A/N: Happy Halloween/Samhain/All Souls Night, etc, etc! I had hoped we would get to the battle with Scratch by today, but no such luck. We have, however, got to the nadir, so that's a milestone! Once more the disclaimer that a) this was planned from the beginning and foreshadowed from the beginning, and b) I DO promise a happy ending.

The Gift

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply


Uneasy peace shrouds the Nomad. Like a battlefield subjected to a temporary truce, the quiet is anything but tranquil. Sinbad's crew creep as they work, their shoulders hunched, bracing for the next round of conflict however it comes. There's no way to tell with so much magic involved in this war. Rumina acts on caprice while Scratch is more calculating, though he's not above indulging his own whims when they take him.

Doubar thinks the unholy duo may ensorcell a mob from the city to attack the ship, and wants to erect as many defenses as possible. Firouz doubts this is the case, questioning the purpose of such a maneuver, and Sinbad agrees. But calling any of Doubar's thoughts into question right now is unwise; Firouz's calm, measured argument received a roaring, furious response from the first mate. Sinbad is fed up with Doubar's touchy temper and almost ready to put him ashore for a while even though Maeve has never requested he do so. The only thing stopping him is fear of Doubar's response. He's afraid his brother, in desperation and fury, might cause some trouble he can't easily extricate himself from. Attalia is a friendly city but it does belong to the eastern Roman emperor, who has no love for the caliph. Sinbad has no wish to inadvertently start a war between Constantinople and Baghdad just for the sake of some quiet aboard his ship. He and Doubar have always looked out for each other—always. That bond, and fear for the brother who helped raise him, keeps Doubar aboard despite Sinbad's unease.

He does his best to temper that unease with more positive thoughts. Maeve lives. His daughter lives. These twin facts hold him together moment by moment, hour by hour. As long as they continue to be true, he swears he can handle whatever else comes along. He can take whatever Scratch and Rumina throw, so long as they focus on him as the target. Not his girls. His perspective on this war shifted so slowly he didn't realize it was happening until Maeve broke, his fear for her and the child she carries far outweighing any thoughts of his own soul. He's not fighting for himself any longer. He put the woman he loves in mortal danger for the sake of his own skin, and far worse, he created a new, vulnerable little life inside her and put that in danger, too. It was a foolishly reckless thing to do and one he doubts he would attempt again, at least with the benefit of hindsight. Cairpra did try to warn him. A magical protocol is a loophole, she said, and a double-edged sword, one that will cut both ways. He sees it now. Maeve may well survive to save his soul, but at what cost to them all meanwhile? When he sat silently with her through those darkest nights, watching her nightmares, unsure his daughter still lived, unsure Maeve would continue breathing, he would have far preferred Scratch just take his fucking soul and have done with it.

He feels slightly better now, but only slightly. Maeve is no longer on death's doorstep, but she and his daughter are not out of danger. He knows little of medicine and nothing of midwifery, but he has eyes and even an idiot could see that Maeve isn't well. But she's also the same obstinate, pigheaded sorceress she's always been. She left his bunk the day after she tried to run, cinched tight once more, rail-thin and shaking but resolute as stone, and refused all entreaties to go back to bed, to rest and recover. She often listens to Rongar these days when she won't listen to Sinbad, but she rejected his pleas and Firouz's, too. She can't shoulder her normal workload, her emaciated body lacking the strength for the physically heavy toil she used to undertake without a care, but she does what she can manage, setting her jaw and forcing herself in a way Sinbad knows isn't healthy. It can't be. He can't cite references like Firouz can, but he knows it anyway. Still Maeve ignores him.

She's strong, he tells himself for the millionth time. The strongest woman he's ever known. The constant reminder rings hollow when he sees her. She looks so frail, so sick. Nothing that Rumina has done since she sold his soul is forgivable, but what she's done to his sorceress goes beyond inexcusable. Maeve no longer looks like walking death, but she's close.

At least she's eating again, he tells himself, one small silver lining to this mess. Before Rumina's disastrous spell, the growing child in her belly made her queasy and unwell and she only ate at odd times, a mouthful here or there, subsisting mostly on her sister's herbal remedy. That seems to no longer be a problem—a slight worry lifted from his mind. She eats unenthusiastically but with a will, trying her best to feed her growing baby and regain what her body has lost at the same time, something Sinbad isn't sure is possible on a diet of only oat gruel, especially if she keeps forcing her body to work, pushing her limits instead of resting as Sinbad believes she should.

Being in port lessens their daily workload, which is a blessing for a man intent on keeping the woman he loves from literally working herself to death. Their time in port is usually split between upkeep on the ship, general carousing, and accidentally stumbling into adventures. He has no stomach for revelry and no energy for adventuring right now, and has to figure out how best to ensure the release of Talia's ship besides. He'd also gladly dispense with repairs and upkeep if doing so kept Maeve still, but it doesn't. She's sailed with them for nigh on two years; she knows what needs to be done. Hour by hour she tests out her body's new limits, a process he knows frustrates her. He can see her anger, her impatience with her own weakness as she struggles to work, and he hates both her physical pain and how unhappy she is, but he can't force her to rest and he doesn't know how else to help her. Eventually she'll get her strength back. The process will be long, but she's tough. She'll regain all she's lost. Now that she's thinking clearly again, her grief still with her but no longer overpowering, she can fight her way back to the fierce, powerful warrior he first met on the Isle of Dreams.

He just wishes she'd give herself a break first. She's visibly pregnant now, at least to his eyes, unable to entirely hide the thickening of her midsection on her otherwise bony frame no matter how tightly she cinches down. The official excuse that Rumina's spell had some unexpected side effect on her seems to have gone over so far. No one has verbally questioned it, anyway. Sinbad himself feels a sick mixture of rage and fear when he sees her cinched so tightly. That can't be comfortable—in fact, he's sure it's actually quite painful, but she refuses to admit it. He's also convinced it's bad for his growing baby to be constricted so tightly, unable to move and grow freely as she should. Whether it's actively dangerous and could harm or even kill his child he doesn't know, but he's afraid, which makes him angry.

Afraid and angry enough that, after three days of watching Maeve struggle, receiving nothing but terse, short rebuffs when he tries to speak to her, he's had enough. She can't keep all of this up. They have to come to some sort of agreement.

That night, after everyone has gone to bed, he crosses the black galley to her cabin. He wanted to keep her with him in his cabin after her collapse, wanted her to stay close where he could hold her, help her sleep if nothing else. But she refused, returning with halting steps to her own tiny bunk, her sliver of solitude, which worries him. He doesn't like her being alone, and maybe that's his own creeping paranoia talking, but he left her alone for the better part of a week after Rumina's spell and the results were catastrophic. She gets these thoughts in her head when she spends too much time alone, dark thoughts that eat away at her, and she's too fragile to tempt fate like that right now. So, though he understands her fear of discovery—or, at least, he thinks he does—he crosses to her anyway. He's trying to understand her but she doesn't seem to be doing the same, and he needs them to be on the same page.

Her cabin is silent when he enters, full of the soft scent of her skin, her books and spellcasting materials. It's gentle and familiar, calming to his frayed nerves. Dried herbs and incense, old books and warm skin. It's the scent he associates with her above all, above even the sweet heat of the teas, hot spice and female desire, or the soap she swiped from Omar's palace. He loves it, and will always love it, because it's her.

Two steps bring him to her side and he perches silently on the edge of her bunk, unable to see her in the darkness, listening instead to the soft sound of her sleeping breaths. She's breathing lightly, high in her chest, not low and deep in her belly like she ought. He knows the cadence of her deep sleep, a beat as slow and untroubled as his own sleeping heart, and this change in his ears is all the proof he needs that she's not sleeping well alone. He knew it before—she told him so. He's her céile and this is part of the bargain; they don't sleep well alone anymore. They don't function well alone. He wants to revel in his ability to give her this, to be the safe harbor where she can rest, but she's unwilling to let him. He exhales a long, weary sigh and drops his head, skimming his lips, his nose, lightly along her warm cheek. They need a secret place they can go, a hideaway where Scratch can't spy, Rumina can't follow. An escape for both of them. He's never wanted to leave the sea before and he doesn't particularly want to now, but she needs safety and they need each other. He'd go anywhere with her, anywhere at all, if he knew it meant she was safe.

But there is no place like that, and no place for her to go alone, either, now that she's lost her northern family. And since there's no sanctuary for her, they need to stay together and work together. He and Rongar and Firouz will be her family, and Doubar once he gets his head out of his ass. They've all been family for a while. He thinks she knows that, but she's fiercely independent and not used to leaning on people. She's not used to needing to. He has to help her realize that she can still be her own tough, powerful self while sharing this burden and admitting to her pain. The protocol says he needs a female champion, but no one ever said she had to bear this burden alone. Rongar wants to help. Firouz, too. Hell, even Talia. They can't replace the family she's lost and Sinbad understands this, but she's not alone, no matter how desolate she feels right now. He has to help her understand that, and get her to ease up. She's going to hurt herself or their baby if she keeps pushing like this.

His hands move in the darkness, seeking the softness of her heavy cotton blanket, her sleek skin underneath. She usually sleeps in her thin undergarment or nothing at all, so he's surprised when his searching fingers find the coarser linen of her long, loose sleeve instead. His hand moves blindly in the darkness, up her poor, scrawny arm, feeling the touch of soft hide at her shoulder. He frowns and pulls gently at her blanket, afraid he already knows what he's going to find when he seeks her waist. And yes, his blind fingers bump over the thicker, harder leather of that cincher he's grown to hate so much, laced tightly around her middle.

