A few of the more adventurous passengers had managed to pluck up the courage to mingle with the masses and now stand in front of me, regaling the ferry guards with stories about quaint peasant food, and their recent discovery of copper coins.

“Apparently they’re worth less than even silver barons,” gushes a passenger in a cherry red gown. “And they were using them to buy food. Such ingenuity!”

The guard shows tremendous professionalism by not rolling his eyes, and nods along. He shoots a few unsubtle hand gestures to his colleagues, which are politely ignored by the trio of socialites showing off souvenirs to their captive audience. Luckily, the guard’s furtive flailing seems to have summoned a concierge who expertly distracts the passengers with some well-placed grovelling, and heroically sacrifices the next half hour of his time to his valued guests.

The guard swallows a sigh of relief and beckons us to come forward. He takes in my undeniably stylish feather cape and visibly braces himself for another round of feigning interest in whatever bauble a local had scammed me into buying.

I walk up without a word and hand him the copper plate that I had scammed off somebody – subverting his expectations somewhat, though he doesn’t know it. He takes a minute to look the permit over, glancing between the three of us, then back to the plate. I just stand there, trying to emulate the disinterested aloofness of the passengers around me.

The seconds drag on and I try, ineffectively, to appear at ease. Men and women, seemingly bent on making a mockery of the entire colour spectrum with their dress, wander the deck ahead, and I try to ignore the fact that we’d wandered on board this floating temple to tax evasion while dressed in clothes that would have trouble beating a burlap sack in the Empress’ court.

The inevitable happens, and the guard calls over one of his comrades. Evelyn tenses, poised to launch into our contingency plan – that is, run in, sword drawn, and hope for the best. The other guard approaches – this one wearing a silk cravat – and glances at the proffered copper plate.

I toss up whether to smile politely, but err on the side of believability and just focus on not grimacing. The key failure point in our master plan is if anyone – at all – knows Florence personally. Evelyn had tried to piece together what his deal was, but apparently, he had stayed mostly incoherent the whole night. The new guard looks up from the permit and scowls at me.

“You the diviner?” he asks gruffly and I nod. “You don’t look like much.” I stiffen under his suspicious gaze and a grimace slips away from me. I batter it into something between a smirk and a sneer, then force my spine straight.

“All the better to slip by unnoticed in the eddies of fate,” I say, wishing that I had thought to put on some eyeshadow. Evelyn shifts behind me and my cape swishes out dramatically. The guard scoffs and hands me back the permit.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the captain,” he says and turns to Evelyn and Emmet. “You two servants or something?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “Room 115. It’ll be tight, but that’s what you get for bringing two guests.”

I ignore the sass – mostly because I’m relieved that they didn’t put up a fuss about it – and hand my satchel over to Evelyn. Emmet, with absolutely no self-respect, moves forward to take it from me, but I grab him and pull him away.

“You’re coming with me, apprentice,” I say, hoping that priests have those.

“Acolyte,” Emmet whispers helpfully and I ignore him – as I imagine a senior priest would in my position.

Evelyn waves us off as the guard leads us through the crowded deck, up some stairs and towards the back of the ship. I don’t dare ask any questions as we follow the guard, our cover being as thin as it is already. Hopefully Evelyn can find this girl quickly before someone asks me to actually do anything.

Emmet trots beside me and I hope that I don’t look as nervous as he does. I actually have a reasonable amount of confidence that we can get through this and pretend to be a priest without too much trouble. I can draw on my talents of making bright, meaningless lights, and Emmet is actually a priest. I think we make a good team.

We reach an ornate door and the guard gives it a sharp knock.

“The diviner’s here, Captain,” he shouts, then swings the door open and pushes us in.

The room beyond is cosy, with a carpeted floor and couches surrounding a table in the middle. It could probably fit a dozen or so people, but there’s only four sitting in front of the fireplace. The one who I assume is the captain, on account of his compensatory tricorn hat, pauses whatever he was saying and looks up, visibly delighted.

“Excellent news, glad you could make it,” he says, enthusiastically shaking my hand. “I was just telling Lady Amaryllis about the divination we use, only the best for the Mango you know,” he winks at me and I grimace back. “Come now, she’s been absolutely beside herself waiting for you.”

