With a growl of disgust, Elisabeth shredded the glamour as soon as she re-entered her quarters. The curse that held them in place consumed her thoughts. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it drop to the floor. A few quick strides took her to her desk, and the still open box of talismans. She considered it for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “No, won’t be enough,” she mumbled. A small shiver of fear ran down her spine when she considered Rowan’s Shroud’s display of power. The next emotion was desire—if the curse was this powerful, the objects in the Shroud must be as well. Finding the Atlas Stone, and her wayward brother, might be her main objectives, but now there was something in it for her own gain. All she had to do was break the curse, and reach Rowan’s Shroud.

  A knock at the door.

  “Come in.” The response came without thought. Moira stepped inside.

  “Captain. Do you have a plan?” The quartermaster asked, voice strained.

  “Not yet. I’m thinking.”

  “Well, think fast. The crew’s getting surly. And you just walking away like that didn’t help.”

  “If anyone breathes the word mutiny, you execute them.” Elisabeth’s gaze caught and held the quartermaster’s.

  “Bit harsh.”

  “Now’s not the time to coddle the women. I’ll get us out of here, but I need time to think without worrying about a knife in my back.”

  Tension built between the two, their eyes locked, their wills in a battle once again. Anger pulled Elisabeth’s face into a scowl, and put a soft glow into her eyes. Moira shivered once, and then looked away.

  “Aye. Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

  “It won’t. The crew’s loyal. But I needed to ensure you’re prepared. Stillness does strange things to sailors. And this haze…it’s unnatural. It’ll unsettle even the steadiest.”

  “It’s unsettled me, truth be told.” The quartermaster wiped at her face with her remaining hand and huffed a deep breath.

  “I’ll get us out. You know I will.”

  “Aye.” Moira nodded. “Aye, you will.”

  “We’ve been through worse, old friend.”

  “I’m not sure we have.”

  Elisabeth sighed. They were talking in circles. The quartermaster needed a task, something to focus the nervous energy that rolled off her in waves.

  “I need you to go below and fetch me the small chest bound with black twine. Bring it here and then make sure we’re sticking to the water rations.”

  “Aye, captain.” Moira nodded again, and left the room, letting the door thud closed behind her, a mutter of words drifting in her wake. The trunk contained some of her more rare talismans. Perhaps one of them was the key to releasing them from the becalmed curse. Ahead of her was a long night of planning. Elisabeth stretched her shoulders, and pulled another clarity charm from the box that still sat on her desk.

  The next morning, she stood on deck in the smothering heat and threw a carefully constructed curse-breaker at the miasma. The spell was old and strong, gleaned at the knee of her mother’s mother. All of it was guttural chants and bloody runes etched into skin. A talisman around her throat thrummed with power, amplifying the magic she pushed at the curse. The water rippled briefly. A breeze lifted strands of her sweat drenched hair for a moment. And then all was stillness again. The haze didn’t dissipate. The sea didn’t heave with motion. The air didn’t move. The curse held. Elisabeth walked back into her cabin with her spine straight and her shoulders squared. Once inside the sanctuary of her own space, she screamed in frustration, pacing back and forth in the small room. When the burst of angry energy drained away, she sat back down at her table and got back to work, churning through spells and talismans, looking for a way to shred the curse.

  Two days later, she emerged from her confinement to watch as one of her crew—Frida, Cressia supplied the name in a whisper—worked a spell to summon sweet water. She kneeled on the deck, an empty barrel in front of her rocking body. She was deep in trance and muttering softly. Elisabeth’s skin prickled with the magic she called. It rose up like a wave, reaching higher and higher, and when she was sure it would break and fill the container with liquid, it dissipated into the haze that engulfed the ship. Frida collapsed on the deck, exhausted by her fruitless efforts. Elisabeth chewed on her dry, cracked lips and turned away from the crew to glare out at the obscured horizon. They needed to find a way to escape. Rations were hard on a ship.

  “Take care of Frida,” she threw at Moira and made her way back to her cabin to think without the eyes of the sailors on her every movement.

  “Aye, captain.”

  At midnight on the fifth day, she stood beneath the haze that did its best to hide a sickle moon and howled a spell into the darkness. Six amulets broke as she pleaded with the sea to lift the curse. She thought she heard her mother’s laughter in the silence that followed, but nothing changed. The curse might not be her doing, but that didn’t keep the wraith from gloating at her daughter’s failure. Elisabeth shot a glare at the veiled and fickle moon, then left the deck without a backwards glance. In her cabin, she paced, and muttered, and ran through every bit of magic she knew for the hundredth time.

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  On the eighth day, Moira barged into the room, startling Cressia into blocking her path. Elisabeth pulled herself out of a deep trance with some difficulty, to watch the two women face each other. The thin line of Moira’s mouth and squinted eyes told the captain that she was angry. Beyond that, even the normally tidy quartermaster was looking haggard. A cut ran along her temple and a bruise shone on her jaw. Her breathing was ragged.

  “There’s been a brawl about the water, captain.” The words dropped into the tense room and sent ripples through it—Cressia stepped back, and Elisabeth brought her full attention to the quartermaster.

  The woman pursed her lips. “One’s dead, another injured.” Elisabeth sighed. Barely a week into the mess and the women were already killing each other. She was torn between being angry with Moira for allowing things to escalate, and being angry at herself for not defeating the curse before the bloodshed began. The fight was only the beginning of their trouble, she knew.

