The black sail of the dhow groaned under the weight of a sudden, freezing wind. It didn't feel like a tropical breeze anymore. It felt like the breath of something dead. I lay on the salt-crusted deck, my left arm held together by nothing but electrical wire and the sheer, stubborn refusal of my muscles to give up. The pain wasn't a sharp scream anymore. It had settled into a deep, rhythmic throb a heavy, muddy pulse that made every inch of my skin feel like it was being flayed by a dull knife.
"Mama, your eyes are turning grey," Sasha whispered.
He was sitting next to me, his small hand resting on my forehead. His touch was cold colder than the ocean spray hitting the hull. I looked at him, and for a second, I didn't see my son. I saw a reflection of the Archive. His pupils were fixed,
