1. One of the more annoying things about potives and drafts and treacles is that one must be in control of many voluntary muscles to consume them.

Europa of Naimes, the Duchess-in-Waiting and Branden Rose, is not in control of those muscles. She can feel the organs implanted within her spasming in painful, not-quite-rhythmic pulses that leave her gasping for air and unsure if the dampness of her skin is sweat, blood, some foreign substance leaking through her pores. Charged current. Liquid electricity.

Laying in the boat, knowing she will not survive to Sinster, she is glad Rossamünd is not there.

2. The surgeon is apologetic, overly so, but it does not change the facts of the situation: Europe has been to Sinster twice in a year for repairs to her inorganic organ system, and on this second trip it is failing her.

His apologies are laced with should haves and might haves ("You should have rested between stouches more," and, "You might have lived if you had done"), and he laces the potives he makes for her with substances to dull the pain. She does not ask what is inside them. She is glad Rossamünd is not there to see it.

3. It is a stupid way to die, but at least she will die fighting, not lying on a surgeon's table. She is still wrapped and bound from the incisions for repairs. The dressings will be full of fresh blood after this, if she lives.

The sense of imminent thunder that comes with low-lying clouds dark with storms fills her blood and her skin. She is thunder personified. The sailors can ill-afford to refuse her help, dangerous though it is; she kills two dozen of the beasts before it is over. She is glad Rossamünd is not there to see it.