“Against a drunken nymph maybe,” Smee snickers as he walks by. He goes into the big house with an air of self-importance I’d love to stomp out.
“I could kick that guy’s ass, right?” I ask Widow.
She winces. “Smee? I mean … He’s not the best at hand-to-hand, but I’ve seen him carve pure art with a rapier.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That sounds disgusting, if I’m being honest.”
“It was.” Cecco nods.
“Quit moving,” Bill grunts.
“Smee got into it with one of Anne’s boatswains. It ended with more blood than I thought a single body could hold.”
I groan. “Is there anyone on this ship who can fight at my level? Hey, wait, what about Cookson?”
Bill laughs and stops whacking Cecco’s back. “I once saw Cookson take a man’s head off with nothing but a strainer and a rusty potato peeler.”
“That’s right, you sorry cum-twang.” Cookson bursts from one of the cottages with a pot in his arms, then stops when he sees me. His face goes red. “Oh, no. Begging your pardon.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve actually been wondering where all the spicy pirate language was, but here we are.”
He limps closer to the fire crackling behind Bill. “Pay me no mind.”
“No, I want to hear more about this thing with the strainer and the potato peeler.”
“Aw that tweren’t nothing, miss.” He sets the pot on the iron grate over the flames. “Nothing ter brag about. You go on now. I wanna see you with a proper pig sticker getting ter work on this sorry lot.” He grabs a ladle and stirs the pot.
“He’s being modest. I saw the whole thing. I almost vomited,” Cecco says. “Brutal.”
With a newfound respect for Cookson, I go back to play fighting with Widow. Once she’s thoroughly kicked my ass about fifty times in a row, she sheathes her sword.
“Enough for now. If I beat you into the ground today, you won’t want to work tomorrow.”
“So true.” I lean on my sword. “Very wise.” This right here is why I skipped gym whenever possible in high school. At least the jocks aren’t picking on me, though. They actually seem to like me this time around.
“Go on. I don’t want to smell you at supper time.” She waves her hand in front of her nose.
“Harsh.” I laugh and head toward the house.
Widow and I haven’t spoken about what I said by the fire last night. I know I need to apologize to her, but I don’t need the entire pirate crew listening in as I grovel. Besides, I think her kicking my ass over and over was pretty good payback for me telling her she’s not real.
A bright blue frog is singing its heart out on the porch railing as I approach, its neon pink eyes nearly glowing in the gloom. I find myself wondering what the island would look like in the sun. As bright as it is at night, it must be beyond beautiful in the day.
Nessie rocks in her chair, her silver hair swept up in a high bun as she works on some embroidery. “I put some new things in your closet, my dear. Pants that actually fit you, a few tops, and I even made you a dress should you feel fancy.”
“You made clothes? Like with your hands?”
She nods. “James was kind enough to bring all the fabrics I asked for and more. An embarrassment of riches.” She grabs a large pair of golden scissors and cuts the thread she’s working on.
A chill goes through me, like someone just walked across my grave.
Nessie seems to notice and stows her scissors in her pocket. “Sometimes the thread is over.” She pats the front of her embroidery hoop with her fingers. “But others go on.” She flips it over and shows me a wealth of colored thread hanging through the fabric. “Such is the way of it.” She turns it over again, showing me an embroidered image of the golden tree at the center of the island. “Such is the way of all threads. They have to end.”
“We’re just talking about thread, right?”
She smiles and goes back to stitching. “Of course. What else could we be talking about? Tell me if you’d like anything else. I love making clothes.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I’m beginning to suspect Nessie is a lot more than a housekeeper.