This ‘Lady Amaryllis’ stares impassively at the spot that the captain had once occupied, apparently not having mustered the interest to turn her head to follow him. She’s flanked by two bodyguard types, who are much more energetic and shoot us evaluating looks from behind the couch. The captain ushers us to the table and Amaryllis’ gaze meets us halfway.

She’s wearing a fluffy pink gown that looks at least a size too big, the various decorative ribbons having been strategically commandeered to fasten the dress to her body. It’s bizarre, but isn’t fashion usually?

She does look oddly familiar though, which is weird because I hardly remember anyone. We join her at the table and her eyes lock onto me. Her look of bored detachment flickers for a moment and I almost hear the rust flake off as her brow wrinkles into a frown. It’s the reaction that I usually get when I’ve previously met someone, but I still can’t place her.

“Alright Mr. Polters,” the captain claps his hands excitedly and Amaryllis’ frown deepens. “Shall we get to it?”

“Get to the divination?” I hazard weakly. It’s a little late for regrets, but we really should have looked through the priest’s diary or something before we left. I’m still feeling out what he was hired to do.

“Of course, old boy.” He gestures towards a crate, full to bursting with twigs, eggshell and feathers – just like the crap in Florence’s bags. I step up to the table as the captain sits down alongside Amaryllis. This useless vagueness is going to give me a hernia.

“Just a prediction for the voyage? Nothing for her Ladyship?” I try to channel the drunken philanderer in an effort to sus out the job description. The captain seems to appreciate the showmanship and basically confirms that he’s propping up his seamanship with fortune cookies.

“Perhaps another time, Mr. Polters.” Amaryllis’ soft voice jolts through my brain and gives my hippocampus a kickstart. She lilts over the fake name and I jerk my gaze to meet hers. Our eyes meet and her frown disappears, replaced by a cold smile. In that moment, I wonder what happened to the original Amaryllis and which ditch she’ll be lucky enough to find herself waking up in.

Emily, laundry girl and cult member, whispers some instructions to one of her bodyguards – probably a cultist too – and motions him out of the room. For the first time in my life, I’m glad that we let Evelyn keep the sword.

She turns her stony gaze back towards me and leans back. I wait for her to out me as a fraud, or even just call me ‘Mr. Sepulchrum’ and watch me choke, but it doesn’t come. Then again, I could probably do the same to her. I’d get stabbed by her twitchy bodyguard, but it’d seriously inconvenience whatever her plans are regardless. Though there is one last thing I can try.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“No.”

Well, poisoning’s out. The captain coughs politely to interrupt my faffing and I turn my attention to the table. The vague plan that I’d had in mind was to mess about with some chalk, then hit them with the old daze and purify one-two punch. Of course, with Emily here, I’m much less likely to get away with my usual scam – so it’s time to use someone else’s.

I paw through the crate and frown. Looks like we’re dealing with a bird theme this time. I’m sure that the fish priest back in Kismet would disagree, but there can’t be too much difference. Grabbing a handful of twigs and feathers, I begin constructing my ritual.

Egg shells are kind of like seashells, so they get sprinkled liberally over the table. Feathers go next even if there’s no clear substitute for the sand. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I make sure that whatever I’m doing, I’m doing with purpose.

I dust it over with a few scrunched-up twigs and finish off my impressionistic bird’s nest. The captain looks enthralled and Emily looks bored. I remember Emmet and find him smiling slightly – he’d never had the pleasure of meeting laundry girl, so he probably thinks that this is all going swimmingly.

On that note, I cast about for a fish to disembowel. The only half-decent thing about this religious business is the blood sacrifices, and I have no idea if this works any other way either. I root around in the crate and come up with a box. I crack it open and find a row of bead birds laid out in straw. Bird theme, right.

I grab a duck – that’s a least a little closer to a fish than a sparrow or something. I place it carefully over my scrap book project and palm a knife. What’s next? The limerick – no, it was iambic pentameter, wasn’t it. I cough awkwardly to clear my throat and begin.

“Er, fate is a river long, destiny flows; ducks are like fish, if you think about it.” I slice the knife across the duck’s stomach.

My seashell necklace bristles against my skin and the fireplace splutters, casting the room in dramatic shadows. Some impossibly distant entity turns its gaze towards us, and with the cosmic equivalent of a shrug, mud pours out of the duck’s innards.

This again?

The room’s occupants draw in a deep breath, then the captain breaks the silence with excited clapping.

