He grunted low in his throat, a sound of disagreement. “We could argue worthiness all day, but I can think of better things to save our breath for.” He plopped a kiss on the tip of my nose. “But not here. Not now.”

Pulling myself away from him, I inhaled several deep, calming breaths. “Right now, we’ve got more immediate issues to deal with. One in particular.”

Gideon’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”

“There was one item I left off Niffin’s list. I wanted us to see to it ourselves.”

“I saw your supply list. It seemed thorough.”

I took his hand and pulled him out to the street. “Yes, but how are we going to get to the island, without a—”

“Boat.” He clicked his tongue. “How did I miss that?”

“You can blame me for keeping you distracted, I guess.”

“Do you have something in mind?”

We tromped down the street, keeping our gazes trained on the canal, studying the numerous boats. Most were the narrow water taxis used to ferry people around the city, or the pleasure barges of the rich and elite. Neither would work for our purposes. “We need something strong enough to propel us through ocean currents.”

Tugging me to a stop, Gideon snapped his fingers. “I think I know the place we should look.” His expression turned serious. “How much money did Brahm give you?”

“A lot, but it’s not limitless. Brigette has been burning through it like kindling on a cold winter night.”

“Hmm...” He tapped a finger against his lip. “We might have to make this up as we go along.”

“Make up what?”

Gideon started off again, pulling me alongside him. “You’ll see soon enough.”

We stayed off the canal and threaded through the crowds on the streets. I lost my sense of direction in the city’s labyrinth, but eventually the tall buildings spread apart, replaced by lower, squatter structures that allowed for a view of the wide Isolas bay. Gideon’s route had spit us out several miles east of the hotel, in an area reserved for industry—boat making, primarily, it appeared.

Several wide warehouses crouched on the banks. Vessels in all states of construction and disrepair littered the yards and docks. A weathered old fishing boat, half rotten and riddled with holes, listed to one side in an open field between two buildings. A glistening new steam ship, something worthy of cruising the deepest oceans, floated at a dock as workers climbed about it like gnats swarming a carcass, hauling ropes and sails. A large, steam-puffing device with a long, tall arm and a system of pulleys and ropes loaded crates stamped with the word carbone onto the ship.

I pointed “Carbone? Is that—”

“Coal,” Gideon said. “Seems like only pleasure sloops and cutters or old retro-fitted ships still have sails anymore.”

“We don’t need anything very big or sophisticated.”

“No.” He jerked his head toward a smaller warehouse hunkering between two bigger ones. “That shop over there makes little steam-powered pleasure vessels for the weekend voyager types. Its seems the merchant class has developed a fetish for pleasure cruising.”

I squinted, but from our position, the details were vague. “How do you know this?”

“I got here several days ahead of you. I’ve had time to look around a little.”

“A little?” I gave him a hard look from the corner of my eye. “I knew you hadn’t been sleeping.”

Ignoring me, he gestured for me to follow. We hurried through the alleys behind and between warehouses, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Gideon might have passed for a dockworker with this big shoulders and broad hands, although anyone who worked around grease, oil, paint, and coal would never have kept their clothes as clean as his. When I’d dressed that morning, I’d been more concerned with Isolas’s hot sun and humid climate. I looked utterly out of place in my flouncy cotton culottes and white shirtwaist.

We stopped behind a heap of pallets stacked beside the small warehouse, and I tugged my Thunder Cloak out of my bag. Gideon nodded his approval as we eased closer to the docks. We spotted the boat at the same time and glanced at each other, our eyes wide with excitement. “That’s it,” he said, his voice low. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

A narrow white cruiser bobbed at the shallow end of a short dock. A black potbelly stove squatted halfway between bow and stern, its smoke stack protruding through a striped canopy shading the boat from bow to stern. “Not particularly inconspicuous, is it?” I asked.

“Maybe Brigette’s Magic could help.”

I held out my cloak. “I don’t know anything about operating a boat like that or even how to begin. I think you could make better use of the Thunder Cloak than I can.”

He took the fabric bundle from me. Catching the sunlight, the cloak glimmered like the canal waters where oil collected on the surface in rainbow slicks. He slipped it on, and the sleeves barely reached his wrists. The fabric strained across his wide shoulders. I bit my lip, trying not to giggle. But my next thought diluted my humor. “Assuming you can get away with it, where do we take it?”

This plan is a little too impulsive for my tastes, Grandfather said.

Rather than criticism, you could offer some help. Do you know a good place to hide a boat in Isolas?

How about in plain sight?

What?

You’re making this entirely too difficult. That fancy hotel of yours has a garage for watercraft, does it not? And as a paying guest, you have access to those facilities.

I blinked stupidly for several beats then shook off my stupor. “Do you think we could get it back to the hotel without being followed? It should have a garage. We can stash it there.”

Gideon canted his head. “That sounds too easy.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but why would anyone think to look for this boat at the Terrazzano?”

He drew his lips into a crooked grimace. “It might work. Look.” He pointed at several large boats chugging back and forth near the docks, most designed for bay or ocean travel. “The only boats in operation are the big ones—the ones that can’t follow us into the canals.” He scanned the shoreline, eyes narrowed. “Look at the smaller ones—no smoke, no sails. Their boilers are all still and cold. If we can get away from the docks before anyone notices us, the smaller boats will never heat their boilers fast enough catch up, and the bigger ones can’t track us.”

He drew the Thunder Cloak’s clasp closed, whispered my grandfather’s name, and faded into a shimmering, translucent ghost. “Wait for my signal, then run like your skirts are on fire.”

Grit crunched under his footsteps as he hurried away, but otherwise, he was imperceptible. As I hunkered in the shadows, holding my breath, my nerves buzzed like a beehive. There’s no way we’ll ever get away with this.

Have some faith, Grandfather said.

A minute ago, you were saying this was too impulsive for your tastes.

It is, but once a plan is made, you have to commit to it.

Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’m not running away.

Much later, when my muscles were sore and cramped from too much adrenaline and from staying still for so long, I finally spotted a puff of smoke from the boat’s little chimney. Something moved under the water, sending up a flurry of froth and bubbles. Gideon’s shrill whistle called me to attention.

“Here goes nothing.” I inhaled a deep breath and made sure no one was watching as I sprang from my hiding place and sprinted to the dock.

“Untie us,” said Gideon’s disembodied voice.

I unwound the mooring rope, tossed it into the boat, and jumped in after it. Crouching low, I hunkered near the floor as he stoked the fire, shoved a long-handled lever jutting from the floor, and turned the wheel. Something shuddered beneath us, vibrating floorboards, then our little boat chugged away—slowly at first but quickly gaining speed.

Gideon tugged off the Thunder Cloak and cursed under his breath as he glanced over his shoulder.