She whines softly in her sleep, protesting the removal of her blanket, swimming toward wakefulness as he touches her.

"Maeve." He struggles to whisper, to keep his hands gentle on her skin. "Maeve, wake up." He felt guilty about disturbing her sleep, but not anymore. Not after finding her like this. He breathes his whisper of Gaelic against her skin but his hands paw urgently at the tight laces of her cincher.

"Who's there?" she hisses, waking with a jolt that jerks her poor body like a bolt of lightning. She strikes out in the darkness.

"Ow!" He rubs his nose where the back of her hand connected blindly with his face. "Quit that. It's me. Mo chailín, it's me." He exhales against her skin, letting her scent him. She inhales his breath and her fingertips trail lightly over his face, pausing to trace his lips. It feels exquisite and despite his anger his mouth parts, his tongue licking the pad of her index finger gently.

"Sinbad." Her stiff body relaxes as she recognizes him and the fear of an intruder fades. "Don't scare me like that. It's not funny." Her hand drops from his face, moving blindly along his arm to push his fumbling fingers away from her laces. "And stop that."

"No." He shakes off her hands, intent on loosening those laces. He came to talk with her during the only safe time he can touch her—the middle of the night. He wanted to parlay, to reassure her, to come to an agreement they can both live with about her workload, that damned leather. But that was before he found her sleeping in that restrictive cincher, and his irritation builds as she pries at his hands, pushing him firmly away and preventing him from loosening the lacing.

"Yes," she hisses, covering herself with her heavy blanket once more. "It's my body and I said stop!"

"How can you even sleep like that?" It has to be painful, considering how tight she's laced herself in, and he's positive it's not good for her or the baby.

"Not well." Her whisper conveys worlds of sleepy irritation. "And you just woke me up. Go away."

His nose aches where her blind backhand caught him, adding to his own frustration, and he ignores her order. "You can't keep doing this. Listen to me. It's not healthy for you, not safe for her. Please. I've tried to be patient, but I can't keep quiet anymore. I know you hate being told what to do, but you're hurting her."

"I'm keeping her alive!" she snarls, her whisper growing louder than it should as her anger ratchets higher. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know how Rumina doesn't know yet, but if she learns, I'm dead. We're dead, and you're lost. Do you really want that? Because it sure sounds like you do."

"Don't ask me that. Don't you dare." His own ire flares hotter, but he's always been better than her at controlling his impulses. He cups her thin face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers. Her cheeks feel so delicate under his touch, her bones stark against his palms. He hates it. He wants to feed her full of the richest food this city has to offer, wants to wrap her in that damned blanket she loves so much and let her frail frame rest straight through to Samhain, but she won't let him do any of it. "Why are you fighting me?" he demands, needing answers almost as much as he needs this stubborn behavior to stop.

"Because you're not facing reality!" She pushes firmly at his shoulders, tearing herself out of his grasp.

"I'm facing it better than you are," he insists, ruthlessly forcing his voice to remain at a whisper despite his bubbling frustration, his growing fear. "Your strength is gone, yet you keep pushing yourself as if Rumina's spell never touched you. You lace up tight, trying to deny how much your child's grown. What you're doing is dangerous, and that's reality."

"No," she snaps. "Reality is that Rumina and Scratch, whether they're still working together or not, are always watching. Don't you dare try to tell me they're not. I thought we agreed ages ago that you'd quit trying to control everything. You know nothing about unborn babies, so butt out."

Sinbad inhales a deep breath into his abdomen, attempting to calm himself. Starting a shouting match with Maeve will only rouse the ship and potentially incur unwanted attention from their enemies. He shouldn't be here and he knows this. And yes, he did promise to butt out—multiple times, in fact. He knows nothing about pregnant women or unborn babies, and he freely admits it. But this is a step beyond what he can stomach. "I'm an idiot man, yes, we know that. You've said so plenty of times." She's professed to being nearly as ignorant, so he doesn't know why that matters. She relied on Keely to supply the knowledge she lacked, which turned out to be a poor choice. "This isn't about being an all-knowing midwife. It's about looking at you and knowing something's wrong. Squeezing her so tightly can't be healthy. It just can't. For either of you. How do you even breathe?"

"Lungs are up here, stupid." She raps her breastbone with her sharp knuckles. The hollow sound her bony chest makes in the darkness sickens him, and he wants to order her never to do that again. "You know that perfectly well."

"Call me stupid all you like, but what you're doing isn't good. How can you not see that? You need to let yourself rest, and you need to let her grow."

"And you need to stop telling me what to do!" she snarls. The amount of hostility she can pack into a whisper shocks him a little, though he guesses it shouldn't. She's never been good at hiding her feelings, though she's been forced to learn lately. "Rumina knows her spell did something to me. Fine. Let her gloat about some sort of side effect if it keeps her busy for a while. But if she starts wondering about specifics she's going to realize what's going on. She's a woman and unfortunately not an idiot. I have to be so careful, Sinbad." Her whisper falters. He hears her swallow tightly in the darkness and he wants so much to stop this pain, to do something—anything—to lessen this burden, but he can't. He can't because she won't let him. She's making him even more useless than he already is, and he can't stand it.

"How is pushing yourself nearly to collapse every day being careful?" He rests his hand on her bent knee, separated from her skin by her feather-filled blanket. He loves this woman so much, and he's so afraid she's going to do irreparable harm to herself or the child she carries, inadvertently causing the nightmare she's striving so hard to prevent.

"Rumina can't know," Maeve insists, implacable as stone. "I know the disguise isn't perfect, but I'm doing the best I can. I have to look and act as normal as possible. You think I enjoy this? It sucks, okay? But Rumina can't find out."

"It's dark. At least take it off at night." His hand shifts once more to her waist. He hates how tightly she's tied into that thing, and he can't help the dark fear that it's strangling his daughter, choking the life out of her.

"No." Maeve pulls out of his grasp. She's done so multiple times the past few days, though she never, ever has before. Every time, his heart constricts with a very tactile, physical pain. Does she feel it, too? Is breaking contact as difficult for her as it is for him? He wants to ask, but he doesn't have the words to explain how this feels. "I can't take any chances until Samhain," she says, a disembodied whisper in the darkness. "I can breathe then. Not before."

"And what if the two of you don't make it that long?" His whisper sounds incredibly bitter even in his own ears, and he winces in the dark. This is increasingly his fear, but he didn't mean to voice it so starkly. She doesn't need any more tension, any more guilt, especially from him. She carries enough already, and they're supposed to be partners now—a team.

Maeve flinches at his tone, his words. He hears the sharp rustle of straw as her body shifts. She exhales a swift, hard breath. "Then you'd better make sure you have enough wine in the hold to put Talia in a good mood." Her whisper is like ice, and he's not surprised when he hears her turn her back to him and lie down again.

He curses, a long string of expletives muttered under his breath, but it does nothing to relieve his temper, his fear. "Maeve," he pleads.

"Go away." He can hear the tears in her voice, more appalling than before. She cried the night she tried to run, but then he was there to lessen her pain. This time he's the cause.

"No. I'm sorry, but I don't think that's what a céile is supposed to do and it's not something I'm capable of anymore."

"Yes, you are. Stand up and go back to bed. Your own bed, in your own cabin."

"No." He can't leave her while she's crying, can't leave her when he's made a mess of things so badly. He'd lie down right here beside her were there room, giving her the support of his presence without touching her, letting her choose to turn and accept it if she wants, but her bunk isn't big enough for that. "Maeve. Please." He doesn't even know what he's asking for anymore, but whatever it is, he'll beg if he has to. For her to stop crying. For her to be okay again. He doesn't need perfect—he's never needed perfect. But he can't take another collapse and he doubts she could withstand it.

"Your own cabin, Sinbad," she repeats. "Not mine." He can hear her tears in the shuddering quality of her shallow breaths. "You say yours is more comfortable anyway, so go."

"Everything I have is yours. Everything I am. You have to know that by now."

She inhales deeply. Where she puts that air with a baby compressed so tightly in her belly he doesn't know. "I do. And I love you. That won't ever change. But she comes first now. I have to protect her."

Then let her breathe, he wants to yell, but he forces the words down. He's so frustrated, so incredibly angry, and he desperately wants someone he can hit, someone who really, really deserves it. Antoine comes to mind. He'd love the opportunity to beat her brother bloody for what he did to her. Hell, he'd love to plant his fist in the middle of Scratch's ugly face and make it even uglier.

But maybe more even than someone to punch, he wants guidance. Dim-Dim. Or the next best thing—Cairpra. Maeve said ages ago that she wants to return to Basra, and Sinbad has every intention of granting that wish as soon as they're free of Attalia. He just doesn't know whether Maeve and his daughter can wait that long. He's terrified for their health, and this argument hasn't calmed his fears at all. Both he and Maeve want the same thing—to keep their daughter safe above all. But they have no safe place to retreat, and they disagree about the next safest option. He's worried for Maeve's health, their baby's health. She's terrified of Rumina. She has a point, he knows she does, but so does he, and she refuses to listen.

"Let me help you protect her," he says, attempting a different approach, touching her upturned hip lightly, hating the feel of her protruding bones under his hand. She doesn't have to do this alone. He wishes she could see that. He'll help in any way he can, and so will his men, but she has to be willing to let them.

"If you really want to help," she says, her whisper infinitely weary, "you'll stop doing this to me. This is my body. My life. My daughter. Do you hear me this time? I don't want to keep having the same argument over and over. The best thing you can do for us right now is leave me alone. Don't give Rumina and Scratch any more excuses to attack."

