Waves lapped the side of the boat in a pleasing rhythm. Vantra leaned over the railing to look at the white foam stretching behind them and towards the far-distant mountains peeking through the hazy horizon, trying to lay her impressions of the pirates and their ship into some order.

The pictures she had in mind of pirate ships perfectly illustrated this one, though the explanation of the decks and terminology slipped in one ear and out the other. She enjoyed the brief tour given by a proud Drowned Dough, taking a special interest in the gold-painted carvings of shells and sea creatures on the balusters and the horseshoe-shaped, covered platforms attached to the outer bulwark that one could use to view the ocean during stormy weather, and which contained the bathrooms for the living. She liked the cozy cabin she, Laken, Kjaelle and Katta would share, though returned to the poop deck to behold the expanse of water surrounding them when a twinge of claustrophobia set in.

The crew nodded and smiled, and carried on with their work, no stray word cast her way. Perhaps Verryn’s presence kept them subdued, but Kjaelle’s declaration that show business, rather than being scourges of the sea, defined them now, was probably accurate.

“Have you sailed before?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Dough, who walked to her with hands clasped behind his back, hair fluttering in the breeze, then shook her head at the cheerful question. “Not like this,” she said. “I’ve ridden on ferries, and the Spiral Temple had a lake you could take small rowboats on. I went whitewater rafting once.”

She did not remember much about the experience except laughter and being wet, gigantic droplets slapping her face, and the chill that penetrated her fingers and toes after the waters calmed. She had gone with several of the children from the temple and they made a long day of it, which ended in campfire singing before climbing into a tent with netted windows and falling asleep to the fresh scent of night-damp pines and the chorus of various nightbirds and frogs.

He laughed and joined her at the railing. “During my time on Talis, we had pointy canoes you could use to brave rapids, but most considered it a sport for the too brave or the too stupid. I was a seaman, myself. The ocean had quite enough excitement for me.”

“I’ve read sailing in the Evenacht is treacherous.”

“It can be,” he admitted. “Depending on the time of year, sometimes even more dangerous than that. But the Loose Ducky’s never had a problem,” and he patted the handrail, beaming with pride. “Not that a time or two I didn’t think she’d end up at the bottom of the Sea of Winds, but she forged on, as strong and determined as us lot.” He leaned closer and cupped his mouth. “A reinforced hull coated in magic shields works wonders,” he intimated.

She smiled. “I’m sure it does.”

He stretched his arms wide, allowing his thigh-length, dark blue frock coat with large silver buttons to flap in merry abandon, before slamming his fists into his hips and taking an exaggerated breath. Unlike many other ghosts Vantra had encountered, the pirates enjoyed Physical Touch. They desired the feel of the ocean breeze across their faces, the patter of salt water against their skin, to work with the sails, and perform maintenance on the ship--everything they did while alive.

She still did not understand the sails. Yes, they made a striking silhouette, but were they not redundant because the ship’s power came from engines, not the wind?

“We shouldn’t worry about any of that,” he told her. “Rough seas or no, we carry a syimlin on board! Weather can show her displeasure and Water can be rough, but they both like Passion. Or that’s what the religious say.”

“That’s what I was taught.”

He nodded with solemn dignity, though his eyes twinkled. “That’s good for us. Weather collects her frustrations of the year and forms them into late-year storms in the Sea of Winds. Not the best time for sailing, but storms mean fewer patrols hazarding the waves.” He made a face. “Patrols aren’t fond of us pirate types and find all sorts of things to bloviate about when they board—including our very modern use of engines and propellers. Of course, if they try it this time, they can explain their harassment while stumbling over their words to Passion.”

Once patrols realized a syimlin rode with the pirates, they would hesitate to board them in the future, just in case they ticked off a deity, so she understood his anticipation.

“Sailing the spanses in the Evenacht can be dangerous for more than storm reasons,” he continued. “Mists can be sparser on the water, depending on whether it’s hotter or colder. This time of year, they form in the night, and you can get your fill of them, but they disappear during the day. If the mists get thick during suntime, a storm’s coming. Best stay inside, then, while we do the work prepping Ducky.

