My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding by Charlaine Harris, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Jim Butcher, P. N. Elrod, Rachel Caine, Esther M. Friesner, Susan Krinard, Lori Handeland, L. A. Banks

that her life was totally out of control.
    Captain Lockhart had his hands on the massive oversized wheel, moving it by small increments. Steering by feel, she supposed; she couldn't see a damn thing, but his dark eyes never wavered from some distant spot in the mist. Maybe he had an earpiece under that wig. Maybe someone was hiding belowdecks with radar to guide him out. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise . . . No. She wasn't going to think about some actor sailing them blind out of a harbor.
    Canvas creaked, and she felt a sudden surge of acceleration. Lockhart's face relaxed into something that almost looked like a grin. His fingers caressed the wheel gently, and he shot a glance to the small man standing next to him.
    "Eastsou'east, Mr. Argyle. I leave her in your hands." He let go of the wheel, and Argyle stepped quickly up to grab it. "I'll see our . . . guests ... to their quarters."
    "Aye, sir," Argyle said, stonefaced.
    Lockhart descended, agile as a monkey, to the main deck and threw open a door between the two ladders. Cecilia, following, slipped on the wet decking despite her sneakers. "Get rid of the fancy slippers," Lockhart said. "Bare feet's best. Wouldn't want you going overboard, now, would we?"
    The words were bland, but the men working nearby laughed. Cecilia swallowed hard and remembered her resolve. She drew herself up straight and looked Lockhart in the eye.
    "I'm sure you wouldn't, Captain," she said, which wasn't exactly the comeback of the year, but it was, after all, her first attempt. "That wouldn't be a great advertisement for your cruise line, would it?"
    "Cruise line?" Lockhart echoed, and slowly smiled. "Ah. Yes. Of course."
    The cabin was a closet. Well. . . not quite a closet, maybe. It had two chancylooking hammocks, a nice porcelain sink and pitcher, an oil lamp hanging from a safety hook, and a closed pot in the corner on the floor. There were also two outfits laid out on the bed something true to the period, so far as her inexperienced eye could tell. Ian's was composed of a nice blue coat, a frilled white shirt, and some gray trousers. Knee boots.
    Well, at least Ian's looked like some approximation of Lord of the Manor. Hers came from Central Tavern Wench Casting.
    "Oh, hell, no," she muttered, holding up the lowcut shirt and bodice. "Ian, no way am I wearing this!Ian?"
    There was a thumping out in the corridor, and then Ian squeezed through the door, long hair straggling around his face. She'd never actually seen him look messy before. He tried to straighten up, bumped his head on the wooden ceiling, and cursed, glaring at the rafters.
    Lockhart's lips twitched. "Argyle will fetch you later," he said. "Be dressed."
    He slammed the door, and metal rattled. Cecilia, curious, went to it and tried the handle.
    It didn't turn. She tried harder. "Ian! Ian, he's locked us in!"
    "Probably stuck," Ian said grumpily. "Sea air."
    "No, seriously. It's locked." She braced one foot on the wall and yanked until it felt like her shoulder muscles might snap, then subsided, panting.

    Ian was holding the pot that had been in the corner. It was a nice one, white enamel, with painted flowers. "Why is there a pot under the bed? What are we supposed to cook?"
    She had to laugh when she explained the uses of a chamber pot. Authenticity.
    She suspected he hadn't wanted quite that much.
    And then . . . nothing happened. For what seemed like hours. Nothing to do, no television, no books, nobody but Ian to talk to, and she was afraid to admit it, but that was losing its charms. She tried out the hammock. It was surprisingly comfortable, and in fact, the swaying motion combined with Ian's monotonous pacing sent her right off into a doze.
    She woke up with a start when the door rattled again and banged open. Mr.
    Argyle, still in his fireengine red coat with its burnt holes over the breast, looked in.
    "Bother. You were told to get dressed," he said. "Captain expects you looking proper. Hop to it, then."
    He slammed