as cranes I think, one funnel. She has guns forward and is painted gray. We did not see a flag or any markings,” Bethany answered.

“Mr. Werft” Winstanley began, speaking over Bethany’s head to the clerk, “hasten to the barracks and get Vercor’s complement together, they are to bring their sidearms, swords, and carbines.”

As the clerk rushed off with the message, Winstanley bid his guests to clear out of the doorway and then began striding toward the harbor.

“What are we to do?” Mr. Luft demanded.

“Stay here,” Winstanley instructed.

Luft looked about, “absolutely not, sir. These matchwood huts wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet, let alone naval gunnery. You are going out to meet them and that is admirable, but if you have to fall back, or heaven forbid they rout or sink you, it would doom us.”

Winstanley stopped and turned with a huff, “what do you suggest, then, Mr. Luft?”

“Take us along, myself, my daughter and her friend, reconnoiter the approaching ship and if she looks to be too much for your cutter, sail at once to Holman Quay and we will bring Fletch and Tess into action.”

The Lieutenant looked beyond the inlet and resettled his peaked cap on his head, “I don’t have the authority to permit civilian guests.”

“With all due respect, sir, I have a letter of marque, I may not hold a commission but from the moment I put my name to to that paper I ceased to be a civilian.”

“I will grant you that but your child and her friend have no such status.”

Bethany was about to protest that she was in fact Fletch’s legal captain when Luft retorted, “surely you are allowed to evacuate civilians who face enemy attack, I have read of warships doing exactly that, it was done when the Bexarians set upon our coaling stations. If that ship out there has ill intent then you would be doing much the same.”

“Very well, you can come aboard, but I can provide no guarantee of safety, this is not an evacuee ship making for safe harbor, we are going directly into harm’s way,” Winstanley assented, brusquely.