“There’s also the native pirates, but they don’t get far with us. Me mate Jal went to Badeçasyon, learned about interstellar munitions. Rigged us a fine set-up of fireball cannons that can tear those hulls apart. They run from us, now; most don’t want to see their own evening lands quite yet.”

“He went to Badeçasyon?” Was that not forbidden? Leave the invaders be, and all that?

He laughed. “The Gabridarço aren’t monsters. They’re beings a bloated empire threw at a defenseless planet that didn’t turn out to be defenseless. I’m of the mind the Flayn knew about the syimlin, they just wanted confirmation. They got it—and someone else paid for it.” He leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows. “Heard Death had a little talk with an emissary they sent to figure out why their expensive battleships suddenly went silent, and they skedaddled away faster than a dry sucks mist.” He tapped his fingers on his hips, his features falling. “Terrible for the Gabridarço, though. All they want is to go home, but, well, space travel isn’t known for magic mists that recharge a soul.”

True enough. Upon death, the invaders became spirits who entered the evening lands associated with the death deity who took their life. In the Evenacht, they behaved like any other ghost, which included absorbing energy from mists and facing the Final Death if they did not re-energize. Until someone discovered a viable way to form the essential mists required for the trip, the Flayn Monarchy ghosts would remain on Sensour, denied their culture’s afterlife. A terrible fate, if one wished to see friends and family again.

The deceased from the last hundred years that Vantra knew only held contemptuous pity for the Gabridarço, unlike the living. Sensour marked the anniversary of the invaders’ demise with a ten-day celebration in honor of death deities from around the globe, though all recognized Erse Parr’s role in triggering the death event.

The first day of celebration coincided with her birthday, Darkfall 2:10, which bitter Sun priests declared unlucky. For them, shame followed Erse’s potent act, for Ga Son, who butted heads against Death in many things, took a knee to honor her, in front of mortal and syimlin. His followers still did not understand his deference, and in certain sects, resentment had grown into hatred for Death, darkness, and their acolytes.

Sun reigned supreme among the syimlin, not Death.

Dough planted his elbow on the railing and held up a finger. “But the Day of Death is convenient for us right now. The religious are too pious to do else but celebrate a victory they had no hand in, which means the Voledanthes guard won’t chase us—who wants to bother with a drawn-out, ill-fated pursuit when they could be with friends and family celebrating Erse Parr’s triumph?”

Her essence stilled. That was today? How had she lost track of time to that extent?

“Not that we don’t indulge in our own little celebration. We play the lute and drum, dance a bit. Suck mists. Should be a sight this year, with you lot!” He grinned, and she returned it, though she inwardly quivered in sick dread.

Splashing jerked her away from the pirate. A hump the size of a small island rose from the depths, the knobby front expelling water from two gill-like fin protrusions, which rested behind beady black eyes. It curved and slid underwater, the rest of its four-finned, grey body trailing it. The wide, flat tail waved up and curled towards them before slapping the surface and slipping beneath the waves.

The ship rocked gently under the creature-born rush of water.

“A greol,” Dough said, nodding at the trembling waves left behind. “They’re a kind of whale, only larger, longer than you expect. They play rough.” He leaned over the railing and scanned the area. “Timids usually travel with them. They’re smaller, more agile, and look something like a tubby, no-neck cat with webbed claws and a fish’s tail.” He squinted at her. “Both Talis and the Evenacht have some odd creatures that roam the seas. It’s like Nature mashed some clay and sticks together, decided the product didn’t look quite right and tossed the results into the oceans to muddle about as they would.”

A bit blasphemous, in her estimation, but with a deity on board, she did not think they needed to worry about retaliation.

“But seeing them at the surface means the sailing’s clear, no storms for now.”

“Dough!” The voice echoed across the deck, and he straightened, exasperated.

“I told them to talk to the navigator,” he grumbled, smacking at his thighs before gripping her shoulder and motioning to the sea. “A spectacular view, especially at dawn and dusk,” he said, then wandered away.

