Jack stood near the prow of the ship, a bit put out at John’s newfound confidence. Aven and her crew were taking direction from the Caretaker as if the fiascoes of the previous days had never occurred. It was bad enough that the potboy from Avalon acted as if John were a knight and not just a mediocre scholar from Oxford, but Jack couldn’t understand why Aven seemed to forgive and forget so quickly. He didn’t resent the fact that as captain, Aven had to consult with John about the navigation. He just couldn’t understand why she had to keep smiling at him as they conferred.
The fauns seemed to have the ship’s operations well in hand, so Jack excused himself from the group and went belowdecks to do whatever it was that could be done on a ship to look productive and kill time.
“There are a few gaps in the order,” John was explaining as Jack elbowed his way past to the hatch, “due to the Shadowed Maps. I don’t think the maps have disappeared entirely. If we knew what caused them to vanish, we might be able to reverse it—but it may be that the only one who does know that is the Winter King, and I’d rather avoid asking, if we can help it.”
“When the Winter King conquers a land, its map disappears from the Geographica?” Bug asked.
“Yes,” said John. “The outlines of the lands themselves remain, but they are covered in shadow.” He thumbed through several pages until he came to one of the vanished maps. It was a yellow-tinged sheet of parchment, like many of the others, but taking the place of the illuminations and notations were several large, indistinct smudges, as if the drawings had been hastily rubbed out.
“What happens to the people?” said Bug. “The ones who live in the Shadowed Lands?”
“They become something called ‘Shadow-Born,’” said Bert, “although I’ve rarely seen any myself.”
“Is that like a Wendigo?” asked Charles. “Worse, if you can imagine that,” said Bert. “Wendigo, as bad as they are, are little more than mercenaries. Shadow-Born have long been rumored to be the darkest of the Winter King’s servants. They are shells, living without true life—dark, cloaked figures, mute, who do his bidding without question. Or remorse,” he added. “How it is done, I cannot tell—all I know is what the stories say: that the Winter King somehow steals and traps the shadows of his victims, and forever after compels them to serve him.” “What do you mean, ‘true life’?” said Charles. “That’s another rumor,” said Bert. “It’s said that the Shadow-Born cannot be killed. If it’s true, then they would be worse than any Wendigo.” Aven looked at John. “How many maps in the Geographica are Shadowed?” “Perhaps a quarter of them.” No one had anything to say after that. John estimated that the Cartographer’s island was maybe a full day’s sail away, give or take a few hours. Aven conferred with Bert, while Jack and Bug pretended to examine one of the ramshackle cannons near the cabin—where they could also keep an eye on Aven. Aven glanced around and caught Bug staring at her. He blinked and immediately began examining knots in the rigging—which came loose, much to the dismay of the fauns. “Sorry,” said Bug, who moved quickly to the other end of the ship while the crew re-drew the rigging. Aven smiled, then frowned and furrowed her brow. “What is it?” asked Bert. “There,” she said, pointing behind them. On the horizon, moving fast from out of the setting sun, was the shape of a ship. The Black Dragon had found them once again. The crew quickly mobilized, and in moments there was no question: It was definitely the ship of the Winter King. Aven continued watching through the spyglass, as if confirming something she hadn’t expected to see. “What is it?” asked John. “Trouble,” said Aven. “Really?” John said. “I hadn’t guessed.” Aven shot him a poisonous look and turned to her father, handing him the spyglass. “That’s not what I 
