the Captain whispered, careless of the seawater dripping from his mustache. “This place isn’t going to be a stroll in the park like the Lemuria Outcropping. Just follow my lead and try to stay quiet.” Then he opened Miles Macintosh’s bedroom door. By this point I was having a much harder time ignoring my own soggy state. My soaked underclothes were bunching up in a most uncomfortable way, and we both stunk of dead fish. Merlin seemed waterlogged, too. The poor bird tried to shake himself dry, but I could still hear water inside whenever he moved—like it was sloshing about in a tin can. Still, I did as I was told, tiptoeing along the hardwood floor as Merlin sat quietly on my shoulder. At least it felt good to be on dry land again. Miles Macintosh’s bedroom was mostly dark, and what light there was came from a dim fireplace in the far wall. It was early morning outside the window, not yet dawn, and the fire had burned low until it was little more than a pile of glowing ashes.