“My word, what an experience!” He cries, jostling Emily who looks slightly shocked that something legitimately happened. Join the line lady. “What does it mean?”

I look at the black mud slowly spreading over the table, not a drop of blood in sight. I don’t fucking know. Last time, the priest told me to avoid caves. Isn’t this prophecy fulfilled? I glance back at Emmet, who has the nerve to look vaguely excited by the spiritual rubbish going on.

“Well, what does it mean, apprentice?”

He jerks to attention and glances between the mud, me and the captain, then starts stammering incoherently. I step back and push him forward – this is a team effort after all.

“Um, well,” he starts eloquently. “There’s mud in the duck.” The captain nods attentively. “And there shouldn’t be.” The captain nods again, thoughtfully. Emmet flails around, casting his eyes about the room for another round of divine inspiration. “So, ah, mud is bad – um, is there too much dirt in the ship?” He finishes with more of a desperate plea than a deduction, but I probably couldn’t do any better. His shit answer hangs in the air for a second, then the captain springs to his feet.

“Ballast, there’s too much ballast on board!” He swings around to face me. “Is this true?”

“Sure.”

“Then I must inform the men before we cast off! I knew you had us in good hands Mr. Polters.”

Then he’s off, dashing out the door, shouting about throwing barrels overboard. I silently proffer my fist towards Emmet and we bump knuckles – fucking nailed it.

There’s a beat of silence as Emily and her remaining crony exchange meaningful looks. She turns back to me, probably ready to threaten us, or dive right into the torture, but I’ve already lit my finger on fire.

Emily’s stony façade cracks and she throws herself behind the couch as a wave of greasy fire splatters against it. Emmet yelps in shock as I flambé a seemingly random noblewoman, and I grab him by the sleeve and crash out the door.

Night has truly fallen by now, but the ferry’s deck is still crowed with increasingly boisterous passengers. Emmet jostles me a bit before just letting me drag him through the crowd. I give him a curt nod of thanks and continue raking the crowds over for any sign of the other cultist bodyguard. I catch his frown, but it reads more like irritation than the betrayed angst he usually goes for. I wouldn’t say that I’m touched by his benefit of the doubt, but it’s at least nice that he’s willing to trust me not to arbitrarily cook defenceless people. Actually, maybe I should be more annoyed with him.

There’s another clatter and, through a screen of elbows, I see Emily and her bodyguard run out the door and cast around. Emmet sees them – and more importantly, the crackle of magic curling around the cultist’s fingers – and grabs my arm, leading us downstairs and into the ferry. I shuck off the feathered cape and throw it onto a passing partygoer before we flee into the winding corridors below deck. Hopefully that puts them off our scent for a bit.

“Alright, what was that?” Emmet asks once we get well and truly lost.

“The girl in the ugly dress, she was working as one of the maids back at Fourey’s manor.”

“What’s she doing here then?” he asks, then catches himself. “And why did you set her on fire?”

“She’s also with the cult – so were the guys she was with.”

“Ah, right,” Emmet says lamely. “Then they’re after the stowaway girl too, we need to hurry up and find her.”

I hum in response, not really feeling up to his energy right now, and swing a closet door open. A mop falls out and I bat it away, then slam the door shut again. One down, hundreds to go.

Emmet follows my lead and yanks open a door. There’s a shriek and he slams it shut again, his face red, both from embarrassment, and the shoe that was thrown at him. Because I respect him, I only momentarily collapse against the wall, giggling at the heel-print on his cheek.

After I contain myself, and Emmet finally joins in. Eventually we pull ourselves together and keep hurrying through the corridor. Another door leads nowhere and I begin to feel the minutes tick by, hounded by the cultists doing exactly the same thing. Finally, I slam another closet door shut and kick it for good measure.

“There’s got to be a better way of doing this,” I say, partly to Emmet, mostly to the world at large. Emmet glances at me, agitated for whatever reason.

“You said that you could feel that this ferry was the right place?” He asks and I nod. “Well, there is something that we did for younger acolytes back home at the church.” His ears go pink as he quickly mumbles, as if I’d think that his idea was embarrassing or something. Though it sounds spiritual, so it probably is.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Guided meditation,” he says. “Maybe that will help you focus on The Mother’s guidance.” Enthusiasm for the idea comes off him in waves and his eyes shine with nostalgia. It sounds unbelievably lame, but we should probably defer to the priest on issues of gods and stuff.

