Cold first — not sharp, just the slow, settling kind that crept in after standing still too long in one place. Ray had planted himself against the same stretch of wall for the better part of an hour now, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a door that hadn't opened once since Zelene and Finn disappeared through it.
He didn't like how long that was.
Beside him, Corvin shifted his weight for what had to be the twentieth time. "How long's it been."
"You know how long."
"I'm asking anyway."
Ray didn't answer that. He didn't need to — Corvin already knew the answer as well as he did, and asking again wasn't really about the time at all.
"They said an hour," Corvin said, quieter now. "If nothing went wrong."
"I know what they said."
"Then why are we still standing here?"
Ray's jaw worked once before he spoke. "Because running in there on a hunch gets people killed faster than waiting does. You know that."
"I know that in theory," Corvin said. "It's a lot harder to believe standing here."
For a moment neither of them said anything. Ray pulled the small shard of mirror glass from his coat, turning it slightly, watching for even a flicker of lantern light from the upper windows across the street — the signal Finn was supposed to give if things were going the way they'd planned.
Nothing. Just dark glass reflecting darker windows back at him.
"That's not nothing," Corvin said, watching his face. "You'd tell me if it were nothing."
"I'd tell you either way."
"Would you, though."
Ray glanced at him, and something in his expression must have answered honestly enough, because Corvin exhaled and didn't push further.
Behind them, Nym stood with one hand resting lightly on Wren's shoulder, the girl finally asleep against a stacked crate despite everything, worn down past the point where fear could keep her upright any longer. He hadn't said much in the last hour. That, more than anything, was what finally made Ray turn.
"You've gone quiet," Ray said.
Nym didn't look up right away. "I keep thinking about how long it took someone to notice I was missing," he said. "Eleven years, and no one came looking until she did." His eyes lifted, steady, unflinching. "I don't like how long an hour feels right now."
That settled it more than anything Corvin had said.
"Something's wrong," Ray said, and this time it wasn't a question either.
He was already moving before either of them could agree out loud.
---
Rocking.
That was the first thing Zelene's body understood, before her mind caught up to any of it — a slow, uneven sway beneath her, the particular motion of something floating rather than resting, water slapping softly against wood somewhere close.
A boat.
Her skull throbbed in time with her pulse, sharp enough that for a moment the thought slid away again before she could hold onto it. She kept her eyes closed a beat longer, forcing her breathing even, some old instinct insisting she gather information before giving away that she'd woken at all.
Crying. Not one voice — many, layered over each other, some quiet and exhausted, some still raw and frightened, the particular sound of people who had been crying long enough that it had become simply the air they breathed rather than something they could stop.
Move. Slowly. Don't let them see you're awake yet.
She opened her eyes to dim, swaying lantern light, low enough overhead that she understood, all at once, she was lying on a floor rather than a bed — wooden planks beneath her cheek, damp and cold, the whole space narrow and cramped in a way that pressed in from every side.
A hold. Belowdecks, somewhere.
And women — everywhere, packed close along the walls and floor, some huddled together for warmth, some simply staring blankly at nothing, the particular hollow look of people who had already stopped hoping the day might improve. Zelene's stomach turned, the number of them settling into her chest heavier than Old Fen's whispered estimate had prepared her for.
More than a dozen. So much more than a dozen.
Her breath caught, and she pushed herself upright too fast, pain lancing white and sharp through her skull, forcing a small, involuntary gasp from her throat.
"Finn," she whispered, twisting to search the space around her, fear spiking hot and immediate through the pain. "Finn—"
She found him a few feet away, and the sight of him stole what little air she'd managed to gather.
He was still unconscious, slumped against the hull, and even in the low light she could see the darkened bruise blooming along his temple, worse than anything she felt on her own skull — an ugly, swollen mark that suggested he hadn't simply been struck once and dropped the way she had.
He fought. He must have fought.
Her hands found his shoulders, shaking him gently, urgently. "Finn. Finn, please."
His head lolled slightly at her touch, breath shallow but present, a small, fragile mercy amid everything else pressing down on her at once — the rocking floor, the crowded dark, the low, endless sound of women who had clearly given up believing anyone was coming for them.
He's alive. He's alive. Hold onto that.
Around her, a few of the nearer women had turned their heads at the sound of her voice, watching her with cautious, exhausted eyes — some wary, some simply too tired to react to anything at all anymore.
Zelene swallowed hard against the fear clawing up her throat, forced her spine straighter despite the pain throbbing behind her eyes, and made herself look — really look — at the space around her, cataloguing every detail her mind could hold onto.
Figure out where we are. Figure out how many. Figure out the way out.
Because somewhere among all these frightened, hollow-eyed faces, she was certain, was a fish seller named Della who had a daughter waiting on a stone wall three streets from the harbor, still believing, however faintly, that someone was coming to bring her home.