CHAPTER 19 “A will-o-the-wisp.”
Renato woke to the salty brine of sea water rushing up his nostrils, stinging his eyes.
With it came the raucous laughter of his crew. Laughter aimed at him.
“Ah, it seems His Royal Highness is back from the dead.” The voice was Faraday’s, but rang with a sarcasm the man had never before dared.
Renato blinked. Yes, that was Faraday, and next to him Quayle, clutching an empty bucket. But what was Faraday doing in that fine wool coat of midnight blue—the pride of Renato’s own closet?
He struggled to move, but found himself lashed to the foremast. Above him, an odd assortment of sails twitched in the flaccid wind. The mainmast was gone, and L’Intrepide limped along like a fish with one flipper.
The men eyed him as if he were some new kind of animal. Worst
