Zane.
I toss him a wave, then pull back, pinning my hair into a half-updo before I tighten the drawstring on my sack and check it’s secured, lower myself through the hole, then start the tedious climb down the ninety-five wooden rungs—five to every deep sway of the ship.
No sooner do I stamp my foot on the smooth, wooden deck, do I hear, “I used the cook’s morning shit break to snoop around the kitchen and forage for all the best bits he keeps hidden for himself.”
My small, secret smile is a stolen treasure I don’t deserve—gone by the time I spin and look into bright blue eyes framed by thick lashes and a shock of windswept, caramel hair. “Morning, Zane.”
“Managed to get this, too,” he continues, stabbing an eager hand into one of the many internal pockets of his well-worn, velvet cloak.
A gold token is waved in my face.
I grip his wrist, stilling the motion so I can study the token’s filigree face. “You little pickpocket. Is that a—”
“Bahari token. You have favor tokens in Ocruth, yeah?” He tosses it in the air before snatching it up. “Mine now. Figure the High Master owes me a favor.”
“That’s ... I don’t think that’s how it works.”
He shrugs, tucking it into the pocket of his rumpled pantaloons. “Worth a shot.”
“Aren’t you serving time on your uncle’s ship because your mother’s at her wit’s end with your thieving antics?”
Bit of a botched remedy since barely a day goes by where he’s not boasting his loot at me.
“Yeah, why?”
“Should you really be”—I drop my voice to a low whisper, using a hand to shield my words—”stealing gold tokens?”
He frowns. “You’re not gonna tell, are you?”
“Course not. I just don’t want to see you in trouble with the Captain.” I steal a glance at the broad-shouldered man standing at the helm, hand on the wheel, eyes cast ahead, a gruff confidence spilling from his easy stillness. “He looks the type to dish out tough love like it’s a privilege.”
“Only if you’re not his favorite nephew.” Zane drops to the deck, legs crossed, and looks up at me with wide eyes, his round, freckle-dusted face dashed with a mischievous, lopsided grin.
My heart twists.
A dazzling stare belonging to a different boy blazes in the forefront of my mind, and I swiftly shove it into that deep place I try to ignore.
I sit and stab my focus on the stack of fried flatbread, nuts, and dried fruits and meat, reaching for a strip of the latter.
Zane yanks the plate toward himself, eyes twinkling with a flash of mischief. I arch a brow, and pull the small cheesecloth parcel from my back pocket. His eyes widen with his broad smile as I wave it at him and hand it over.
He unravels it with frenzied hands, plucks the pickaxe free, his hand engulfing the small handle as he holds it in a blade of sun—scattering colorful confetti all over the deck while I pick at the food, chewing without rapture.
Best cuts or not, our meal pales in comparison to the feast of his wide-eyed wonder.
“I just love it so much ...” he whispers.
I lean my head against the mast, watching him twirl the wooden handle so shards of color chase each other. “I know you do.”
In the eye of a confetti storm, we sit in comfortable silence, sharing the plate of food while the busy crew keeps a wide berth, lumping crates together and securing them to the deck.
I’m aware of their glances, feel them bounce off my hardened regard without leaving a dent.
“Uncle said the storm’s regathered,” Zane mumbles around a dried fig. “That it’s chasing our wake.”
I look to the north. “I can’t see anything ...”
“He can taste it on the air.”