She stared about. Water, in all directions, but for the wide open ship decks. No place to escape to, no place to curl into a small ball and ride the depression, the unhappiness, the pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, hiding everything in a brief moment of darkness, then whirled and fled to the room, hoping the mini-Joyful enjoyed each other’s company somewhere else, so she could mourn in peace.

Kjaelle squinted at her from the lower bunk, snuggled in a thick blanket and indulging in a book offered to Katta by one of the sailors, the caroling cuddled into the crook of her neck, asleep. Laken sat at her side, attention on the words. “What’s wrong?” she asked, suspiciously regarding the closed door to their shared room.

“Nothing.” Vantra winced away from the electric lamps that resembled old-fashioned oil ones, lighting the room a tad too bright in her estimation, and sank into one of two plain wooden chairs next to a square, dinged table hinged to the bulkhead. She wanted to wrap her pain into a bundle and toss it away, but could not while under elfine scrutiny. “But I think the pirates are planning a celebration. Dough said it’s Day of Death today.”

Kjaelle blinked, then frowned in thought. “Is it?” she asked. “Sometimes days are fleeting in the Evenacht. I hadn’t realized it was that late in the year.”

“The Finders taught that most ghosts aren’t as attuned to the Day of Death as they are to other religious observances because it’s a recent event. They said we needed to remind the deceased that older spirits are not insulting Erse Parr or the celebration.”

“Day of Death?” Laken asked, sarcasm lining his words. “I don’t recall talk of it in the Fields.”

Vantra found that strange; she would have assumed a Finder or two would have mentioned it at some point, if the resentful newly Condemned did not. “A hundred years previous the Flayn Monarchy, an interstellar empire, thought they could slaughter and then conquer the peoples of Sensour. They sent a fleet of large battleships manned by a subjugated people, the Gabridarço, to open talks with world leaders. Five days later, with fake outrage, they threatened war. They sent smaller fighting ships to capitals, expecting a quick victory over a non-space-faring populace, but discovered that the less-sophisticated planet had defenders unwilling to roll over for them. Some of that was due to deities battling alongside their people, some was due to the mettle of mortals.

“Anyway, Verryn joined the battle, and when he realized the invaders’ technological advantage, he convinced Death to fight. She showed up at the Keelsland capital, Yimbarkaine, and, well, didn't fight, really.”

“No, she sucked the life out of every invader sent to Talis,” Kjaelle said, dark satisfaction simmering through her words. “And then she targeted the beings still on the battleships moored above the planet. She persuaded other death deities to do the same, by example and by a simple reminder that more trouble would come if they didn’t put up a fierce resistance. The complete annihilation of the fleet by magical intervention terrified the Flayn. They retrieved their ships and placed a no-fly zone around Sensour.

“The Flayn weren’t the only shocked beings. A huge upheaval rocked the lands of the living afterwards. Skeptics needed to explain living deities rather than moan about fantasies used to control the masses through fake divine morality, and they didn’t know what to do other than call them out for their refusal to intercede in everyday life. Political leaders demanded divine approval from every syimlin. Others, hungry for spiritual recognition they hadn’t earned, overwhelmed temples. The already-religious hated the glut of their communities by insincere, late-to-the-show followers, and they hated the demands of the brand-new pious even more.

“The syimlin withdrew from daily interactions, uninterested in vapid respect, though they created special holidays where they spoke to and interacted with their devotees. Well, the Greater did.” Her sarcastic laugh filled the cabin. “Some of the lesser syimlin chose to live among the peoples of Talis, soaking up acolytes because large followings gave them more power among their peers. They brag they are more popular than the Greater Syimlin. They’ll learn, what it’s like to have mortals use their divine favor to commit atrocities, and the following destruction of their reputation when their faithful fail and fall and take them along for the ride.”

Laken snorted. “A pretty tale,” he muttered.