Her hand is firm as she pushes his palm from her hip and tucks herself tighter in her blanket, rolling further from him. For the first time, he's glad he can't see her in the darkness. She's crying, he knows she is. He can hear the way she inhales so tremulously and holds her breath, fighting the noises that try to erupt. He swears he can smell her tears, the bite of salt, liquid her body can't afford to lose. Wholly inappropriately, he feels the urge to bring her a drink of water. He wants to be her mattress, to let her curl on his chest as he cushions her from the hurts of this world. Most of all, he wants to hear her say that's their daughter she's carrying, a child they made together, a child they'll share forever. Not just hers. Not a burden she has to shoulder alone. Yes, the onus is on her. He can't change that. Women carry and bear children, not men, and this threat on his soul requires a female champion to break. But she's running scared now, just as she was the night she literally tried to run, and not listening when he speaks to her, offers aid even in small ways. She can loosen her laces in the pitch dark and he can hold her, help her sleep. The danger of these things has not grown. But she's too afraid to do it.

So what can he do? He drops his head and presses a gentle kiss to her temple, smelling her tears and refusing to say so. He'll give her that shred of dignity if nothing else, since she won't accept anything more. "I love you, Maeve. I want to help. But you're right—you're in charge. I can't do anything unless you let me. I'll wait for you to ask, if that's what you want. I hate it, but there's nothing else I can do." His hand brushes lightly over her tangled curls and he inhales one last breath of her before rising. "All you have to do is call."

She's desperately pleading for space. That's the one thing he's not sure he's capable of giving her, but he'll try. For her sake, he'll try. And when she finally needs something else, he'll be waiting.


Sleep doesn't return. Maeve doesn't give in to tears easily and she hates herself for this failing, but she can't stop herself when the pressure inside grows too great and Sinbad adds his own on top of it. He doesn't mean to, she tries to tell herself. He's under as much pressure, and the captain in him wants so badly to control the situation, even though he can't. He doesn't understand what he's doing to her. She doesn't blame him for that. She has no words to explain the terror that's taken up residence in her body, a parasite she can't rid herself of. Her daughter is a beloved little stowaway but this fear is a parasite, sucking her energy and giving nothing back. All three inhabit her body and she's just not sure she has the power to keep them all alive through Samhain.

But what choice does she have? She can't banish this fear, and losing her baby means losing Sinbad, neither of which is an option. She refuses. Since she has no choice, she's going to fight the only way she knows how—by being strong. Rejecting all signs of weakness. To keep her Finleigh safe she has to hide her, so she's going to hide her as well as she possibly can. It's physically painful, and she knows that Sinbad's fears are valid, but so are hers and he hasn't taken them seriously from the beginning. He touches her when he shouldn't. His gaze lingers on her. Even Doubar, poor blind Doubar, knows his brother adores her. She hasn't kept up her side of this ruse particularly well, but she's done better than Sinbad.

His devotion would melt her if it didn't scare her so badly. She adores him, and she always wants to be near him, to feel his hands on her, the steady warmth of his body so close to hers. His concern and care are like water in the desert, a hearth in a storm. But she can't have them now. Every slip-up they make could have disastrous consequences and she's not willing to risk what little she has left for the brief comfort of a kiss. She needs him to understand. She loves him beyond words, but in order to keep him she has to keep him at bay.

Because it's not just him she's fighting for anymore. The child she carries needs her, too, and she's sworn to protect that life above all else. She created her. She will not let her down. Maeve's mother was not able to protect her children from danger, and Maeve refuses to repeat those mistakes. She will not be her mother.

But fuck, this feels awful. She's so tired, and she desperately wants to accept what Sinbad offers: peace, and rest, and the warmth that stems from their bond, his love. When she sleeps curled in his arms the fear inhabiting her body melts away. Nightmares cease to haunt her. It's like floating in a steaming hot spring or being wrapped in heavy quilts before a roaring fire, tranquil and soft, painless and deep. She wants it desperately, but not at the price of his soul, her daughter. So she fights as hard as she can, hides as well as she can. His excuses feel flimsy as milkweed now, and she loathes herself for giving in before. No one can see them in the dark, but what if something rouses the ship and they're caught together? Or she sleeps too long, something she can't control lately, and dawn finds her in the wrong bunk, uncinched? The risk felt negligible before, but not now. Not after Rumina's last spell.

Not now that she can feel her Finleigh moving inside her.

Maeve didn't recognize her daughter's first movements for what they were, assuming her beleaguered gut was playing tricks on her. Now she knows better, and her baby's movements have grown stronger in the days since Rumina's spell. Sometimes they're as light as the wings of a butterfly, sometimes firmer, little taps and nudges deep inside her. After the first shock of realization came an upwelling of conviction that she had to protect this little life, suddenly so urgently, beautifully real. Protect her from Scratch. From Rumina. From anyone who would try to do her harm.

She hates lacing so tightly, restricting her daughter's space and movement, and she apologizes to her every day for the rough treatment, promising things will get better if she can just hold on a little longer. She feeds her with as much food as her strangled and unhappy digestive system can stand, and with all the magic she can spare, little bits throughout the day, morsels of energy, of flame and life. Her Finleigh loves this, moving most energetically when they connect via this delicate bridge of magic, crumbs of power passed from one to the other, as much as she can possibly spare. Her daughter is hungry, she can feel, eager for food and magic both, twin sources that answer the same need. Keely would probably kill her for everything she's doing—for cinching down so tight, for giving her daughter so much when her own reserves are so low—but Keely isn't part of her life anymore, so it doesn't matter. All that matters is keeping the little soul inside her alive.

She rises before dawn, abandoning the attempt at sleep. She's beyond tired, but her emotions won't quiet enough to let her rest. Instead, she kindles a fire in the galley to cook her breakfast before the rest of the ship rises. The smell of food no longer bothers her, but Sinbad is adamant that she continue eating the last of the provisions from Breakwater, which they know are safe. This edict irritates Doubar, but everything irritates Doubar these days. Maeve agrees with Sinbad's caution, so she makes no fuss about continuing to eat apart. It keeps her out of Doubar's way during mealtimes, too, which is one less thing for her to worry about.

Like Sinbad, she worries about everything these days. Unlike him, she has the growing connection with her daughter to center her, to lend her soul strength when she falters. She wishes she could share that with him, gift him a bit of the resilience she's gained from this connection, but she doubts her ability to share the depth of this experience. He's a man and can't possibly understand how this feels, and while the proof of their child's strength may buoy him, the reminder that she'll soon make her entrance in this world, a daughter he never actively desired, will not. He worries for her because she's the key to his soul, feels responsible for her because he made her. That doesn't mean he feels, or wants, any deeper connection with his daughter. So this is something she experiences alone, both good and bad, the fear and the joy, as each day passes.

As Maeve cooks, she hears the soft sound of a door opening and feels the quiet presence of Rongar emerge into the galley. He squeezes her shoulder lightly as he passes behind her, a brief greeting. She smiles and dips her head in response. His steady, tolerant presence has been a godsend these past moons and she's more grateful for him than she'll ever be able to express. He holds up a line with a hook at the end and grins at her—he's up early to fish. Out on the sea most fish swim too deep to catch off the side of their ship but here in the shallower water near shore they teem.

"Good luck," she says, dropping a spoonful of honey in her steaming bowl. She almost wishes Doubar hadn't spoiled her nephews with quite so much honey while they were here. Her own belly is too confused by the changes in her body, the tight lacing and the growing baby, to know what it wants, but she thinks her daughter likes the sweetness. It's almost gone, and honey's something she's unlikely to get in the wild, which is how she'll have to find her food once the oats disappear. It's fine, she tells herself. She survived most of her life foraging, and at least she knows she won't be hanged for poaching. No way would Sinbad risk letting her hunt anywhere that might get her in trouble.

Rongar's smile fades as he glances at the door behind which Doubar's snores can faintly be heard. He points to it, then mimics lifting a jug to his lips.

"I know he was drinking last night. That doesn't bother me. It's when he does it during the day that I start to worry."

Rongar nods his agreement, his expressive face showing his own concern. He squeezes her shoulder once more and disappears up top. Doubar doesn't often indulge during the day, not to the extent of impairment, but the last couple of afternoons his speech has been slurred, his steps unsteady, his breath tellingly sour. No one, not even Sinbad, has the heart to rebuke him. Maeve certainly doesn't. It's not her place, and she feels a massive amount of guilt over him besides. She can't tell him the truth she knows would ease his anguish. He doesn't want a niece, but he wants his brother's soul safe. He's desperately trying to drown his fear the only way he knows how, and she refuses to fault him for it. Rumina took three moons of the six Sinbad was supposed to have until Samhain, and as far as Doubar knows, Sinbad's trusting the fate of his soul to Keely, the next thing to a stranger. It's better than nothing, but al-Alawy, that irritating scholar in Basra, told them very clearly that the bond creates the magic. From Doubar's perspective, that means Sinbad's chances aren't great. He needs a woman he knows better—he needs Maeve. And he has her, all of her, for as long as he can stand her, but Doubar doesn't know that. Maeve hates what that's doing to him.

But she can't fix it. She's tried dropping as many subtle hints as she dares, and he hasn't picked up on any of them. She will not sacrifice her child's safety for Doubar's peace of mind. Especially not when she knows he won't be happy with the byproduct of the Tam Lin Protocol—a half-barbarian girl, a niece from a woman he no longer considers family, if he ever did in the first place.

