Page 121 of Rears & Vices

What D’Arcy had done in truth was counterbalance the effect Everard himself had had upon Varfolomey’s identity. When Everard had made himself Varfolomey’s proclaimed, advertised vulnerability, D’Arcy had threaded doubt through: But false, everybody see?

In this way he had protected Everard, too: from the very same hardship he was facing this moment. It had worked against Alarie, and probably would’ve done for longer, against others.

But then Everard had failed to take his pride in firm hand and had dangled himself deliciously before Jean Lafitte.

He understood now. Far too late; but at least he’d got there before his death.

If D’Arcy had come to Everard and said, Hit me, bruise me—nothing permanent, I’ll feign the rest—and in doing so you’ll protect everything we’ve worked for and the one you love, too, well… he might not have been able to go through with it, in the end, because it was D’Arcy, but he’d understand why one could do so, given a bit more distance of feeling towards the one being bruised.

And now they wanted Vitaliy—Varfolomey—to undo it all? To unravel everything for the sake of one man? He, Everard? Useless and worthless?

It was laughable.

The irony was that Lafitte hadn’t had musket sights on Everard until he’d met him, hadn’t known who he was to Vitaliy until Alarie had whispered in his ear what it meant for him to be there, at Alarie’s disposal, as Alarie’s port admiral. Hadn’t heard a thing about the matelotage or the San Telmo. Lafitte had been lost in the wilds of Arkansas, surveying land with a French-Creole mapmaker friend. Alarie had known where he’d been the whole time, and yet had let Lafitte take the blame for the San Telmo, which of course had been his own doing. He merely hadn’t counted on Everard not bringing her to make his navy flagship; had not counted on Vitaliy taking her on for his own.

It must’ve been the final blow against him.

The ultimate irony was, of course, that after accepting Everard’s forced surrender as a token of good faith, Lafitte had since taken advantage of Alarie’s absence and claimed Galveztown in the name of La Corona. He’d declared himself governor, and his men had declared for México.

Everard couldn’t see how any of it—beyond Mina and his intentions—was tied to true revolution.

He saw only greed.

Thirty-Three

On Everard’s twentieth day of imprisonment, the rations slowed and became irregular. The Lafittes weren’t violent men, and they didn’t know Everard was accustomed already to fasting; but they knew how to slowly kill a man, knew exactly how long it would take for a missive to reach Varfolomey, how long it would take for a meregildo to make her way back this side of the Gulf.

And once they decided to withdraw water rations, no amount of Everard’s being used to hunger would save him.

Thirty-Four

It didn’t matter. Everard was a naval man—would die a naval man despite the cursed earthwork currently surrounding him and the land beneath him—and many of those had died of thirst.

Thirty-Five

The walls trembled. Everard raised his head briefly to see tumbling bits of dirt fall like pill-bugs from cracks shearing into plaster. Earthquake? A battle? He couldn’t tell.

Then dizziness overcame him, and his head fell back. Vibrations in the earth continued beneath him, rattled his dried-out brain, staccato and rolling like cannon fire.

If this was what dying felt like, being taken up by the rumbling hands of the earth, then Everard didn’t want it. Too much like York.

But maybe, if the wall collapsed entirely and fell inward, it’d be fast.

He closed his eyes.

Softer than bricks, at the very least.

Thirty-Six

“Oh, Jesus.”

A hand beneath his neck, threading into the dirt and hair at his nape.

Of course an angel would have D’Arcy’s face⁠—

“Everard,” the angel breathed. “Everard.”

Their hand blazed, hot as fire. A demon, then. Slightly more accurate.