“Alright, what do we do?” He smiles and grabs my hands.

“Excellent, I haven’t done this since I was little – it’s great, you’re going to love it.” He spins me about so that we’re facing and interlocks our fingers. I swallow a cringe at my own sweaty hands and avoid pulling back. “Alright, it’s really easy. Just close your eyes and try to focus on our hands. Then synch up your breathing with mine and focus on finding the girl.”

He closes his eyes, but peeks through his lashes to see if I follow along. I sigh and squeeze them shut, then focus on our fingers. My index finger still stings from the fire spell, but I push it down the priority list. Emmet breathes in an exaggerated breath and I copy him.

“Now just focus on any signs from The Mother, and I’ll help you follow them.”

Our breathing falls into a rhythm and a soft glow shines against my eyelids. I resist opening my eyes and soon feel my finger get healed as Emmet’s magic spreads between us. The creak of wood and the almost imperceptible sway of the floor begin to fall away and thoughts slip past my brain. Emmet breathes in again and I suddenly become aware of the slight buzzing at the corners of my consciousness that had stung my eyes when we were outside the ship.

As if roused by my attention, the buzzing pricks at my mind and crawls towards my ear. A dull sting fizzles along the shell of my ear and I take an automatic step down the corridor. Emmet jostles but our hands remain together, fingers interlocked.

The feeling stings again, then tickles down my neck. I step backwards blindly and we stumble down another corridor. With each step, a soft glow grows stronger in the back of my mind. A loose amalgam of shadows and colours slowly sharpening into an impression of the girl from my vision. Emmet breathes and I follow, I step and he stumbles after me, the phantom buzzing pulls gently at my synapses.

“What on earth are you two doing?”

The trance crashes apart like a cupboard of cooking pots and I open my bleary eyes to see Evelyn looking at us with a bemused expression. I sigh and extricate my fingers from Emmet’s and rub my nose as my sinuses buzz uncomfortably.

“Dowsing for stowaways. Have you had any luck?”

“No, I’ve just been wandering around. This boat is huge, I couldn’t even find our room.” She hands me back my satchel. “What happened to that horrible cape by the way? I thought it was right up your alley.”

It absolutely was, and as usual she has no taste. Though it does remind me of our current predicament.

“The cult is here by the way.” Evelyn chokes on some spit. “You remember Emily?”

“The one who blew our cover?” Calling what we had ‘cover’ at all is a bit charitable, but I nod regardless.

“Yeah, she’s looking for our stowaway too. We only saw two cultists with her, but there could be more.”

“Then we’ve got to hurry up,” she says. “Where do we even start? She could be anywhere.”

Luckily, I’m always one step ahead of the competition.

“No need, Emmet’s idea worked.” I turn towards the door quietly nestled behind us and try not to rub my itching eyes. “She’s in there.” Evelyn and Emmet turn with me and stare at the door.

“So, do we knock or something?” Emmet asks after a pause.

I look uncertainly at Evelyn and she motions to her sword – still wrapped in my old shirt – with a questioning look. Emmet tentatively takes position on the other side of the door and I’m left standing gormlessly in front of it. With nothing better to do, I reach out and knock on the door.

“Hey, stowaway – are you in there?” Eveyln gives me a look like she regrets making me spokesperson. “We’re here to rescue you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then some muffled scraping. I wait a few more seconds to be polite, then push the door open. I catch a glance of barrels, flickering candles and a tear-streaked, furious face, then a column of water manifests in front of me and crashes into my chest, hitting me like the furious fist of the fish god that I’d probably pissed off earlier.

I hit the wall and hear my ribs creak – which is never a good sign – and flop to the ground in a ball as deluge cuts off. I blink stinging salt water out of my eyes and stagger to my feet, just in time to get knocked back into the wall as the girl rushes past me.

“Go fuck yourselves!” The unappreciative dipshit shouts over her shoulder and dashes down the hallway.

Emmet conveniently bends down, hands alight with healing magic, and I push off him, stumbling after our target. She sees me round the corner and her eyes flash in teary eyed rage. She sweeps her hand through the air and leaves a glowing scar throbbing in its wake. There’s just enough time for my hind brain to kick in before it splits open and a column of stone shoots towards me.

