Farquil’s braids flew around her as she clambered up ship’s mast with the skill of a hardened air sailor. From the crow’s nest she could see—absolutely nothing. The clouds had settled on the ship about an hour before, sending chills through her. Until they could move the ship through this watery airslop they were sailing on mechanicals and what little magic Danver had left on the logs. They were sitting ducks for anyone who could see them on instruments and without a full day of magic allocation, in an attack they’d be matchsticks.