Still, she considers him family. He's Sinbad's blood, his only blood, and they've been through too much together for her to give up on him. Maybe she's wrong—it's happened before, loath as she is to admit it. Maybe Sinbad is right and Doubar will apologize once this mess is over, accept her daughter with open arms. Maybe they can salvage something of this mess after all.

But that's too far in the future for her to contemplate. Today, she knows, Doubar is on mess duty, and she doubts from the heavy sound of his snores that he'll be up anytime soon. She swallows a bite of her breakfast and fills the big pot with water to boil for everyone else's. Let him sleep. She's not a lot of help with the heavier physical work of a ship these days, but this much she can do.

"You're not on mess duty." Sinbad's voice sounds behind her. Her spine tenses. She hurt him last night, she knows she did, but she had no choice. She needs him to stop tempting her, stop the pressure to give in and touch him, be with him. It's too dangerous. After Samhain, if they all live through whatever Scratch demands of her, she will happily let him baby her as much as he wants. He can buy her the world if it makes him happy. He can place her in his bunk and forbid her to leave. She'll stay. She'll willingly sleep for a week—a moon. Demand the priciest foods in prodigious amounts—fresh meat, ripe fruit—and let him delight in granting her wishes. It's what he wants, and she'll gladly give it to him. After this is over. After his soul is safe.

Assuming she survives.

"I'm not on mess duty," she agrees, relighting the cooking fire with flints. She'd rather save her magic for her daughter than waste it on something so mundane. "But let him sleep."

Sinbad frowns at the closed door. "He's not doing well."

"No. But no one is these days." They just deal with it in different ways.

"He won't thank you for doing this for him."

"I know." He'll probably be angry that she did. It doesn't matter. She's not looking for gratitude. "Why are you up so early?" she asks, though she knows the answer. He didn't sleep after leaving her any more than she did.

He exhales slowly. She can see his chest move with his breath. Her tongue remembers the taste of his skin, and she wants it so desperately, wants to draw her body close to his and kiss the tense muscle of his jaw, whisper to him that she's sorry. She is, for so much. For his pain. She feels so guilty that she hurt him, but she's resolute. Her Fin needs her to be strong.

"I've been mulling over this impound problem," he says, very obviously choosing to play nice this morning, to drop their earlier arguments as she begged him to. She loves him all the more for it.

"Talia's ship," she says, happy to play along. He can't touch her, but they can talk so long as they keep to safe topics. If they can learn to coexist peacefully as just crewmates once more, maybe this can work. Maybe Rumina will leave them alone, at least until Samhain. She adds the morning's barley rations to the boiling water, grain purchased from a village she doesn't remember, obtained while she was still deeply in shock, both body and soul.

"Aye." He leans against the wall, worrying a hangnail with the tip of his thumb as he watches her add salt to the boiling pot in the cinders. "We're in a quandary."

"How so?" She didn't go with him yesterday to meet with the harbormaster and discuss Talia's ship. She honestly wasn't sure she could make the walk there and back, and she didn't want to embarrass both of them by falling. Sinbad also forbade Talia from going, stating—correctly—that her sharp tongue would just cause more problems. "Is the guy corrupt? A bully?"

"No. We could deal with a bully, no problem. I'd love a bully to hit right now, in fact, and I think everyone else would, too. It's been too long since we had an enemy we could actually fight." He grimaces. Poor man. He looks like he's aged far more than just the three moons Rumina took. It's the faintly gaunt, haggard quality to his face that makes him look older, she thinks. Why it's there, she doesn't know. No one else suffered any aftereffects of Rumina's spell. Except her, of course, but she knows exactly what the witch did to her. She doesn't know what she did to Sinbad.

"If he's not corrupt, what's the problem?"

"The harbormaster's a dedicated civil servant, probably the best employee the emperor ever had. That's the problem." Sinbad leans his head back against the wall. He looks so tired. Maeve can't give him rest, but she tosses him a dried fig from the provisions she can't eat. He catches it easily but doesn't eat. "He explained the process for retrieving Talia's ship very clearly, and produced a chart listing all the required fees. Firouz made some inquiries, added everything up, and assured me the man's being honest and the numbers are all above-board. But they're astronomical."

"They're what?"

"Sorry—that was Firouz's word. I don't know what it means. The fines are huge. Colossal. We have to pay Talia's original moorage fees and the taxes she skipped out of. Then the fine for the fortune-telling racket that got her kicked out of town in the first place. Did you know it was a crime in the empire to tell fortunes without proof of guild membership?"

"Yes," Maeve says calmly, stirring the cooking barley. "And the current guild-mistress takes that very seriously. She probably has the emperor in Constantinople by the throat to enforce those fines." She takes another bite of her breakfast.

"It might have been nice to know that going in." Sinbad bites into the fig in his hand. Maeve has never cared much about what she eats, but given the choice she thinks she'd rather have his dried fruit than her gluey oats. Or maybe that's her daughter talking. It's hard to tell when they're sharing the same stomach.

"Anyway," he says, "there's also the fee to get her ship out of impound, and the fine for non-payment of those taxes. All with exorbitant compound interest on top. Firouz assured me that the harbormaster's take on a transaction like this is minuscule. Most of that money goes straight to the emperor. The man's not cheating us. But the total's way, way beyond what I can manage without sailing to Baghdad or Basra and calling in what the caliph or sultan owe me, and leaving without Talia's ship will just rack up more interest." He scowls as he watches her stir the cooking food. "Go sit. You don't have to stand there while you eat." He chases her gently away from the fire.

Maeve chooses to let him, taking her bowl and mug to the table and sinking gratefully to the bench. Her cincher hurts more in this position but her legs and back ache when she stands still too long and she's grateful for the break. "You don't want to just break Talia's ship out?" she asks as she drinks her herbal brew. Keely's herbs will run out soon and she can't procure more, so she enjoys the sharp mint and sweet fennel while she has them.

"Part of the emperor's naval fleet is stationed here. I know the Nomad can outrun them, but I've never seen Talia's ship and I don't know how fast she is. I won't risk my people on a ship-break, especially not just to have it sunk by catapults and flaming arrows."

"Point." Maeve knows he'd love a chance for the action, though. They haven't seen any for a while, and he could use the chance to burn off some tension. Maybe she should make a quiet suggestion to Rongar or Talia to haul him to a tavern and pick a fight. It won't solve any problems, but he might feel better after. "Did you try name-dropping?"

"Aye. The caliph and Omar, and every minor king or queen we've ever done favors for. No good." He stirs the bubbling pot with impatience, no better a cook than she is. "The emperor is no friend of the caliph, as everyone knows, and he's not afraid of Omar, and none of it makes any difference to the harbormaster anyway." He swears softly. "What a time to find a diligent government employee."

"And you don't think he can be bribed?"

Sinbad shrugs lightly. "Most people can be bribed. It's a question of the right sort of leverage in the right place, and I don't know the man. I was never too good at equations, but I think Firouz would say that's too many unknown variables to solve for."

"I was never good at equations either, but I think you're right."

The galley door opens and Rongar emerges from the faint dawning morning with a triumphant face and a bucket. He sets it on the table and Maeve sees three large bream, already gutted and cleaned, floating in seawater. He lifts one by the gills and shakes the water from it before placing it in the coals of the fire. He points to Maeve and grins.

"Gladly." Warmth fills her. He's too sweet for her to deny. Not only has he caught food that she can eat, a welcome change from her usual oats, but he has enough for everyone so Doubar can't complain that she gets something the rest of them don't. She wishes she could do something for him in return, but if there's something her silent friend needs, she doesn't know it. She saw perfectly well the look he gave Nessa upon meeting her, but for a million reasons this is not something she can help him with. He'll have to be content with the salvation of his captain, unless she learns of something else she can do.

"Good man." Sinbad clasps Rongar's hand with brotherly warmth. Maeve is glad to see it. This is one family member she doesn't have to worry about losing. Rongar knows the truth and he's helping in whatever way he can. She's so very grateful. She smiles, genuinely smiles, as he sets the rest of the fish in the coals, the fresh smell of wet seawater meeting hot cinders swiftly filling the galley. If that doesn't wake Doubar, nothing will.

"What will you do about the harbormaster?" she asks Sinbad as Rongar sets the bucket aside.

"I don't know yet." He shoves his hair out of his eyes impatiently. He hasn't been wearing his headband lately but his hair is too long without it. "I thought about offering a trade—see if he would take the Nomad in place of Talia's ship. That would clear me of my debt to her, at least, and we could sail for Baghdad on her ship to retrieve the Nomad's impound price. But I just don't think I can do it. Talia'd be captain, not me, and I'm not sure I'm willing to trust her that far. Not right now."

"No," Maeve says, and Rongar shakes his head firmly, adamant in his agreement. "Talia's done...better than I expected. So far. But no."

"I know," Sinbad says. "I know. The Nomad's our home, but it's also how we make our living. With...the changes that are coming in a few moons, we can't lose that."

He means the baby. Maeve is grateful that he's thinking ahead. It's something she's not often capable of doing these days. She feels as if her world is going to end on Samhain, one way or another. If she wins, a better one will begin, a world where she can learn to breathe without fear again, where she can prepare to welcome her daughter with all the gentle care she can't provide right now. But not until she faces Scratch. That battle looms heavy in her mind, a wall past which she cannot often peer.

But she can't imagine preparing to give birth—hell, maybe even doing so—under Talia's captaincy. Just...no. She'll take orders from Sinbad or no one at all. She doesn't care where they live, a ship, rented rooms, a hole in the ground, but she can't imagine Sinbad anywhere but the Nomad, captain of his domain. He belongs here. She doesn't belong anywhere...except with him.