I trip and roll underneath it as the obelisk shreds wood and buries itself in the opposite wall. The girl looks on in shock as the noise of splitting floorboards stops echoing through the hall, but turns and runs as I stagger back to my feet. My ribs ache but I keep chasing her as Evelyn and Emmet are forced to pick their way through the ruined hallway.

“We’re here to help, you fuck!” I shout hoarsely as we round another corner. She shouts some expletive that I don’t bother processing and waves her hand again.

It carves another glowing scar which splits in half. This time, instead of stone or water, the rent opens into a black void. The next second, the hallway is filled with a howling wind and I get swept off my feet, tumbling towards the yawning abyss.

The girl cries out in alarm and waves her hand again. Another glowing line appears, splits open, and dozens of knives scream out and bury themselves in the wall. At the same time, the encroaching void snaps shut and I drop, tumbling into her and knocking her over.

I try to press the advantage but get punched in the face for my efforts. I groan as she shoves me away but I manage to waste just enough of her time for the cavalry to arrive. Emmet hits me with the cooling relief of his magic, and Evelyn unravels her sword and holds it awkwardly out in front of her.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Evelyn tries to deescalate the situation. “We are actually here to help you.”

The girl wobbles to her feet and wipes her nose, scowling. “Yeah? Sounds a lot like what the others were selling.”

Evelyn takes a step forward, one that would be a lot more pacifying if she hadn’t forgotten that she’s still holding a sword, and the girl raises her hand. Evelyn sees it and she spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“We’re on a mission from god?”

“That’s what they said too.”

The girl swings her arm down and rips reality a new one. Evelyn has the good sense to dodge out of the way, but once again, a pillar of stone doesn’t manifest itself halfway through the ship. Instead, the air warps like a wallpaper bubble. All four of us stare at the non-Euclidean bulge as it trembles in the air, then pops like a pimple. Reality snaps back into place and a creature falls squirming to the ground.

At first, it looks like a small, pink bush; a hip-high mass, covered in off-white, loose sequins that rustle as it moves. It rolls on the floor before a fleshy joint extends from somewhere within and pushes until the body stands balancing atop it.

It turns to regard us and I recognise its single leg as an enormous, human finger. The fingernail is cracked and filthy, and I realise that it’s the same colour as its sequined coat. The creature bounces on its leg and its coat of fingernails rustles together over its otherwise featureless body.

Evelyn, Emmet and the stowaway look on, uncomprehending and sickened, but make no move towards or away from, the horrible thing. I, on the other hand, feel every muscle in my body tense.

Now, I don’t know exactly what the creature before us is, but you don’t grow up with a demonologist uncle without picking up a few tips. He was very verbose, so there was often a lot of chaff, but the useful stuff mostly boiled down to a simple nugget of advice.

If something incredibly fucked crawls out of a portal, it’s probably a demon. If it’s a demon, you should already be running.

In the future, I’ll make an amendment: if you’re in a group, don’t make the first move. Unfortunately, without the counsel of my sage wisdom, I jerk back and the fingernail demon whips towards me. With a screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard, it springs off the floor and catapults at me. Wood splinters underneath it and it cuts through the air with supernatural speed. I barely have time to curse the stowaway girl before it hits me in the chest and we both go crashing through the wall behind me.

The mahogany panelling shatters and I go tumbling into the next room. I crash into a cabinet and try to keep still as the world spins around me. The demon struggles as it tries to lever itself back onto its grotesque finger and I clamber to my feet and ignore the couple screaming in the corner of the room.

Going through a hardwood wall should probably have shattered my spine, but reality is having trouble keeping up with us as it bends and flexes around the demon. It finally flicks itself onto its foot and turns towards me again, but I’m already crawling out the window.

I heave myself through and drop onto a promenade deck. I get up as quickly as my aching body allows me while people stop to give me weird looks. One of them pats their waistcoat for spare change, apparently thinking that this is just another act from the circus on shore.

He’s quickly disabused of this notion as the demon bursts out the window after me in a shower of splinters. Each fleshy bounce punctuated by the screech of knives on ceramic plates. Its fingernail coat flops around like matted hair and I see two flinty eyes set deep within its mass. They lock onto me while completely ignoring the juicy rubberneckers milling around us. That’s probably a good thing, but I can’t help but feel a little bitter as I dash along the deck.

