Page 136 of Tempest

It tasted like sweet fire, burning her to the core.

Chapter Twenty-Five After

CAT HAD NEITHER the time nor inclination to worry about Jasper Fell once he was out of her sight, hopefully for good. She buried whatever niggling concern she had for him and left the tavern, eager to carry out the next step in her plan of escape. After all, it promised to be the most enjoyable. She could not help grinning as she walked, feeling the gold and silver in her purse. Better still was the comforting weight of her pistol. Without Fell dogging her steps or his crew with their judgement, she felt lighter than she had in many weeks.

For the first time in six months, she was out from under the Meridian flag. Cat Rose answered to none but herself again, as it always should have been. As Fell promised it would be, she thought, wincing. But all his promises, and the promises of any other Meridian man, were fleeting as the wind. Cat knew that intimately now, trusting only what she could hold in her own two hands or her purse.

At least their coin is real, she thought, passing a penny over to a vendor at a window. The Arcayan man traded her for a clay bowl of cold conch flavored with citrus and sweet peppers. Cat’s stomach growled and she tucked in, eating the shell meat as fast as she could before returning the bowl.

With her sun hat tied back in place, she moved freely but kept careful observations of her surroundings. She glimpsed many faces, sharply recognized or distantly familiar, and wondered how many sailors now in Nera had passed through the Widow Rose over the years.

Too many, she thought.

She was quick to procure a room for the night at a nearby inn, well-appointed, with flowers climbing up the limestone balconies. But she did not linger, no matter how inviting the bed looked.

It was only a matter of time before she would have to move on from Nera, and the sooner the better. As always, Cat felt the clock ticking. Idly she reached for her pocket watch, only to remember it no longer hung from her belt. She winced, wishing for the old watch and its slowing seconds, but the faded rose was long gone, smashed in a forgotten tower.

She dulled the pain with procuring provisions for her journey, both the necessary and enjoyable kinds.

Great looms ran the walls of the dressmaker’s shop, and Cat marveled at the jewel-colored fabrics stacked on the shelves. Her fingers trailed along bolts of maroon embroidered in gold and rosy pink edged in green thread.

Colorful as they were, they reminded her of her old clothing in her closet on Keystone Street, ranging from well-tailored dresses to fitted shirts and breeches, her patterned scarves and shawls, chemises, petticoats, leather belts, custom shoes, hats decorated with flowers and feathers, not to mention a forest of ribbons.

It felt stupid to mourn clothing, but Cat could not help herself. They were a hard contrast to the garments she wore now, returning to simple black dresses befitting a widow.

And a broken heart.

She would not dare think of the jewelry left behind in Archenport, lest she lose her head entirely.

When one of the Arcayan dressmakers approached, Cat was quick to jingle her purse. She was soon surrounded by artisans, all smiling as they draped and pinned her into place. They were well-versed in island fashions, mixing Arcayan embroidery with a more Meridian silhouette, all in lighter linen and cotton, fabrics best suited to the Lyrian heat. In minutes, they had her in a clean shift while they paraded bolts of cloth in every color, holding them out for examination.

Cat hesitated, eyeing every shade from ruby to turquoise, copper to violet. She had not worn such brilliant pieces since before the republic fell and the Lion rose over Archenport. And even then, she did so sparingly.

You do not have to play the widow anymore, she told herself, even as her chest ached. Her fingers trailed until they tripped over a far more subdued length of cotton, the familiar color beckoning.

“Black, please,” she said in shaky Arcayan, though her husband was long dead.

But it was not Ryman Rose she mourned.

The artisans set to work, their skilled hands measuring and sewing. One tailored the dress to her exact measurements while another did the same to a set of garments on the floor, leaving Cat to her thoughts.

Her mind was a running list of tasks to be accomplished. The first had already been crossed off—lose Fell and the Fledge. With the captain taken into custody by pirates, she had no cause to fear him anymore. Vex would ransom him or kill him, and neither option changed her plans. No matter what, Cat intended to leave Nera behind, sailing for Itzima and the Southern Continent.

Which brought her to the next and more challenging tasks—summoning Moseley and rebuilding all they had lost. After ten years working the Widow Rose, not to mention informing to Jasper Fell, Cat had amassed quite the fortune. Some of it would have to be left behind, lost for good. But hardly all.

Again, Cat was glad for her foresight and careful planning. There was a good sum waiting for her in the Noble Bank of Itzima. She need only reach for it.

But not enough for the life I deserve, the life I already earned, she thought bitterly, gritting her teeth. Meanwhile, the seamstresses diligently piled scarves and shirts, all in black as instructed, wrapping them up in paper packages to be taken back to her inn.

I will need a trunk, she thought, eyeing the steadily growing pile of clothing.

Archenport was hardly cosmopolitan, but recent months made the city into a shadow of her old self. Cat had forgotten what it was to walk a place free of stomping bluecoats of the fleet or swinging corpses. It was difficult to stay on track, to focus on the path ahead instead of the bursting flowers or the afternoon light breaking golden through the misty air. More difficult still when she passed a jewel house, a wizened old jeweler beckoning customers with an emerald the size of his wrinkled thumb.

Under the watchful eye of hired guards, Cat perused tray after tray of delicate silver chains and pearl brooches. Brilliant green feathers. Pale blue Lyrian gems. Agate. Opals. Obsidian, the black volcanic stone polished to rival any jewel. Bracelets. Necklaces. And more earrings than Cat could dare to count.

Or hope to buy.

And hope she did, fingers turning over a long gold chain, the precious metal thin as thread, impossibly fine.