“Many think so.” Kjaelle raised an eyebrow at him. “To honor Death for saving Sensour, spirits celebrate an entire yilsemma, like the living do. Ghosts flock to Death and Darkness temples and Shade enclaves for the festivities. Greyshen sponsors a theater performance every year, and Lesarat gets overrun for the full ten-day run.” She set the book aside, ignoring Laken’s protest. “I wonder how the pirates celebrate.”

“Dough said they play instruments and dance,” Vantra said.

“I suppose it gives them a chance to do something other than sit around in Ether form and absorb mist at night. Red asked about the crew while you were up top, and Dough told him he has just over three hundred ghosts on board because of the threat of native piracy and the fact that they skirt habitations that might otherwise help in a confrontation. They won’t dock in the Windtwist Islands or on the Grace of Nem Hala like typical ships making their way from Fading Light to Uka’s Lament, but maintain a straight course to Snake’s Head. Dough says a few places along the Fallows and the Jaw are safe for them, but they prefer to just head right to Merdia.”

“If they are re-enactors, why is the law so interested in them?” Vantra asked.

Kjaelle chuckled. “That’s not how they want to see themselves, so they promote being pirates instead—and have fun dealing with the repercussions.”

After a polite knock, the door opened and Katta walked in, amused about something. The caroling woke at the noise, cheeping in annoyance. He perked up when he noticed Vantra, and whisked to her, landing delicately on her shoulder and rubbing his head against her chin. “The first mate says we should join them on the second deck,” he said. “They’re celebrating Day of Death.”

“Isn’t that odd, for pirates who died thousands of years ago?” Kjaelle asked, grabbing Laken and rising.

He shrugged. “I think they use it as an excuse to honor their stints in the Fields,” he said. “Most are proud that they spent time there, surviving what so many don’t.”

“Surviving?” Laken asked, dark annoyance swimming through his voice. “There’s no surviving to it.”

“Some heads will themselves into the Final Death,” Katta replied. “Resentment typically keeps them whole, but a few lose all hope and fade away.” He snarled, startling Vantra. “The Finders have failed, in too many ways, accepting money to Redeem those not ready, over those who will be no more without help.”

She wracked her memory, trying to find a mention of such a travesty. Heads could fade into Final Death? She was certain that Nolaris mentioned nothing of it, and just as certain that every book she read on the subject never spoke of it. Death placed the Condemned in the Fields for a reason, and the Final Death interfered with her punishment. Why else were the heads denied the ability to create an Ether form until after Recollection—they needed to stay put until they regretted their terrible deeds.

The thought of the UnRedeemed fading away because no one would help them pricked the sadness flooding her. Waiting, hoping, finding inner peace, but seeing Condemned who showed no regret selected for Redemption by Finders seeking money rather than holy absolution . . .

“So is grumpy Laken up to a pirate celebration?” Kjaelle asked, hefting him up.

“I’m up to anything pirate,” he said, outraged. She giggled and waltzed to the other acolyte, whose amused skepticism annoyed the captain even more.

Vantra looked down; she could not participate. Her emotions tightened at the thought of cheer when she could do nothing but cry.

“Are you coming, Vantra?” Kjaelle asked.

How she produced a smile, she did not know. “I need a little quiet. I’ll catch up.”

The elfine’s renewed suspicion, reflected in Katta’s concerned look, meant she failed, but they respected her wishes and left without her. A single tear fled down her cheek, and the caroling’s worried cheep cracked through the shattered wall she placed between herself and others.

Vantra sat on the raised rear platform overlooking the lapping sea, hoping no one noticed her hiding spot. She huddled against the railing, cupping the overwrought caroling to her chest, bathing in the soft mist rising off the waves. Raucous laughter from the middle of the ship caught her attention, but she returned to the otherwise empty water, wishing to drown the noise in nature’s unobtrusive quiet.

That day. Her birthday, and not just Day of Death, but her death day.

Her mother’s image bloomed in her mind’s eye, the tears rushing down her face as she screamed for an ambulance. She recalled the pain, the disbelief, the agony . . . she tried to reach for her one last time, touch her cheek, but could not move her arms. Dead weight, dead soul.