I shove through the crowd, a chorus of affected expletives following me. The demon has no such trouble navigating the crowded walkway. It barrels through the throng and reality ripples, sending passengers tumbling in its wake – most of them falling over the edge and into the water.

The overboard passengers flail and paddle towards the shore as the ferry keeps chugging down the river. It’s only now that I realise that the ferry set off at all. A whistle rings out and some sailors start lowering a paddleboat, but I ignore them as I wrench open a door and dive through it.

“Mr. Polters?”

I glance up from my dignified heap to see the captain and a few bored looking passengers. He gives me a hand and pulls me to my feet.

“I was just telling my guests about your wonderful predictions,” he says jovially, somehow ignoring the panicked looks that I keep shooting the door. “I got word from the helmsman. We just passed over some shallows, you were absolutely right about the ballast!” Then he laughs at nothing in particular.

“Yeah cool,” I say, breathing hard. “Which way is the main deck?”

The captain takes it in his stride and merrily points towards another door across the room. I nod in thanks and bolt to it, flinging it open and stumbling up the stairs. There’s a crash behind me, some screams and the stomach curling shriek of nails dragging on slate.

I crash into the door at the top of the stairs and empty out onto the main deck. The wind tussles my hair and the smell of rotting mangroves clings to the air. One of Emily’s cultist bodyguard jolts in surprise as I almost knock into him, then slowly draws his sword. I groan, then duck to the ground.

A pink rattling form shoots over my head and sends the cultist tumbling across the deck. The demon totters uncertainly on its grotesque finger and I kick it in the back. It skids along deck but quickly rights itself. The little shit completely ignores the cultist and bounds towards me, its single brain cell vibrating with single minded focus.

I finally remember that I’m a mage and snap a firebolt towards it. The glowing streak predictably misses, sets a lady’s hat on fire, and I brace myself in preparation for being sent ass over kettle. Instead, a blade flashes out and deftly parries the demon’s cracked nail in a shower of sparks.

Emmet grabs my collar and drags me up while Evelyn twirls about, her sword pressing its advantage as her body follows jerkily behind it. I pat Emmet on the back and notice the stowaway girl hovering awkwardly beside him.

“You,” I say. “Hands to your sides.” She flips me the finger and scowls, but slowly lowers the hand she’d begun raising defensively.

“Fuck off,” she says, then flicks her eyes to Evelyn’s overly elaborate showboating. “What the hell is that thing?”

“A demon,” Emmet gasps dramatically. “So if I see even a lick of magic coming from you, I’ll make you sorry.” The girl bristles, but she clamps her fists tight, a flicker of uncertainty sparking through her.

“Should we help her?” She deflects. I look over to see Evelyn’s sword blur, and the demon’s leg burst into three distinct chunks.

“No, I think she’s got this.”

Evelyn plants her sword into what passes for the pink bastard’s stomach – maybe its face – and stumbles out of her fugue. I wave her over and she jogs up, grinning from ear to ear.

“Lulu! You okay? Did you guys see that?” I nod in thanks and let her gush about how cool she was. “What was that thing?”

“A demon,” I say and Emmet gasps again. I shoot him a look and he smiles back, hamming it up for her benefit, I guess.

“So cool,” she says with bizarre reverence for the idea, her face still flushed with adrenaline.

I let her work it off and take a glance around us. Predictably, the other passengers have formed a wide ring around us. The ring’s diameter marking the natural equilibrium between self-preservation and nosiness.

There’s a scuffle, and Emily pushes through the crowd, flanked by four bodyguards. Evelyn notices and readies her sword again. The stowaway girl follows her gaze and stiffens at the approaching cultists.

“These fucking guys,” she hisses. “You’re not with them?”

“Don’t insult me,” I say and weigh our chances of fighting our way out – specifically Evelyn’s chances of doing it for us. “What’s your name?” She eyes me distrustfully.

“Abbey.”

“Alright Abbey, can you swim?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent, then you can help me,” then I push her off the side of the ferry.

She lets out a startled cry and her eyes promise bloody vengeance. The next second, she hits the water with an impressive splash. The noise startles Emmet and Evelyn and I wave at them before following Abbey over the side.

I hit the tepid river water in a maelstrom of bubbles and focus on not drowning.