"Does this honest harbormaster have a wife?" she asks, chewing lightly on her lower lip as she thinks.

Sinbad shrugs, but Rongar nods and holds up the fourth finger on his left hand, tapping the space where a ring would sit.

"Huh. I didn't think that practice had spread much beyond Egypt." Maeve shrugs this off. She's never paid much attention to the jewelry men wear or what it signifies. "Give him my trunk. No matter how honest he is, he won't be able to resist taking that home to his wife. Not when the fees you'd otherwise pay will just line a filthy rich emperor's pockets. He'll justify it to himself—no one will miss one impounded ship."

"Are you sure?" Doubt laces Sinbad's brow. "I know you told me before to give those clothes to Talia, but I don't believe you were thinking clearly then."

Yeah, she doesn't think so, either. She doesn't even remember writing that note, though she can't deny the proof that she did. Nothing about that night makes sense to her, even now, except the calm she found in Sinbad's arms when she broke down and let him in. He's her céile. That makes sense. The rest of it does not.

But it doesn't matter, either. Whatever scared her so badly has passed, the fear morphing, evolving into this insidious thing that lives inside her as surely as her baby does. She can live with that—she has no choice—as long as it doesn't erupt into panic again. If she leaves the Nomad, she wants it to be a calculated decision made with forethought. She'll be breaking a vow to Sinbad if she leaves, and she desperately doesn't want to do that unless she has no viable alternative.

"I'm sure," she says, finishing the last of her herbal tea as Rongar flips the cooking fish. "I'm grateful to the queen, but it wasn't a practical gift. The boys got more use out of it than I ever have, or ever will. I don't need it. If bribing the harbormaster will free Talia's ship and our debt to her without risking a fight or the loss of the Nomad, do it."

"Thank you," he says softly, and his eyes show how much he means it. "Talia will thank you, too, in her own way, when she finds out."

"She'll only find out when she goes to swipe something and it's not there to take," Maeve grumbles, but her heart's not in it. Talia's annoying, but she's proved stalwart in this case. Whether that's a change in her nature or just her desire to get her ship back, Maeve doesn't care. She could have left them—probably should have left them—after Rumina's spell stole three moons from her life, an unforgivable offense and a devastating price to pay simply for being on the Nomad. But she didn't. She's still here with them, and she seems intent to stick this out as she agreed. She does her best to lift Doubar's sinking spirits, too, and acts as a buffer between him and Maeve when she can, cushioning the blows of his worsening temper. That's worth a little silk, Maeve figures.

"We'll go to Malabar," Sinbad says, a wistful smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Just like I promised. Or Bengal. I'll get you some fine cotton. You like that better than silk anyway."

"I do," she agrees, wanting so badly to kiss him. Malabar was a throwaway comment, back when she was wishing for ginger. But he remembers, and he wants so badly to please her. "But I don't need anything," she adds, as, unaccountably, her eyes smart. She has no reason to cry now, and she blinks furiously, looking away and banishing the urge.

"You will," he says as Rongar slides the fish from the coals onto a wooden platter.

She won't, she thinks, but her baby will, and to Sinbad she guesses it must mean more or less the same thing. If he does find cotton for sale, she'll make her Fin a blanket like hers, but better suited to the fiery southern sun. Something lighter, but still sweetly soft to press against her delicate new skin.

But that's a dream for after Samhain, after she defends Sinbad's soul from Scratch's hairy, grasping fingers. She pushes it down, and feeds her daughter a scrap of magic in the meanwhile. The loss makes her slightly dizzy, but it also makes her baby move gently inside her, and that far outweighs the discomfort. She laughs lightly as Rongar passes her a plate heaped with flaky white fish, steaming hot, and places the bowl of salt on the table.

"If the rest of my crew doesn't get their lazy asses out of bed, they're going to miss breakfast," Sinbad calls, raising his voice as he removes the pot of barley gruel from the fire.

"Whose ass is in bed?" Talia demands, promptly opening her door. "I was just waiting for you to stop talking about me. That's never an easy entrance to make." She crosses the galley and hugs Maeve fiercely from behind. "Thanks, hothead."

"Don't touch me." Maeve shakes her off. "No one was talking about you. We were talking about your ship. Seriously, don't touch me."

"You like me." Talia laughs as she takes a bowl of barley from Sinbad and helps herself to the platter of steaming fish on the table. "Admit it."

"I tolerate you. You tolerate me. Let's leave it at that."

"I know, I know. I gotcha. You're not a touchy-feely type. Me neither, mostly. Until the wine's flowing." She knocks Rongar's shoulder with hers. "I lost last night's bet, huh? You got up in time to catch the early fish."

He nods and holds out his palm expectantly.

She sighs dramatically and digs a coin from the folds of her sash. "Remind me never to bet against you."

"I told you that last night," a sleep-bleary Firouz says as he stumbles into the galley.

"You also told me the sun is the center of the universe, not the earth, and we both know that's nonsense," she says, talking with her mouth full. Rongar bites the coin she gave him, shakes his head, and hands it back.

"Fine, have it your way." Digging this time in her cleavage, she hands him a different coin. He bites this and, satisfied, pockets it.

A litany of muttered curses precedes Doubar into the galley. He looks awful, eyes bloodshot, face drawn and weary under his grizzled beard. "Who cooked?" he demands, glaring at the steaming food as if it has insulted him.

"We all did," Sinbad says mildly before Maeve can open her mouth. She's used to fighting her own battles and she's not afraid of Doubar, but she'll let him take this one. Rongar's catch is excellent, her daughter is happy with the proffered food and magic, and she's not going to let Doubar spoil this moment.

The first mate grumbles as he slouches forward, and his dark, hungover glare settles on Maeve. "I thought she was too good to eat with the rest of us. What's she doing here?"

"Eating breakfast, just as she should." Sinbad stands behind her, his warm, steady presence lending her support though he respects her request not to touch her. "Exactly what you've been harping at her to do since she was poisoned, so stop growling and eat. Or go back to bed. Either way, stop. That's your captain speaking, not your brother."

Doubar's angry, bloodshot eyes settle on his brother for a long moment before he turns and slams back into the crew's cabin. Maeve flinches at the sound, her shoulders coming in contact with Sinbad's hard body for the briefest moment. She aches for the comfort it brings, but shifts away.

"I guess this is a good day to try my new hangover cure," Firouz says hesitantly.

Everyone smiles weakly.

"If anyone can invent a cure for what ails Doubar, it's you," Sinbad says. He steps away from Maeve, and she can feel the reluctance in him as he settles to a seat on the bench. She hates the distance, but she loves him for his willingness to give it. "I don't know if hangover herbs can fix this, though."

No, Maeve thinks as she returns to her breakfast. No herb that she's ever heard of will cure Doubar. She's the only one who can do that. If she loses her battle with Scratch, Doubar will be lost, too. Not just to her, but possibly to everyone. He'll never forgive her for failing, but just as horribly, he'll never forgive himself, either.


Later that afternoon, Sinbad feels more upbeat than he has for a long time. Not happy—he won't truly be happy until they defeat Scratch and Rumina and his fear for Maeve's safety calms. But, with the exception of Doubar's foul mood, the day has been a positive one. He and Maeve navigated a productive conversation without arguing, she neatly solved the problem of Talia's ship, and he watched her eat a decent meal surrounded by most of their family. It's encouraging. He still wishes she would rest instead of working, and she still looks awful, so delicate and frail, but the heavy cloak of sorrow she's worn since Antoine broke her is slowly lifting. This rending will leave a scar she'll wear for life, but with the help of the men who have become her family, she can learn to live with it. He knows she can. The coming addition to their family will help, too—a child she can love without fear, without restraint. He knows he's going to.

The harbormaster couldn't resist the sight of all that silk and velvet, cloth of gold and rich brocade, just as Maeve predicted. He tried, honest man that he is. He hemmed and hawed, insisted that he's never taken a bribe in his life, which Sinbad suspects is entirely possible. But he quickly caved, too taken with the prospect of bringing a queen's wardrobe home to his wife. And as Maeve rationalized, where's the harm? The emperor so far away in Constantinople will never know the difference. He doesn't need the fees, and Sinbad needs the time and money this will save. Maeve wants Cairpra, she said so ages ago, and Sinbad needs to fulfill this wish. It's the only thing she's asked of him besides the distance he struggles to give her, and he and the Nomad won't fail her. She can't have Dermott, can't have Keely or Antoine, but she can have her mentor. He's sure Cairpra's calm, knowing manner will ease the disquiet he knows still lurks in her soul.

Whatever broke the terrifying shroud of grief she wore for the better part of a week, lying torpid in her bunk, unresponsive to everything, he wants to be grateful. But the memory of her fear that night prevents his complete thanksgiving. She was panicked past rational thought and he knows in his heart she would have died if she successfully left his ship. She had no more strength than a butterfly and was in no shape to wander an unfamiliar city. She could have broken bones trying to swing from his ship, or fell into the water, or simply collapsed somewhere, out of strength and unable to rise. Exactly what scared her into flight he doesn't know, because she can't explain. Her mind was too muddled to comprehend what she was doing, he suspects, and too exhausted to understand how dangerous her actions truly were. It troubles him, sending a shiver of unease down his spine. His Maeve is resilient, canny and artful. She doesn't panic easily, and she doesn't usually act so recklessly. A voice inside told her to go, she said, and so she went. Sinbad doesn't like it.

But he's seen no sign of the panic returning, so he does his best to banish his unease. It's been a good day. Talia and Rongar are even now off to fetch her ship from the government piers and he stands in the afternoon sun on the deck of the Nomad, about to replace some of the worn-out rigging with Firouz's help.