She sucked in a sob, raised her knees and buried her face in them. She knew her mother had sent the death-dealers to the Evenacht in a Sun-filled, broken fury. She knew, she would wait for the day her mother arrived in the Fields, punished for the vengeful murders of those who killed her child. She would sneak in, despite Finder animosity, and she would whisk her mother to safety.

She would save her from a system that let the Condemned fade into the Final Death for no reason other than greed. She would save her mother, as her mother could not save her.

She popped up, startled, as a hand settled on her back.

“Hey, are you alright?” Vesh asked, his voice deep and gentle as the waves.

An explanation refused to form. She could not speak as tears trickled down her cheeks. He did not pester her, but sank down next to her, wrapped his arms about her, and held tight.

“They’ll miss you,” she whispered into his shoulder. She had heard his lute, heard him and Red singing fast songs, accompanied by claps and shouts and laughter.

“And if they do?” he asked.

She had sat by herself in her small hut for the last five years, sobbing alone, terrified of bringing her pain to others. Not everyone had a good death, not everyone wanted the reminder, and she could not harm another because she needed comfort. Yet Vesh did not mind.

The world shrank until her own weeping and the caroling’s cheeps became the only things to fill her ears, until her agony and the warmth emanating from the other ghost became the only things she sensed. She agonized over her mother, how a day of celebration would only hold sick despair and pain for her, how the cheer of others would remind her of the daughter lost, of thick betrayal, of the Sun’s refusal to interfere.

Her mother had reiterated to Vantra that Sun watched over and cared for them, but when it mattered most, he let his dissatisfied acolytes poison her, rip her from the land of the living. No care, there.

Light and Darkness worked through Katta and Qira. Sun must have found her as tainted as those who murdered her, or he would have interceded. Had they taken her mother’s priesthood away, at the obvious show of unworthiness?

The sphere of bleakness cracked on a soft, sympathetic voice. Solace wrapped about her heart and soothed her distress, smoothing the hard edges, salving the thousand pricks of pain puncturing her anguish.

Kjaelle. She sang as beautifully as Red.

The elfine enveloped her from the other side, another warm essence to calm her, ease her from obliterating sorrow. The caroling fluttered, then subsided and rubbed his head across her chest. She lowered her nose until the tip touched his fuzzy head.

“The sea is a lonely lover,” the elfine said with quiet melancholy. “It births many things, but can only provide shelter, not receive it. So it cries silently under the sun and moon, forever denied another’s embrace.”

“I didn’t mean to keep Vesh,” she whispered.

“That’s not what I mean. You need him far more than the rowdies inside,” Kjaelle told her. “Besides, he’s a grand pillow.”

“I am,” he agreed, his tone as mellow and warm as cookies just pulled from the oven.

Vantra wiped at her face, the tears cold on the back of her hand. She still had no idea how she could cry; water was not part of the essence that powered them. She did not know, how she could feel the chill they produced. What was wrong with her, that she perceived these things when so many other spirits did not?

“He’s sat with me too many nights to count,” the elfine said. She lifted an elbow and nudged him. “Sometimes I wonder why you bothered to stick around.”

He laughed, subdued. “Providing comfort is never a bother.”

“You’re both here,” Vantra said, uncertain whether she lamented their presence or not.

“Because you need us.” Kjaelle patted her leg. “It’s hard when memories kick like a horse, especially those you most wish to forget. But even eight thousand years can’t mend some of them, can’t obliterate the pain. One worries on them, so they are ever living, ever tormenting.”

“This . . . this will never disappear.” She shuddered and rubbed her cheeks, her nose, harder. The caroling cheeped and fluttered his wings against her chest. “Today’s my birthday.” Both looked surprised, a light dawning across their faces. “And my death day.”

Kjaelle blinked. “You died on your birthday?”

