There was nowhere to go. This cursed vessel was large, but nothing shy of an entire continent would be enough to hide Fitzroy Prewett from Matilda’s husband whose sister’s virtue he had just plucked and they were far too far from shore—and further still from a familiar shore—for the wizard to be even vaguely comfortable apparating. Instead, though he dressed hurriedly, once clothed he was practically vibrating with nerves and a need to be elsewhere but no means to make it so.

And then it was too late.

Any blood left in Fitz’s face drained altogether as he locked eyes with Domitian Zabini.