The side of my face prickles when Vanth emerges from the lower decks wearing fresh clothes and a complimentary scowl that only deepens when he catches me watching.
I refuse to look away. At least until the cook appears behind him—buckets swinging in his bloated hands, his rotund belly almost throwing him off balance with every step.
“Oh,” I mumble, planting my left foot on the deck so my leg doubles as a shield for the plate of contraband when he passes. A putrid waft of aged fish guts nearly makes me gag.
Favored nephew or not, if Zane gets caught thieving by the wrong person, Cap would be forced to inflict some form of corporal punishment or risk his social standing.
The cook stomps up the stairs to the helm, works his way to the back of the ship, and heaves a lumpy slop of offal over the balustrade amid a frenzied swoop of seagulls.
An eruption of splashing ensues.
“If the storm hits, it’ll be hell up there,” Zane says around a bite of jerky, pointing the frayed strip at my nightly perch. Eyes still on my twirling pickaxe, he kicks up his left leg, foot planting on the deck, shielding the remaining food as the cook wobbles past again. “They sometimes use it as a form of punishment.”
I don’t tell him that’s half the point.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, shuffling a little further from the ladder when Gage—the aftermast’s main barrelman—emerges from below deck and strides toward us, spyglass in one hand, a leather satchel hanging off his shoulder.
“Cap will drag you below once the storm reaches us.”
He can try.
I tuck my head and hone my focus on the food as heavy footsteps approach, a shadow falling over me before metal-capped boots settle in my peripheral.
Slowly, I roll my gaze up, straight into a pair of milky-blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
Unlike the rest of the crew, Gage’s head is shaved, showcasing his tattoo: a trail of inky buttons and stitches that spans across his skull, down the back of his neck, and weaves below his shirt—as though he’s stitched together like a patchwork doll.
Tucking the spyglass into his leather satchel, he digs through his pocket, pulls out a sharpened piece of charcoal, and offers it to me. “In case you want to add some shading to your scratchings.”
I look from the charcoal to his eyes and back again, reaching out to receive it. “Thank you …”
He nods, grabs hold of the ladder, and starts to climb.
I flick the gift over my fingers a few times and tuck it in my pocket.
Zane finishes the last of our meal, wipes his hands on his pants, and flattens the cheesecloth between us. He sets my pickaxe at the edge, then rolls it up—slow and gentle and precise.
If he’d seen the way that thing slugs through stone, he wouldn’t be so careful, but I love his delicate regard.
“He keeps looking at you,” Zane mumbles, stealing a glance toward the helm.
I’m aware that he’s not talking about his uncle, but my guard. The man who spends every spare hour of the day up there—five steps above me—boasting crossed arms, a puffed chest, and perfectly pressed pantaloons.
I take the pickaxe from Zane and stuff it back in my pocket, watching him set the tin plate on its side and flick it into a spin. “Vanth doesn’t like me very much.”
“I don’t think his brother does either.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother?”
“Your other guard, Kavan.”
Oh.
“I didn’t realize …”
Zane nods, a divot of concentration etched between his eyes. “They say you’re a witch. That you chew on acorn shells and pick mushrooms off piles of horse shit.”
Right.