The tears began again, but the once-absent speech poured forth. “I was supposed to accept responsibility as my mother’s heir for the Sun temple,” she whispered. “A grand party, to celebrate my nineteenth birthday and my ascendancy. But other priests were upset. They hated that I wasn’t pretty like my mother, thin like my mother, that I was dull and boring, compared to my mother’s Sun fire.”

“Assholes,” Kjaelle gritted.

“And they knew, I wasn’t fit to become priestess after her. My mother never told them who my father was. They assumed he was too low-brow, too embarrassing, so she hid him away and pretend he had the genes needed to produce a viable heir. They poisoned my acceptance meal, to get rid of me.” She choked. “I remember not being able to breathe. And my mother, hovering over me, screaming for an ambulance, and I wanted to hug her, have her make it better, save me as she always had. I was scared, I was in agony for my mother. But everything went dark, and I regained consciousness at the Tunnel.” Her fist trembled, and she could not unclench her fingers. “And she killed them in turn. She’s going to end up in the Fields. I have to Redeem her. I have to—”

Kjaelle smoothed her hair behind her ear. “You will, if it comes to that. But the syimlin are not as harsh as you may think concerning vengeful transgressions. Their long past cultures held different views, different ways, regarding honor and sins. Look at Zibwa’s people. They had an entire class of laws associated with revenge, and he still follows those dictates even though modern Talis sensibilities find much of it repulsive, especially when performed by the Healer’s hand.” She settled her cheek against Vantra’s hair. “Death hails from a time and place where honor codes guided retribution. She’s more sympathetic than you think to your mother’s grief-inspired acts.”

“You love your mother, you worry for her, but your fears are unfounded.”

Vantra looked up as Katta set his elbows and leaned back against the rail, crossing one foot before the other. In his dark attire, he blended with the night but for his blue eyes, which shone like bright chips of gemstone. “It is true, vengeful acts in modern Talis are looked upon with disgust. People prefer trials rather than vigilante hands, ignoring the fact many judges conducting them are corrupt. Justice is a rare commodity because people don’t really want justice—they want their personal beliefs reinforced, and they don’t much care about sacrificing innocents on that bonfire as long as the decisions inspire a sense of safety. That leads to a sad continuation of abuse and exploitation by those claiming to uphold laws. So it has been for eons, and so it will be for eons more.

“Death, however, looks into souls. She sees those who refuse to accept their deeds, who believe their actions do not warrant punishment and so they can’t be responsible for the pain they caused their victims and unintended others. She sees those who hide behind the excuse of the divine guiding their hands, or their religion’s authority, or their society’s consent, or their family’s approval. She knows repentance comes in many forms, and not all need to rest in the Fields to find it. Do you think, your mother will justify her actions based on her status as a high priestess of Sun?”

Vantra frowned and shook her head. “No.”

“Do you not think she will redress her harm before she dies? Redemption isn’t a trip through the Tunnel or a thousand-year wait in the Fields. Redemption isn’t a guilty conscience and a vague sense of regret. It’s a soul-wracking acknowledgment of what one did and how those actions harmed others, and the profound desire to make amends, even if the amends are disbelieved or not accepted by those harmed. That can be done, alive or dead.” A small smile lit his face. “I’ve never had the impression from you, that your mother will hold vengeance so dear, it will destroy her. So don’t mourn for what has not yet happened. You may well spend years anticipating and planning for something that will never occur.”

She smashed her lips together in instant denial. She just assumed her mother would not pass Death’s Judgment because those who poisoned her ended up in the Fields and they only killed her, a single person. Her mother slew all of them.

“It’s part of the reason Veer created the Tunnel,” Kjaelle said. “It’s a mirror of the soul, and the spirit’s reaction to what they see indicates whether they regret what they did or not.”

“The Beast’s abuses needed rectification,” Katta reminded her drily. “His judgments failed and Veer’s creation of the Tunnel attempted to salvage what remained of afterlife justice.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t have to remind me,” she gritted. “Some of us suffered through his decree.”

“I know,” he said, the words blending with the waves.

