The acrid smell of burning hit Pierre's nostrils before he'd even opened his eyes. Smoke. Something was definitely on fire.
He rolled out of the silk-sheeted bed, bare feet hitting the polished wood floor of the Captain's cabin. The smell intensified—a vile cocktail of charred oats and burnt rubber that scraped the back of his throat.
Great. Our first morning on the ship and we're already sinking.
Pierre pulled on his shirt and stepped into the common area. The galley was shrouded in a gray haze, and at its center stood Alyssa Hardy, welding a wooden spoon so tight it was more scepter than utensil while glaring at a cast-iron pan that was belching thick, greasy ropes of black smoke.
Her platinum hair, usually immaculate, was hastily twisted into a bun that was already losing the fight, shedding loose strands over a face smudged with soot.
She looked like she'd been wrestling with the stove and losing badly.
"What in the name of—" Pierre started.
