#*beings

“I’ve found it!” he declares, waggling it at her. “I’ve found The Book!” He said it in such a way that implied capitalization and emphasis.

“Sir,” Louisa says weakly, “unless you were searching for an eldritch grimoire, I don’t think…”

“Grimoire?” Fitzgerald demands. “This is no such thing. This is the fabled reality-warping Book! Upon which anything written will become absolute truth! I’ve only just begun mobilizing resources to search it, and one of my agents turned this up in a New Orleans swamp. New Orleans, Alcott! Can you imagine?”

She eyes the fat book in his hands, seemingly still dripping bogwater. “I can,” she says, a little hesitant. “But, sir, are you sure?” Something about the faded, nearly-illegible title tugs at her, making her feel uneasy.

“Well, even if I’m wrong, surely whatever’s inside can’t be that bad,” Fitzgerald says, in the tone of voice that suggests he thinks he’s being perfectly reasonable. He cracks open The Book without another word, skimming the pages with the single-minded intensity he only reserves for his wife and brewing his morning coffee.

Not that he brews his morning coffee all that often. That job falls more to Louisa these days.

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,’” Fitzgerald reads aloud. “This already looks promising! Alcott, should I summon the rest of the Guild for this, do you think? Or would that be strategically inadvisable?”

She doesn’t even need to use Little Women to answer that question. “Sir,” she says, projecting her voice to be heard over the hush of the waves, “perhaps you should wait for Twain and Montgomery to return? If The Book—” and she pitches the words more strongly, just to ensure he hears the capitals—“ends up being dangerous, we should have our most combat-ready member and our member with a containment ability present to mitigate any…”

“‘Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn,’” Fitzgerald recites, having stopped listening to her as soon as she said “wait.”

“Sir,” Louisa pleads, and is steadfastly ignored.

For a moment, it seems as if the words did nothing. Fitzgerald begins to disappointedly lower The Book. And then there’s a shriek of wind and water, so loud Louisa feels something in her ear go pop and trickle down her jaw.

Then, as a towering wave springs up out of nowhere and threatens to overtake the yacht, Louisa lets out a scream. Part of it is fear, sure, but most of it is utter frustration. “What good is hiring a strategist if you don’t listen to her?” she shrieks at Fitzgerald, who looks hilariously, exasperatingly gobsmacked as the wave begins to fall. “I’m never making you coffee agai—”

And then the water washes over her, so the only thing Louisa can do is struggle desperately upward for air.

After an interminable amount of time spend kicking her legs and flailing her limbs—oh, why had she scorned her swimming lessons as a child?—she feels a strong arm wrap around her waist and tug her upward. As soon as her head breaks the surface, she takes a great, heaving gulp of salty sea air, only halfway inhaling water, and chokes on a cough. “Wh—” she cries, before a swell buries her underwater again before bearing her back up.

“Steady on, Alcott,” says Fitzgerald, who she identifies as the owner of the arm ensuring she doesn’t drown. “Let’s find some wreckage to use as floaties, shall we?”

“Sir—” Louisa gurgles, before snorting ocean water up her nose and letting loose a hacking cough. She’s too busy trying not to inhale more and ignoring the burning in her sinuses to curse at him like she wants to, and instead lets him chivvy her through the water to a nondescript plank of wood.

“Here we are,” he says, seemingly unfazed, and positions her arms over it. “Breathe, Alcott. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You’re not drowning yet, not while you’re on my payroll.”

Louisa breathes.

“Good,” he says, once it becomes clear she’s not about to pass out. “Now, have you seen that book anywhere?”

At least he isn’t calling it The Book anymore, Louisa thinks dizzily. “Too busy trying not to drown, sir,” she says.

A wrinkle appears between Fitzgerald’s brows. “A shame,” he mutters. “Even if it was a book full of sea spells or some such, I could’ve fetched a hefty price for it on the market.”

“Sir,” she cries, too tired to be polite, “we have bigger problems than that book!”

“Like what?” asks Fitzgerald.

“That!” Louisa says, and lifts a shaking arm to point at the tall, naked man standing on top of the water like he’s Jesus Christ himself.

Fitzgerald blinks once, then twice. “I see,” he says. “You might be right.”