Page 25 of Tempest

Valerian Kane, she thought, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She cursed him as she cursed her husband, as she cursed Rosby, as she cursed every moment since she had agreed to marry.

I don’t pity the likes of you, the pirate had said on the ship, glaring down on her with those tempest eyes.

Cat’s grip tightened until the reins began to cut off the circulation in her fingers, numbness a more welcome sensation than shame. Only when Sparrow’s flank went slick with sweat, her jaw foaming, did Cat reluctantly slow the horse, her own forehead hot, her hands striped by the bite of the leather.

It did not feel like a birthday, but still she wished. For her sisters, silly and sheltered as they were. Or even her mother.

But then Cat was already long separated from that life, and them. If anything, she had been separated from them before she set sail for the Lyrian. The distance began long before, in a crumbling country house, in the shadows, growing up in the ruin of lives unlived. With her books and her cards and her infinite sisters all scrounging for smaller pieces of the world. And her mother, shut up in her study, one hand on letters from the bank, the other curled around a glass of wine.

How like her I am now, though I did everything to put as much distance between us as there could be in this world.

Sparrow slowed to a walk, turning her head to blink one eye at Cat slowly. As if the horse could feel her pain.

Grow wings, she thought, imploring the mare beneath her. Grow wings and take us both away. Run us across the sea and carry us home.

The foolish wish of a more foolish woman.

I have no home to return to, not truly, Cat thought, returning Sparrow to the stable and setting her tack aside. There is nothing for me in Meridia, or any corner of the Empire. Ryman sold almost everything and brought the rest to this island. My own family would never take me in, and certainly not as a runaway wife.

I would be no better there than I am here.

She retreated to the veranda with a sour expression, eager to sponge herself off and spend the hotter parts of the day reading in whatever cool corner she could find. She was careful not to lean on the chipped white railing lest it crumble beneath her weight. Such was the way of it on Rosby Island. Most things were breaking or broken, from the doorknobs in her bedchamber to the cracked wineglasses, the half-flooded cellar, the rusty hinges, the rotted wood, the overgrown garden, the stained bed linens, the flea-bitten cats, the endless stinging flies, the food that was more salt than meat, Ryman despondent or raging—

“Husband,” Cat clipped, coming face to face with the devil himself. Already she resigned herself to thoughts of the bedchamber, and a scalding bath to follow. At least he was quick about it. Many women were not so lucky.

Even on their birthdays.

“Wife,” Ryman replied, his tone dry as her own. She did not expect him to acknowledge what day it was, if he even knew it.

Somehow, the months on the island lay worse on him than the months at sea. Lord Rose was no longer a sick shade of yellow, but cherry red, his sunburned skin curiously never fading into a tan. He did not bother with a wig in the heat, his dusty blond hair looking grayer with every passing morning. Even his clothes, the once-fine white shirts and buckled shoes, were stained with sweat and salt. Ryman seemed to be rotting from the inside out.

His appearance matches his heart, Cat thought with detachment.

And yet, he was not so unkempt as usual. Despite his general stink and sweating face, his collar was laced up his throat instead of open, his greasy hair brushed back into a little tail. He even wore a neat vest, breeches, and boots.

“Are you going somewhere?” Cat asked, not bothering to mask her eagerness.

Ryman’s thin lips twitched. “Lady Rose, attend to yourself. You should not greet our guests in such a state.”

Then he shifted, indicating to the rest of the veranda.

Shock prickled down Cat’s spine, the sweat drying on her skin.

Over his shoulder, at the corner of the veranda, two figures came into focus, both in uniform, their coats a familiar cobalt blue.

Officers of the Meridian navy.

They sat around a low table, a tray of drinks in front of them, with Sara standing nearby to attend to any requests. She glared at the ground, her severe black bun somehow even tighter today.

“Guests,” Cat echoed, forcing herself to speak in a flat tone. It was better to seem unsurprised or at least bored by the prospect of guests, rather than terribly unprepared. “Of course. Welcome to Rosby, gentlemen.”

She dropped into a quick curtsy, feeling every bit of grime on her skin. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck, the rest frizzing from a messy braid.

“If I could beg your pardon for a moment,” she added, straightening back up. “I am just returned from my morning ride—”

But one of the navy officers took a step forwards, his hands clasped behind his back.

Cat clenched her teeth, surveying him as she did everything else. Looking for the cracks, the rot, the decay. Strangely, she found none.