Page 173 of Tempest

The first time she had ever slept in the captain’s quarters, she had expected a debaucherous bedchamber, slung with the spoils of piracy. She had found a carefully catalogued library instead, with a wide desk and a little bunk tucked into an alcove in the corner.

The library remained through the years, but the narrow bed was long since replaced with something larger, fit for two, the headboard carved from deep-red mahogany. She sat up in it now, her freckled hands running over mismatched blankets. They were too familiar, soft as she remembered.

She pressed her face into the pillows again, inhaling, hunting beneath the smells she knew for a whisper of something else. A floral perfume or wine she did not recognize. Anything out of place, anything different. Anyone different.

There was only Valerian.

It made her grit her teeth, angry and pleased in equal measure. Then she searched the room, looking for any hints of what befell Val since last she saw him six months ago. When she all but threw him out of her house, sending him towards the docks before his rage could consume them both.

And doom him.

But the memory was too painful to entertain. And Cat refused to break apart so early in the day.

One glance at the gallery of windows was enough to ascertain what Cat feared. They were gone from Nera harbor, the island of Arcayo already shrinking on the horizon. And with it, the Dorales, and any hope of slipping away from the Lyrian Sea forever.

Another ship sailed behind them, smaller in comparison. With a jolt, Cat realized it was the Fledge following them out to sea, still flying no flags. Figures moved along the deck, and Cat wondered which members of Valerian’s crew had been sent over to sail the sloop.

She almost laughed, thinking of Jasper Fell down in the brig, having set out to capture Valerian Kane, just to find himself a prisoner, and his ship commandeered.

I am a prisoner too, she thought, looking back around the cabin. It was a strange feeling, to know a place so well, and suddenly not at all.

Her eyes stung again, and she scrubbed at her face, wiping away whatever tears she had shed in sleep. What a pitiful sight, she thought, already lamenting her appearance.

There will be no charming my way out of this if I look like a self-loathing, red-eyed mouse.

Long ago, Cat had tentatively picked through his battered armoire, careful not to disturb Valerian’s rumpled garments. Now she tore at the shelves with abandon, hunting down a mirror and comb. Without hesitation, she fixed her hair, untangling her curls from a sleepy braid. Then she scrubbed her face at the wash basin, the water clearly left over. But there was no time to think about such things, nor did she bother to care. She had shared far more with Valerian Kane than wash water.

To her surprise, her carefully selected purchases from the Nera market were folded by the desk, still wrapped in paper. Cat gnashed her teeth. They had not been present the night before, and she hissed to think of one of the Covenant crew sneaking in while she slept—or Valerian himself.

Still, she was glad for the clothes. The last thing she needed was to force herself into something itchy and ill-fitted.

Instead, she chose the garments bought for travel, albeit on a very different ship. She donned a dark blouse, made by skilled Arcayan weavers who specialized in light-woven fabric to protect the body from the sun without trapping heat. It felt cool against her skin, a rare comfort in her predicament.

But short-lived.

“Gods damn you, Valerian,” she hissed, drawing back from her effects with a snarl.

Her pistol was missing, though it had been in her pocket only last night. The dress from the gambling hall was still there—she remembered stripping it off and slinging it over the desk chair, along with the small gun. The weapon was gone, but the dress sat neatly folded, as was Valerian’s maddening way.

Her teeth clenched. He went through my things.

“Two can play that game,” she said aloud, pulling on a black-striped skirt and the stiff new boots she would soon break in.

She went to the intimidating chest still screwed into the floor, the wooden box iron-bound with more locks than she bothered to count. It was no matter. Only three actually worked, and only in a certain order. An order Cat knew well after so many years. After retrieving the key from its hiding place in the carvings of the headboard, she kicked open the chest expecting to reveal the usual array of treasure: dazzling, valuable, and easily carried in the event of a quick escape.

But the first thing she saw was neither jewels nor gold. Cat froze, looking down on a small journal, one she had never seen before. Carefully, she lifted the book, hesitant to open the pages, fearing what she might find.

A dark-red petal slipped out, spiraling to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she flipped open the journal to find no writing, but a dried rose, perfectly pressed between the pages.

Grief gathered like a wave, without warning, threatening to drown her. Cat slammed the book shut. Then threw it across the room for good measure, letting it slide across the timbers to land in the corner.

She forced herself to breathe through the pain. It half worked, steadying her heartbeat and her quivering hands. Enough so she could return to the task at hand and shove away all thought of the infernal rose.

The jewels in the chest still entranced, but Cat resisted, her fingers slipping past rings and necklaces, pearl and sapphire, stopping to slip a particularly bright ruby ring into her purse. If Valerian minded, he would certainly take it back. She did the same with the coins, pocketing a few gold circles stamped with images of the Meridian lion or the Esperese cross. She kept an eye open for any more strange amulets or charms like the one Val now wore around his neck, but there was nothing else like it.

Her fingers scraped the bottom, sliding over familiar parchment, and she grinned. The stack of documents was still there, as expected, at the bottom of the chest.

One by one, she flipped through written letters of mark. All forged or stolen, but good enough in a pinch. There was one from Esperin, denoting Valerian as privateer of the Esperese crown. Another from the Meridian saying the same. And even papers from Itzima and Anticles, should he run afoul of their ships too. She knew he had flags to match each as well, stored in the hold, ready to be run out if the need arose.