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she’d pick up some proper equipment—her diving rig, the video camera. She could give her little collection of shells to one of her bioscience buddies—maybe the USC guys, or the guys at the Scripps Institute.
    She wondered if the rest of these magic users were as backwards as the people on Stele Island.
    That wasn’t likely, was it? The scarf in Gale’s pouch was a fine silky fabric, and there were the gold coins. Wherever this subculture was hidden, it had its rich and poor, same as anywhere else. Sylvanna, Ralo had said. A great nation. Scientists. Crooks.
    She turned the shell over in her hands. The possibilities for exploration were mind-boggling even before you got to the existence of magic.
    Magic. Every scientist on the planet was going to freak out. Bram was going to lose his mind.
    Ralo broke into her thoughts: “Dega’s calling you.”
    Sophie scrambled to her feet and ran to Dega, saving the older woman the effort of crossing the distance between them.
    â€œYour aunt is awake, Kir Sophie.”
    â€œJust Sophie’s okay,” she said.
    â€œIf you wish.” They crossed the wharf, where a crowd of villagers had gathered around four bodies, fishers who’d been recovered from the sea. They glared as Sophie passed.
    â€œAm I bad luck or something?”
    â€œThe storm was unexpected.”
    â€œIt’s weather.”
    â€œKir Feliachild was nearly murdered,” Dega said. “You’re Fleet Couriers; the storm pursuing you was unnatural—”
    â€œThe storm might have been magical? Seriously?”
    â€œThe moths migrate on windless nights, always windless.” Dega ushered her into a shack that seemed to serve as their infirmary. “Kir Feliachild, your niece is here.”
    Gale looked about ready to expire—she was pale, her chest was bandaged, and her breathing was raspy. She opened her eyes, took in Sophie, and closed them with a pained expression.
    Nobody was glad to see her. Exploring the beach with the adorable moppets had cheered Sophie, but now rejection by her birth family struck again with the force of a slap.
    She perched by Gale’s bedside. It was little more than a pallet covered in shreds of grubby blanket. “They said they can … spellscribe you if you aren’t healing.”
    â€œNo scrips!” Gale looked past her to Dega. “There must be ships coming to assist you.”
    â€œOur light is signaling for help. Someone might arrive tomorrow, if winds are fair.”
    â€œYou want to be rid of us; we want to go,” Gale said. “The girl’s to catch the first respectable ride to the Fleet.”
    â€œYes, Kir. And you?”
    â€œGive my ship, Nightjar , until tomorrow evening. If she hasn’t arrived, send me to Erinth, whether I’m conscious, half dead, or a corpse.”
    â€œUnderstood, Kir Feliachild.”
    â€œWell, I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “How can you send me off on my own?”
    â€œI’ll leave you.” Dega bowed and let herself out.
    Gale struggled for breath. “I must get you back to your home world—”
    â€œWorld?” Sophie interrupted.
    She’d broken her aunt’s train of thought: She got a blank stare.
    â€œIt’s not another world,” she said. “The moon’s the same.”
    â€œYou must go home,” her aunt repeated.
    â€œEventually, yeah. But you’re hurt—” Her mind was spinning. World? Another world?
    The older woman shook her head. “You can’t stay.”
    â€œSomeone tried to kill you,” Sophie said. “These islanders think they’ll try again. You can’t sail off by yourself.”
    â€œYou’re my bodyguard now? What do you do back on Erstwhile—are you a cop?”
    â€œWell, no. I’m…” She felt a rush of embarrassment. She’d spent the past four years bouncing between teaching diving classes,