Maeve emerges from below, shielding her eyes from the intense glare of the relentless sun, smiling a little as its warmth touches her skin. With no meat on her poor bones she gets cold swifter, he's noticed. He's happy to have her on deck where he can see her, so long as she doesn't make herself sunsick. He's sure she'd recover quicker if she took off that gods-be-damned leather, returned to his bunk at night where she can sleep deeply, and allowed herself to rest while she heals, but these are battles he's fought and lost, some repeatedly. He needs to stop fighting her, because fighting doesn't work. Instead, he needs to figure out how to work with her.

He saw Doubar briefly around midday but hasn't been below since and is just as happy not to get in his brother's way. Maeve is fighting her way back to health, however slowly, while Doubar sinks under a crushing shroud of his own emotions, his anger and fear. He's been desperate for someone to blame from the first, and Maeve became the easiest and most obvious target. Now that Rumina's spell has cut the time to Samhain in half, he's angrier than ever. Sinbad has almost reached his breaking point. He understands how his brother feels. He does. Doubar helped raise him, made incredible sacrifices for him. He would have been just as happy, maybe happier, remaining in Baghdad with Dim-Dim, perhaps becoming a trader or innkeeper. He can picture Doubar as a jovial, round master of his own tavern, swapping news and gossip with his customers, a wife just as round laughing as she delivers steaming bowls of food and he clears the tables. But Sinbad chose the sea. Doubar came with him, and the chance at that life was gone. As far as he knows, his brother has no regrets. But those sacrifices will be meaningless if Scratch succeeds in stealing Sinbad's soul, leaving Doubar alone. Doubar has seldom been alone in his life and he doesn't handle it well. Sinbad doesn't fear for Rongar or Firouz nearly as much as he fears for Doubar if Scratch wins. They're resourceful. They know how to survive. But Doubar, Doubar needs a brother. Or a captain. Or a wife. Someone to give his life purpose and aim. Someone to steer him gently back on course when he drifts, as he's drifting now, lost to all but his own grief.

Sinbad wants to be that for him, as he's been for most of their lives, but he struggles. Doubar is so very angry and he's decided Maeve is the locus of his ire. Sinbad hasn't tolerated that well from the beginning and now that she's so fragile he tolerates it even less. He's a breath from putting his brother ashore despite Doubar's own fragile state. Maeve will never ask him to, but everyone has limits and Sinbad doesn't know where hers are. Too near, he knows that much. She's delicate, body and soul, so newly healing after both were devastated. She herself may not even know how much more she can take. She's afraid the strain between herself and Doubar has grown too great to mend, and that Doubar won't want his niece, besides. Her first concern is entirely valid, no matter how much Sinbad hates admitting this. He'll never tell her so, because her insecurities need no reinforcement, but he shares the same worry. Doubar doesn't tend to hold grudges, but he'll feel humiliated at his own foolishness once he learns the truth, which will only translate into further resentment. This isn't something Sinbad can fix, though he hopes that after Samhain some honest conversations will help.

Maeve's second worry is harder for him to fathom. Yes, boys are far preferred over girls generally speaking. He's not idiot enough to argue that fact. But this isn't just any girl. This is his daughter. The child who's going to save his soul, the thing Doubar wants most in the world. Even if she wasn't Sinbad's savior, she's still Doubar's niece. His blood, his kin. They've been orphaned brothers for most of their lives, the only blood tie they each have. Doubar will be overjoyed for this to change, for any addition to the family. Sinbad knows it. He'll adore his niece; he's not capable of doing otherwise.

Sinbad's own feelings on the subject have changed drastically in a few short moons. He was so sure he didn't want any children, and then when Scratch and Rumina forced this choice, he admits he pictured himself with a son. He knows boys—knows them better than girls, at least. But he always knew, as Doubar stubbornly refuses to admit, that a daughter was equally likely. After spending time with Niall and Antoine and their children he no longer fears the prospect of a baby nearly so much. Antoine adores his daughters. Niall wants one enough that he and Wren are willing to keep adding to their brood. And with Maeve for a mother, Sinbad knows his daughter will be something special. She'll be a fighter, stubborn and fierce, probably hell to raise, and he's all in. He used to believe that being bonded with a woman, creating a family, would tie him down. Restrict his freedom. Now he knows better. He just needed the right woman, one with a spirit that can fly with his. Raising his daughter on the sea, with the help of the rest of their family, will be the greatest adventure he's ever undertaken.

Assuming she survives. Assuming they all survive. It's something he has to constantly remind himself, the bitterness of this truth. Most expectant fathers only have the birth itself to fear, the ordeal so many women and babies don't survive. He has so much more to fear, and so much more to lose. Not just Maeve. Not just his daughter. Not just his soul, either, but the ripple effect losing it will create among the people he loves. Maeve and Doubar. Rongar and Firouz. Talia. Dim-Dim and Cairpra. His far-flung friends and allies. So many people will be hurt if he loses his soul, and he still doesn't know what dark purpose Scratch intends. There's too much at stake for them to fail.

These fears lead his eyes, as they always do, directly to Maeve. She looks like the lightest breeze might knock her down, and he hates it. He wants her strong and proud, full of her own quicksilver energy and grace. He wants the wicked glint back in her sweet eyes, the way her full, lovely mouth curls playfully as she teases him, daring him to call her out for her impudence, knowing he never will. Knowing he loves it, just as he loves all of her. He aches to see the life return to her, the light of her spirit, beautiful and indomitable once more.

She turns, feeling the weight of his eyes, watching as he and Firouz wind coils of heavy hemp around their bodies in preparation for the climb to the top of the rigging. Instead of the impish smirk he loves so much, the corners of her sweet mouth turn down in a tight frown. "I climb faster than Firouz does."

"Usually," Sinbad agrees. She's faster and more agile out on the lines than most men, yet has the upper body strength many women lack. "Not today." There's no way he's letting her climb. Not while she's carrying his child, and especially not after Rumina's spell. Besides, she looks as if a single loop of rope would crush her.

"I would advise against climbing in your condition," Firouz says, and once again Sinbad has to wonder how much he knows, whether that's a reference to the child she carries or merely her physical weakness.

She scowls but refuses to snap at the inventor. Sinbad remembers his decision from this morning—he has to learn to work with her instead of fighting. He learned to do so when she first joined the crew, and he has to do it again now. They're unstoppable when they work together, but when they butt heads all they do is tear each other apart. He can't afford that.

"The mainsail needs mending," he says, nodding to the tightly rolled canvas on the deck. "It has for weeks. I wasn't going to ask you because the canvas is so heavy and you hate sewing."

"I hate sewing," she agrees, "and Firouz is better at it than me. But that stupid sail isn't too heavy, and if that's all I'm good for I can do it."

A wave of relief washes over him. Good. This job will take time, and while she'll have to unroll and shift the unwieldy sail to get at the tears, the actual mending she can do sitting down. It should take her the rest of the day and a good portion of tomorrow, too, which he's perfectly content with.

"It's no great skill," Firouz says, shrugging into another coil of rope. "Just all the practice perfecting my surgical techniques. I began with linen, continued on goat and sheep carcasses."

Maeve smiles at him. "I bet the butchers were happy to see you coming."

"Point of fact, they were. I happily took the, ah, least choice bits. Lower legs and hooves, often. Anything with skin still attached, really. The bits customers looking for a meal didn't always want."

"Don't talk about meals. It's not close to dark yet, but I'm already hungry."

Sinbad has to restrain himself from touching her. She's asked him not to, but it's not easy. "Go on below," he says, guiding her with an arm near her lower back without making contact. "Eat something, and you'll have to search for the right tools. I have metal needles, an awl, sailmaker's thread, and wax somewhere, probably in my cabin, but I can't remember."

"Aye, captain," she says, only slightly grudging. "I know exactly what you're doing, by the way. You're not fooling anyone."

He grins. "I never doubted you for a second." They're working together—each giving a little. That's all he wants.

She goes below, and he hopes she listens to him about eating. Her body desperately needs it, and he's already given her permission to eat when she pleases. If that's five times a day, or eight, or more, that's fine. Anything to put some meat back on her bones.

"Ahoy!" a female voice calls, and he lumbers to the railing, encumbered by loops of heavy rope. He stares at the vessel slowly pulling alongside the Nomad.

"Would you like to explain to me what that dinghy is doing at a proper moorage?" he demands, his voice booming out over the water.

"Don't you insult my ship, you rusty old sea dog!" Talia laughs as she guides the vessel softly alongside his. Rongar leaps to the dock with a coil of line to secure her, shrugging helplessly at his captain. "The Silver Serpent's just as good as your Nomad, and I bet faster besides."

Sinbad looks doubtfully at the little ship. She's wickedly thin and sleekly built, and he suspects Talia's correct about speed. But she's small, capable of holding maybe half of what the Nomad can, and his ship isn't a particularly large one. He guesses that's best for a pirate who doesn't tend to haul full shipments of merchant cargo, but he can't help ribbing her as she stands proud on the slim deck.

"I think we overpaid for that thing."

"Shut it, Sinbad!" she crows, undaunted by his teasing, visibly joyful as she inspects her own vessel once more. "You're just lucky I didn't have a huge ship that dwarfed the Nomad. This way we can daisy-chain her to your ship when we leave without any trouble."

"You're still coming with us?" That honestly kind of surprises him. She was spitting mad after Rumina's spell took three moons from them, as she had every right to be. It's not like Talia to continue to risk her skin after she already has her prize.

