Damon looked down. His arms were still rowing air.

  "Shit."

  "Drink." Penthesilea pushed a cup toward his lips.

  "What's in it?"

  "Nothing that'll make it worse."

  He drank. The rowing slowed but didn't stop.

  "The spirits are very clear." Democritus stood abruptly. Athena was already gone. "We're needed elsewhere. Immediately."

  He was through the door before anyone could respond. Through the window, they watched him running down the path after Athena.

  "Smart." Penthesilea sorted dried herbs into piles. "He knows what comes next."

  She disappeared into the back room, returned with three different vessels.

  "Captain, blue cup."

  Anaktoria took it. Her hands shook as she drank.

  "I can't remember their names anymore."

  "Good." Penthesilea watched her drink.

  Cassandra touched her ribs where the control stick had pressed. Tomorrow they'd be purple.

  "Stop doing that." Penthesilea moved her hand away.

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  "Troy's burning."

  "Troy was always burning."

  The grinding resumed. Seeds this time. Different pitch.

  Damon's arms had almost stopped.

  "We should check the boat."

  "It's fine."

  "How do you—"

  "Boats survive." She pointed toward the back. "Beds. Go."

  They moved like people underwater. The back room had three beds, clean sheets, a window facing the mountains.

  "I'm tired, boss," Damon said, already horizontal.

  "Sorry." Cassandra's ribs hurt more lying down.

  Anaktoria was silent.

  Through the walls came more grinding, and humming. An old war song.

  In the kitchen, Penthesilea ground valerian root. Thirty years ago, she would have trained them properly. Made them into weapons. Now she just made tea and gave terrible advice to fools.

  The humming continued. An old song, from when she'd cared about the difference.

  Anaktoria woke to late afternoon light. The house was quiet. Through the window, she could hear Damon and Cassandra talking.

  She lay still. No ship rocking. No crew arguing over breakfast. No raids to plan.

  Her father had protected trade ships. She remembered him trying to hold the deck while she hid. Seventeen pirates versus one marine. He killed four before they opened his throat.

  They found her behind the water barrels.

  The first one who tried to mount her found his knife in his kidney. She was fourteen. Twisted it until he stopped moving. It worked, just like dad said it would.

  The captain had watched her pull it out. Like him, at that age, if anyone bothered to save him.

  "You'll do," he'd said.

  He taught her everything. He needed someone who would never be one of the boys. Someone who depended entirely on him. Someone smart enough to learn but too vulnerable to betray him.

  For three years, she was perfect. First mate came naturally.

  Year six. She found him staring at nothing, wine untouched.

  "There she is," he'd said.

  He bled out holding her wrist.

  The crew knew better than to question it.

  A decade of taking what she wanted. Ships, gold, people. Just motion. Just staying ahead of the knife.

  Then that morning off the village coast. Cassandra climbing onto her deck, untangling herself like it was the only problem in the world.

  Anaktoria looked into her eyes and thought: this is how I died.

  She had been right.