  “There’s talk that the death might lift this curse,” the quartermaster continued, when Elisabeth remained silent. She wasn’t surprised that the crew hoped that a death would release them, but without intention it was unlikely. She was a necromancer, and she hadn’t even felt the woman die. The spell that held them in place obfuscated more than the horizon. She rubbed her hand over her tired eyes.

  “I’ll be up to see to the remains,” she assured the quartermaster. The sailor deserved a proper seafarer’s burial overseen by her captain.

  “Do you think it might work? That we’ll be free of the Sargasso now that someone died?” Desperation sat heavy on Moira’s words.

  Elisabeth looked at the small window to her left. “Has the haze dissipated? Or a breeze picked up?”

  “No.” The response was quiet.

  “Then no. A murder has less power than a sacrifice.” Elisabeth turned back to face Moira. “The intent was to kill, nothing more.” Captain Wolf didn’t share that she wasn’t able to contact the spirits. Her entourage of ghosts was absent. No amount of calling summoned them. They were completely cut off from the world beyond the haze. And she didn’t tell her of her doubts and fears, the tears of frustration that had left grimy streaks down her cheeks until Cressia wiped them away. Still, all she saw was her failure to save her crew from this fate. Bodies began to pile up in her imagination---Helen, Moira, Cressia, the kitchen girl Madeline, the women who crawled through the rigging like they were born to it. Their names rattled around her mind like bones thrown across a stone floor. She saw her mother’s face, lips drawn wide in a grin. The ghost might not be able to reach her through the curse, but her own thoughts painted a clear picture.

  Elisabeth ground her teeth and fought the rising tide of self-doubt, of desolation. Submission was not in her nature. At her core, she was fierce, ruthless, and wily.

  No one held her down. No one and nothing put their boot to her neck. She was a necromancer. She was a pirate. She was a captain. The sea was her calling and magic was in her veins, her flesh, all the way down in her bones. Death was her strength and the road to salvation. It was the one thing that always held true, and the core of life as a necromancer. The superstitious crew might be right. Death, or rather sacrifice, might be the key to escape. Elisabeth chewed on her lip and considered the possibility. A few drops of blood hadn’t been enough to lift the curse, nor had a goblet full of the stuff thrown at an unseeing, uncaring moon. But death was different. A full sacrifice generated an immense amount of power and it might give her the strength needed to undo the spell. It was a lot to ask of the crew, she knew that, but if they didn’t escape soon they were all going down into the deep to feed the fish.

  “Captain,” the quartermaster broke into her brooding.

  “Moira. Death is the key. We need a sacrifice.” She met the woman’s eyes, and saw doubt in them. Her face felt fevered with the idea.

  “Are you sure? You just said it wasn’t enough.”

  “Yes. I’m sure. There was no intent behind the brawl other than anger, frustration. With direction, death can mean something. It can do so much.” Certainty settled into her bones as she turned over the idea. She watched Moira think it through, and saw grim determination enter her dark eyes.

  “I’ll ask for volunteers. After the funeral.” With the decision made, the quartermaster turned on her heel and left the captain’s cabin, leaving Cressia to close the door behind her retreating back.

  At dusk on the tenth day the women who crewed the Silence gathered together to witness a sacrifice. Elisabeth, Moira, Cressia and the volunteer Gwen, stood in the bow of the ship, wedged into its tip, looking down at the too calm sea. Anticipation filled the air with a hum that Elisabeth found difficult to ignore. Gwen stepped up to the rail.

  “We honor the sacrifice of our sister, Gwen. She came to us in Old Horvath. Beaten. Bruised. Full of righteous anger. We welcomed her with open arms and the freedom of the sea. Today, she gives her life to return the rest of us to that freedom.” Moira’s words dropped into a well of silence. Everyone assembled on deck was tense, waiting for the moment of sacrifice.

  Elisabeth closed her eyes and concentrated on the cold magic that flowed through her veins. The scent of decay filled her nose and she tasted grave dirt on her tongue. Without access to the spirit realm, the magic sunk into her body, bringing with it physical sensation. The still air grew cold around the necromancer, and it was a relief in the stifling heat. When she opened her eyes, they were clouded with death, their colour obscured. Her lips were tinged with blue and her veins stood out stark and black against skin that had lost any hint of tan. The blade she pulled from a plain sheath sung with thirst. She stepped behind Gwen, wrapped them both in power, and slit her throat in one smooth, confident motion. As the blood spilled out over the rail and into the sea, Elisabeth pulled on her magic and thrust every ounce of energy against the unnatural fog that held them in place.

  A sigh ran through the crew as the body tumbled into the water with a splash. A breeze moved over the ship a moment later, tugging at hair and clothing. A solemn cheer went up among the crew in the wake of the gust of wind. Relief and grief warring in the haggard women. But the welcome movement of air disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Stagnation kept them in place, and despair sank its hooks deeper into the crew.

  Elisabeth glared at the shimmering haze. She turned on her heel and moved through the women, her face still showing traces of necromancy, and her features set in a scowl, so they parted before her like stalks of wheat before the scythe. One death was not enough to lift the curse, she knew that now, but how many lives was she willing to sacrifice to gain the ship’s freedom? Anger curled hard and hot in her belly.

  On the eleventh day, two more sailors went over the rail and for a moment the horizon was visible to the women who remained on the Silence.

  On the twelfth day, three volunteers shed blood and life for the cause of freedom and there was a ripple in the sea. The ship heaved over a wave and the rigging jingled in the wind before returning to its stagnant position.

  On the thirteenth day, Elisabeth refused to leave her cabin. Sacrificing more women to the sea was unthinkable. The crew fell into despair. And Captain Wolf seethed in silent rage. The Sargasso was endless.