"Of course, you idiot! What did you think, I'd leave you high and dry? You need me. Besides, I need to see how this turns out. I have several wagers going."

Sinbad chuckles and shakes his head as he and Firouz start to climb.

"I wonder if she's betting for or against us?" Firouz heaves himself up with a grunt.

"Probably both, knowing Talia," Sinbad chuckles. She's been a good ally on this journey—mostly. He wonders if anyone has ever truly counted on her before, needed her before. Maybe the ability to help someone who needs it brings out the best in her, even if that person is Maeve, who she doesn't particularly like. Then again, maybe she does just have some big bets placed and wants to ensure she tips the outcome in her coin's favor.

"I suppose that would be the intelligent option," Firouz allows. "But Talia's never been known for acting prudently."

"Ah, no. I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word." Sinbad rises swiftly through the rigging, faster than his comrade. Maeve was right that she and Firouz would ordinarily be better suited to swapping their tasks today. She's probably not physically stronger than him in terms of sheer brute strength, but she's swifter, more agile, and better at manipulating her body to do what she wants. Firouz isn't clumsy, exactly, but he lacks her level of grace and coordination.

Usually. But today is different, as all days will be different until she regains what she's lost, what Rumina took from her. Sinbad knows she can, even as she pushes herself too hard, thereby extending the time it will take. She has a fierce, beautiful resilience, strength in her heart Rumina can't touch no matter how hard she tries. Antoine damaged it, but he didn't break her. Not completely. Sinbad allows a small smile to touch his mouth as he turns his attention back to the climb. His sorceress is strong. She can do this.


Maeve leaves Sinbad's cabin tired and irritable. At least she's no longer hungry, having swallowed some leftover cooked oats before going in search of Sinbad's sail-mending kit, which she has yet to find. A deep search of his cabin turned up nothing useful, and though she knows better, her bad mood is making her think he sent her purposefully to find something he knew wasn't there, keeping her busy without taxing her strength. She knows Sinbad wouldn't actually do it, but she's tired, her body hurts, and she's irritable enough to entertain the thought at least for a moment as she steps from his cabin and latches the door behind her.

"What the devil were you doing in there?"

Maeve's head snaps up, a jolt of surprise taking her. Yes, there's Doubar, sprawled on a bench near the maps. His face is red, even in the shadows, and a quick glance reveals the nearly empty glass bottle at his side.

"Where did you get that?" She thought he and Talia were done with whiskey after their first taste. They complained about their heads and bellies for days, anyway.

He ignores her question, rising slowly to his feet and belching. She can smell the reek of whiskey from here and it irritates her further. He can drown his sorrows all he wants for all she cares, especially if it keeps him from harassing her, but it's not quitting time yet. Has he even done anything today? The sun still shines bright, and there's work to do. Even now Sinbad and Firouz are probably up at the top of the mast as they replace some of the worn-out rigging.

She frowns at the first mate as he sways with the motion of the ship. The smell of whiskey used to bother her when she was small, hazy memories of her father lurking in the shadows of her mind, brought to light by the bite of strong alcohol on male breath. The scholars at Brí Leith cured her fear, inuring her to the smell, and it no longer causes distress. The memories still come—his rage, her last moments with her mother—but they haven't swallowed her since she was small. Looking at Doubar's bloodshot eyes, she pities him more than anything.

"What were you doing in Sinbad's cabin?" he demands, apparently still able to keep his thoughts straight despite the whiskey on his breath. He moves toward her on reasonably steady feet, glowering. "You don't belong in there."

"Looking for something. Leave me alone." She scowls. Doubar is not her captain and she owes him no explanations for her whereabouts. He needs to go topside, to get some fresh air and sunshine, not hide away in the dark drinking whiskey his belly isn't used to. Maeve herself needs to sit for a moment. She's been moving around Sinbad's cabin, bending and stretching, searching for his damn tools, and her body needs a rest, some water. Her back aches, her feet ache, and she's dizzy enough that she knows she needs to stop. She tires easily these days, whether from the baby in her belly or the aftereffects of Rumina's spell, and she knows she has to be careful. As careful as she can be without raising suspicion.

"What do you want from him now?" Doubar demands. "Helping Scratch steal his soul isn't enough for you? You want his things, too? And you accuse Talia of being a thief!"

"Talia is a thief," she says flatly, doing her best to ignore his accusations. He's usually a happy drunk, but apparently not today. "She admits it. Get out of my way."

"No." He stumps closer, thrusting his shoulders back and raising his chin in a gesture she's very familiar with—an angry man drawing a line. "Give it back. Whatever you just stole, give it back." He holds out his hand impatiently.

"I didn't take anything!" she snaps, her own anger kindling. She's not a thief. Even when she was young and starving, she didn't steal. Dermott taught her better than that. And she especially wouldn't steal from Sinbad—she doesn't have to. He'd give her anything she wanted for the asking. He'd love the chance.

"Liar!" Doubar roars back, and the whiskey fumes on his breath wash over her, bitter and strong. She stands firm. "Sinbad may let you walk all over him, but I still outrank you and I've had enough of this. Give me whatever you took!"

"I took nothing," she says, crossing her arms defensively over her chest and refusing to give ground. The only thing she has of Sinbad's currently on her person is her baby, and that was given more than willingly. A headache begins, sharp knives of pain at the base of her skull, squeezing her temples, warning her that she needs to sit. She needs water. She's nearly blacked out several times lately and she's afraid of what a fall might do to her baby. Inhaling slowly, she tries to think around the pain in her head. Fighting with Doubar gets her nowhere. The best option is to let him blow up and leave, as he always does. This is not something she's good at, but lately she's been getting plenty of practice.

"I don't believe you. You don't belong in there. That's the captain's quarters," he insists. "He'd have given them to you—he would have given you everything he has, everything in the world, if you'd just agreed to bear him a son, but you refused. So now you keep your grubby little hands out of there!" He grabs at her folded arms, shaking them free. Her dizziness swells, but he lets go as soon as she shows him her empty palms. She has nothing, took nothing, just as she said.

"See?" she demands, shaking him off. Despite her anger, for the very first time she begins to feel a hint of fear as she looks at him. She's never—never—been afraid of Doubar before. He's never given her reason to.

It's just the whiskey, she tells herself. Just the smell of the alcohol, the way his glassy eyes squint at her. A memory of her father, nothing more, her mind doing things to her that it hasn't done for a very long time.

"Sinbad asked me to look for something," she says, snarling back at him as viciously as he snarls at her. Doubar is huge and strong, yes, drunk and angry, but she refuses to back down, refuses to be afraid of him. He's bullying her with his body, his size, and she does not give in to bullies. "It's none of your business, so get out of my way!"

"No." He inches closer, so close she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, which she hates. "You are a member of this crew, not his wife, and as first mate I say you don't have permission to be in there."

"Fuck you," she spits before she can stop herself. That wasn't smart. She's done her best these past moons to placate him, to treat him gently, and she's done now. She doesn't have the patience for it anymore. He's the first mate, yes, but he hasn't tried to pull rank on her in a very long time and even then she didn't put up with it. She refuses to do so now.

His bloodshot eyes blaze and his hand snaps out, quicker than she expects considering the amount of whiskey in him. She tries to shield herself from a blow, but to her surprise he grabs her ear, yanking hard.

"Quit that!" She shoves his hand away but he spins her roughly, a meaty hand rubbing roughly down her bony back. She spins back around and shoves, managing to push him back a half step despite the growing dizziness in her head, the shakiness flowing down her limbs. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Human ears," he says, narrow eyes watching her as she pants lightly. "No hidden wings. You're not one of those things you brought on board the ship."

Her anger erupts into true rage. "How dare you? You know that fucking whiskey you're drinking was made by one of those things, right? That they've been keeping us fed?"

"All for you! Because of you! We wouldn't have to be beholden to anyone, except Rumina poisoned you. Why that had to affect the rest of us I don't know, because Sinbad refused to say! He won't tell me anything anymore—not who those people were on our ship, not why Rumina keeps targeting you! He's not the same person he was, and it's all your fault!"

Maeve blinks back tears born of both anger and desperate guilt. She's dizzy and her headache is getting worse, warning her that her body is nearing its limit. Doubar doesn't know what he's saying, but his words hit home anyway. Sinbad isn't the same person he was before that brand appeared on his chest, a sign of Scratch's ownership. He's not so carefree anymore, definitely not as happy.

Your fault, her own voice whispers in her mind, the whisper that's haunted her since Rumina's spell. He never wanted to be tied down.

She doesn't want to tie him down. She doesn't. That's not how this has to go. She's a wanderer. He's a wanderer. Doesn't that mean they can make this work?

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she says, gritting the words through a tense jaw aching just as badly as her temples, "so keep your mouth shut."

His bloodshot eyes blaze, and she knows she's touched a raw nerve. Doubar hates being reminded that he's not the brightest, and this is ordinarily not something she would willingly prod. But her head is too painful, too dizzy, to think completely clearly, and all she wants to do is just sit, just for a moment, in a place free of whiskey fumes, free of shouting. "Wench! I'm sick of you prancing about this place as if you own it, as if the rules don't apply to you. Guess what? They do! Any other captain would have flogged you raw by now for the sort of impudence you show."

Maeve hates being called a wench, as he well knows. She smiles grimly, a cold twist of her mouth that reminds her of Nessa at her nastiest. "Sinbad isn't that sort of captain. I wouldn't be here if he was. Let me pass."

His breath gusts from his nose and he lurches forward, putting their bodies nearly in contact again, blocking her exit. "He's not, but you need a heavier hand to learn how to behave, I can see that well enough. Your father failed at that job."

