"I think it's over, Izzy."

Izzy doesn't like the floaty quality of his voice. "With – with Bonnet, you mean."

"Mm, no, just – over." His hand waves. "Pshht. Like that."

He doesn't know what to say that he hasn't said already. They'd been in here a whole watch. He tries again: "I'll send for some food, you can't – have –"

"Marmalade," says Edward, and there's that distance again. One time he sounded like that for a month and Izzy had to keep bandaging up his wrists in the mornings.

But he wasn't asking for rum, or poppy, now. Marmalade. He's got to be fucking with him – there's pots and pots of the stuff everywhere already. But all Izzy says is, "Sure, boss."

Edward shifts on his back, stares up at his demented bivouac. "It's all there is."

Izzy sighs, gets ready to crawl backwards away from his mad sultan once more. "Get some rest, Edward."