CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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With cat-like tread,
Upon our prey we steal. . . .
—Ibid, Act II
“So, what’s the prognosis?”
Tar turned his head and spat before giving me a squinty-eyed look. “She’s got a hole the size of a sow in her starboard side, lost the top eight feet of the mast, and there’s three feet of water in the bilge.”
I looked at my poor shot-up ship, listing heavily to one side so the damage on her right side could be examined. “Hell’s bells.”
“Aye. ’Tis by the grace of God we made it here without us all bein’ sent to Davy Jones, but she’ll not be sailin’ again without repairs.”
I bit back the oath I was dying to yell, instead turning on my heel and heading back to town. Tar and the twins scrambled up the narrow footpath behind me.
“What ye thinkin’ to do with Black Cor
