Chapter 80
The mainland emerged in our line of sight from the morning haze like a half-remembered dream. The smudge of brown cliffs grew clearer with each creaking lurch of our dying vessel. Two days had passed since we'd fled the island. Two days of listening to the S.S. Sea Biscuit protest its own existence with increasingly dramatic groans that threatened to plunge us into the ocean.
Sim had broken the news on our first sunset at sea, leaning against the mast (which was barely holding itself together) with the casual air of someone discussing the weather.
"Structural integrity's shot," he'd said, picking splinters from his sleeve. "We're not making it to the Royal Capital. Ship might not even make it if the it was just the goat aboard." He'd patted the animal in question, which responded by chewing on his belt.
Nobody argued.
