The Rustwake departed Threshold Anchorage under cover of a merchant convoy's scheduled transit window, exactly as Renna had arranged — slipping out amid a cluster of larger vessels bound nominally for the same general heading before peeling away, unnoticed, toward a destination considerably less official than any of theirs.
Rohan spent the departure sequence wedged into the ship's cramped third seat beside Dr. Farr, watching Threshold Anchorage's glittering, familiar silhouette shrink behind them on the aft display, feeling the same complicated tangle of relief and dread he'd felt on every departure since first stowing away aboard the Gilded Heron all those weeks ago.
Last time I left somewhere like this, I didn't know if I'd survive the week. Now I might actually be leaving this universe for good, one way or another.
