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elaborate unconcern. “There seems to be a dearth of jobs for us to do at the moment.”
    A shattering sound erupted from aft of the cabin. Pieces of the roof flew off in a big gout of smoke. Yellow flames began to flick just above the jagged edges of the bulkhead.
    â€œDark night!” J.B. exclaimed, as voices began shouting in alarm. “It must’ve set bedding on fire.”
    â€œWe’ve got a job now,” Ryan said grimly. “We’ll man the hoses and try to get the fire out. J.B., help me carry Krysty into the cabin.”
    â€œJust leave me here, lover,” Krysty said. She still sounded out of it, but was clearly pulling her blast-scattered wits back together. “Be as safe here as anywhere.”
    â€œNo way,” Ryan said, gathering her in his arms for the briefest of hugs, then pulling her away from the bulkhead so he could hoist her by the shoulders while J.B. lifted her feet. “It’s at least some protection. Better than none.”
    â€œYou know what old line about lightning not striking twice in the same place?” Krysty asked, her head lolling.“It’s not true. Lots of times lightning hits the same place a dozen times in the blink of an eye.”
    â€œI know that,” he said. “Stay with me.”
    He managed not to say, You’re starting to sound like Doc . Although it probably wouldn’t have mattered because the old man had already led the two youngest members of the team back to where several of the crew were unrolling canvas hoses to fight the flames.
    Inside, Mildred was letting Trace Conoyer lower her arm, gingerly, to see if the pressure bandage she had taped over the wound would hold. The dirty-rag tourniquet had already been removed and discarded.
    Myron Conoyer and Arliss Moriarty hunched over the captain. Avery hovered in the background, uncertain as to how to help.
    The captain had already recovered her senses.
    â€œGo tend the engines, Myron,” she ordered in an almost normal voice. “We need to keep them on full power, and we can’t have them blow up on us.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œIf you think Mildred would do as good a job taking care of the Diesels as you would, by all means swap places with her. But somebody needs to be down with those engines, and not just Maggie. She’s ace, but doesn’t have a third of your chops.”
    Myron bobbed his balding head. “Aye-aye, uh, Captain.” He turned and hurried back below, shaking his head at the sad mess that was all that remained of Edna.
    Ryan and J.B. had settled Krysty on the floor, as clear as they could of the still slightly smoking Edna, the captain, and—most important, in Ryan’s view—thehelmswoman’s feet. He had folded his long black coat and propped her head up against it. Her hair lay limply across it, as if eager to give up the fight.
    â€œThank you, lover,” she said as he kissed her cheek and straightened. “I’ll be back on my feet before you know it.”
    â€œNot before I tell you you’re ready,” Mildred said sternly, not even looking around from examining the captain’s dressing.
    â€œLet’s go, J.B.” Ryan jerked his chin to the door. Though the Queen sported powered pumps, at times like this they used hand pumps to allow the engines to devote full power to driving the vessel and her burden. From the way the deck shuddered beneath his feet, he knew that Myron had followed his wife’s initial order to redline them and keep them there, regardless.
    Ryan approved. His own team worked that way: if he told them to do something that pushed the envelope, or even seemed flat crazy—and their own judgment told them it might actually be worth a try—they did it. And they usually pulled it off.
    â€œRyan.” Trace’s voice rasped as if she’d been gargling lye. “Stay. If you will.”
    That latter part was one of the shipboard niceties