“That’s part of Erse’s Judgment, you know.” Kjaelle turned to her, fire glinting in the depths of her gaze. “She accepts she isn’t perfect and rectifies her mistakes. The Beast accepted bribes as easily as a Finder for unjust judgments. Thousands who deserved a new start in the evening lands ended up in the Fields, desperate to make amends but having no idea what they did to earn their punishment.” She snorted. “I was one of them.”

Vantra’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”

She rejected the words with an abrupt shake of her head. “We know, what living under a corrupt Death is like, what it means. When you’ve been judged for something not your fault, but cursed to the fields—and I mean cursed, literally—”

“Kjaelle needs a grandma hug.”

Vantra choked on disbelieving laughter, not only at the unexpected declaration, but at the flabbergasted look on the elfine’s face. Mera hopped up to her and snagged her head, smashed it into her breast, and rocked back and forth.

“I will kill you,” Kjaelle said, her words muffled.

“I’m already dead, dearest,” Mera said cheerfully.

Vantra stared at them one moment, then had her own face smooshed into a breast the next. Vesh protested, wincing, as Tally squeezed tight.

“You know that grandma hugs make everything better,” she cooed, and the twins giggled together.

“Don’t you mean great-grandma hugs?” Katta asked drily.

He should have remained silent. Mera reached up and snagged his neck, dragging him down; he squawked as she squeezed him and Kjaelle together.

“Great-grandma hugs are even better,” she said, with a tinge more gritty force than her cheer.

The twins were great-grandmothers? They looked and acted nothing like wizened matrons!

When Mera released them, Vantra swore Katta’s cheeks burned as crimson as Red’s hair. Kjaelle attempted to bottle her laughter, though squeaks emerged. She held out her hand and waved, as if her palm might prevent her mirth, and the Light acolyte joined her, too amused.

“It’s getting chilly out here,” Tally said, sucking in the thickening mists before patting both her and Vesh on the shoulders. “Come inside! While painful at times, the pirates aren’t all that bad at dancing.”

“Or singing,” Mera admitted.

“Opinions differ,” her twin claimed.

Vantra protested, but Tally slipped an arm about her and urged her from the poop deck to the main deck, and then to a door in the forecastle that led to a ladder. Noise drifted up from below, though not as loud as she anticipated. Giggling, the Light acolyte hopped down the treads and to another door, which she flung open with gusto.

The wood-paneled room flickered yellow, as if lit by several wind-abused candles, the overhead disappearing into a deep black mist that resembled the night sky. Mist filtered in through open ports, though the chill did not accompany the haze. The clustered pirates ahhed at the spray of glitter following Red’s hands as he flung them up.

Silence, before light popped and sparkles blew away from the flaring interior, like fireworks. Vesh planted his hands on her shoulders and pushed her inside as she gaped at the beautiful display. Some erupted small, some large, some looked far away, some near enough to touch. Magic glitter floated down and coated all in attendance, whether in Ether or Physical form; the caroling peeped and wagged about, shedding the bits onto her.

She did not care.

Red grinned as the mini-Joyful joined him, Lorgan, Laken and Verryn at the table he sat upon. “My people called birthdays Luck Days,” he told her. “Because it was luck anyone survived their birth.”

That shocked her. And how did he know, what bothered her?

“And they also called the day one died a Luck Day, because the deceased finally made it out of the shitty existence called life.”

The other ghosts chuckled at her disbelief.

“So may your birthday and death day turn to a Luck Day,” he told her. The pirates and the mini-Joyful cheered the declaration, all but Laken, who looked as suspicious as she felt.

A Luck Day. She smoothed her hair back, thinking of the pirates and their perceptions of themselves as privateers rather than historical enactment players. Might she change her perception, cast her birth and death day in a positive light? She doubted she had the skill, but Red gave her something to think about.

She settled against the table edge near him; he batted her shoulder before triggering the second act of the show, a spectacular display of bright color and light-painted nature images against the darkening mist. Katta’s doing? A wondrous reminder, that Light and Darkness walked hand in hand through the Evenacht, bringing joy where they tread. Or sailed.