Her gut churns. Countless men have made similar claims about her behavior before, stating that a good beating would calm her fire and bring her in line, but never a man she's cared so much for. And any mention of her father is enough to boil her blood, regardless. She clenches her fists and struggles to remain still. "I never had a father."

"Figures. I'd say Sinbad was lucky not to have a son with your blood, if he didn't need it so badly." His eyes narrow. "He might even have married you despite my warning, if you had been willing. Poor man. Usually it's the fathers forcing a reluctant husband, not the literal devil."

"Celts don't marry." It's rote by now—automatic. Also the safest response she can think of. Sinbad isn't getting a son with her fiery blood, he's getting a daughter, and Maeve knows exactly what Doubar would say about that. She doesn't care. That unwanted daughter is going to save Sinbad's soul...if Maeve can keep her alive.

"Celts don't marry, Celts don't marry," Doubar mocks, exhaling a gust of whiskey fumes in her face. "As if anyone would want to! You've got my brother bewitched somehow, I see it now. Like Rumina wants to. You wenches are all the same! That's why he's so changed. He's never wanted a girl to keep, not after Leah. What did you do to him?"

His roaring suspicions make Maeve blink, speechless with shock. She'd never, never even consider doing what he's suggesting. She wouldn't know how. Love spells, real ones, are compulsions, advanced dark magic only practiced by the blackest sorcerers. They're cages meant to be locked for life, which she considers about the worst thing any person could do to another. No. She's not like Rumina. She doesn't want to trap anyone.

Don't you? the whisper in her mind hisses at her, dark and insidious. You bound him to you. Your céile for life.

No. That wasn't her fault. It was, but it wasn't. And it's not the same thing. He's free to go if he chooses. He can leave her. She didn't take away his choice.

But he'll never be the same if he does.

"No," she says softly as the whisper and the dizziness in her head bleed together, blending to form a strange floating sensation that's somehow a sound and a bodily sensation, jolting her nerve endings, making her hands and feet tingle as her body warns her she's close to collapse. Her voice falters. "I didn't."

Doubar's eyes blaze as he interprets her hesitation as guilt. "You did! And there was no need. You could have had anything you wanted from him in return for a big belly. Instead you've brought ruin on us all. Why?" He leans over her, and for the first time Maeve shrinks back from him. She's not afraid for herself, she insists stubbornly. But the child she carries is so vitally important, and too much has already happened to her while she shares Maeve's body. Rumina poisoned them, then stole three moons from them, speeding her growth, the effects of which Maeve won't know until she's born. Now she's forced to cinch tightly, restricting her daughter's growth even as she does her best to compensate by feeding her with food and magic, everything else she can give. This little life must be protected, for all their sakes.

But Doubar doesn't know that.

She steps back, flinching from the way he hulks over her, his bulk seeming bigger than ever as he deliberately attempts to intimidate her. She's never felt her recent weakness so acutely. "Stop it," she says, knowing he won't, not until his fury has crested. She needs to get away, needs to get topside where she has escape routes, where Sinbad can deal with his brother's anger. She's never turned Doubar over to his brother before, but this encounter has grown too dangerous to handle on her own. "I haven't done anything to Sinbad," she says, forcing her voice to steady. "I never would. You'd know that if all that whiskey wasn't talking for you right now."

"All you had to do was shut that fucking mouth and open your legs for once, but no, that was too much for you," he spits.

Her hand rises automatically to slap his face, but she forces herself to stop before it connects. What's left of her logical mind knows not to antagonize him further, no matter how angry she is. She will not win that fight, not now. She can barely stand. So, with monumental effort, she reins in the urge.

But the damage is done. He sees the movement of her arm and his meaty hand grabs it roughly, his fingers and thumb overlapping around her bony upper arm. His grip is crushing; she's afraid he'll snap her bone like a twig and when she tries she can't shake him free. The sliver of fear in her stomach expands, dripping like poison into her bloodstream, racing through her body as her heart speeds, thrumming far too fast.

"Sinbad's done everything for you!" he roars, holding her tight. "Took you on when Dim-Dim vanished, saved your sorry skin who knows how many times, and you couldn't give him this? But you could bespell him, of course. What else would a woman aboard a ship want?"

"Doubar, let go," she says, dropping her voice low, ruthlessly smothering her own anger, her growing fear. Yelling at him won't help. She needs him to let go, needs to break away until his anger cools. She needs Sinbad. Rongar, Talia—anyone will do, anyone who can break his concentration and make him let go. He could seriously hurt her daughter, and the force of that realization stuns her. For all she swore never to become her mother, suddenly she has. She's in the same situation, fighting an angry man with too much whiskey on his breath, desperately trying to keep him from harming her child. For all her struggles and all her vows, she ended up the weak woman she swore she would never be—the mother who could not protect her daughter.

This thought shatters her, but at the same time stiffens her spine. No. She refuses. She pushes the dizziness away, locking her knees and forcing her muscles to steady. She's been led to this point by circumstance, sometimes willingly, sometimes unwillingly, but she refuses to be a victim. She refuses to let her daughter pay this price. She inhales deeply and continues as calmly as she can. "Doubar, let go. You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what you're doing." She looks him in the eye, refusing to be cowed. "Walk away before you do something you'll regret later."

But her words stoke the fire of his self-doubt and the color in his cheeks deepens, no longer red but nearly purple. He grabs her other arm and shakes her hard. Her headache explodes and her teeth crack together, sending lances of pain shooting down her spine. "I know better than some barbarian witch! You don't care about my brother! You don't care about anything but your own heathen self!"

The door to the galley slams open. Maeve sags in relief. Her head swims and her vision refuses to clear, but she's fairly sure she sees Rongar and hears Talia.

"What's going on?" the pirate demands. "Doubar, what do you think you're doing?"

Rongar stops short and his arm shoots out, blocking Talia's path as she tries to stride toward the first mate. His body lowers into a defensive stance as he eyes the situation cautiously.

Maeve meets his eyes for a moment, though it's difficult to focus after that shake. Her fear is real now. She can smell it, taste it on her breath as she pants lightly, shallow breaths high in her throat. Cold sweat hits her forehead. This isn't good for her baby and she needs Doubar to stop, but Rongar is right to pause. There's no telling what the first mate might do now. He's drunk and lost his temper and now he's been caught. A cornered man is desperate. Rongar needs to be careful how he handles him, lest he cause more harm. Where is Sinbad? Still up in the rigging with Firouz? She needs him. Doubar will yield to Sinbad though he won't to Rongar or Talia. Rongar's eyes tell her he knows this—if he tries to intervene now, he'll make the situation worse. They need Sinbad.

"Let go," Maeve says again. There's a strange roaring, rushing sound in her ears. She doesn't even recognize her own voice.

"Yeah, big guy, let go," Talia says, attempting to plaster a friendly veneer on a cautious center. Her eyes tell the truth. "Come up top. Looks to me like you need some fresh air, and at least a gallon of water."

"What I need," Doubar growls, "are some answers, and for this traitor to leave my brother in peace!" He emphasizes his words with another shake that rattles her bones.

"You don't understand," Maeve insists. The decision to hide her child was a catastrophic one, she realizes now. But what else could she do? She was trying from the start to protect her. She still is. But the attempt made an enemy of Sinbad's brother, a very big, very strong man currently pinning her by the arms and refusing to let her go. Her bones ache. She's not even angry anymore. Now she's just scared. This is how her mother died, and she can't let that history repeat itself. Not while her daughter needs her to live.

"You shut your lying mouth!" He releases one of her arms only to backhand her face hard. She tastes blood as she staggers. She's been slapped for her sharp tongue more times than she cares to remember, but she's never gone down before. This time she does, and he finally releases her as he lets her drop, crumpling to the floor. She pants lightly as her mind races, blank terror threatening to take her. She can't do this. She wants to fight, but Rumina took too much from her. She has no muscle left to defend herself. "All you've done from the beginning is lie, and hide, and confuse us!" Doubar roars.

"Knock it off!" Talia hollers. She stomps forward, but Rongar hauls her back. He grabs Doubar's shoulder.

"Sinbad and Firouz are up in the rigging, but they must be on their way down by now," Talia says. "Hard to miss those shouts. Doubar, step back. You don't want your brother to see this."

"I want my brother free of her witchcraft, inhuman or barbarian, whatever it is!" He shakes off Rongar's hand and lands a big, booted foot in Maeve's midsection.

"Doubar!"

As if from far away, she hears someone yelling. She can't tell who. The rushing noise in her ears is too loud and all the air has left her lungs. She can't breathe. She needs Sinbad, but Sinbad isn't here. Pain explodes through her body as she fights for air. No. No, she refuses to be her mother. She's fought too long and too hard to lose everything this way. Without Sinbad it's up to her to protect her daughter. To get away. Her mother had no escape. Maeve will not be that victim again. She closes her eyes as desperation clouds her mind, blank terror replacing the last of her logical thoughts.

Roaring in her ears. Blood in her mouth. Pain everywhere. A hard cramp takes her abdomen, where Doubar kicked her.

Away. She needs to get away. The Nomad isn't home, isn't safe. Nowhere is, but especially not here. Not now.

Away. Anywhere. Not here. Not this place. Just...away. She struggles to rise, and can't.

But she needs to go. For her daughter. For herself. Away. A shadow moves over her, and in her panic she's afraid it's Doubar.

With a flash of flame-colored light, she disappears.


A/N: If anyone's angry, please keep in mind that Scratch warned Sinbad very explicitly. It's just no one listened.