Page 26 of Tempest

He was fair skinned for a sailor, his black hair combed neatly back from his face. Long, dark lashes rimmed his eyes, making the silver of them striking. If the heat bothered him, Cat could not tell. He seemed quite comfortable, at ease even. She guessed him twenty-five at most, only a year or two beyond the Royal Naval College. And his uniform was impeccable, the blue of his coat freshly dyed, without any dust or errant thread. He wore the simple insignia of a lower ranked officer, just a plain white band at the cuffs of his sleeves and lapels of his coat. Cat did not know all the varying degrees of rank within the navy but could tell he was the most junior, his compatriot’s coat edged in gold alongside the white.

“Yours is a fine horse, my lady,” the young officer said, throwing her a lopsided smile.

For a moment, Cat thought herself back in Meridia, in a country hall or a vast ballroom, watching navy officers circle a dance floor in search of wide-eyed prey. Once it thrilled her. Now she saw the charm—and the lie—for what it was.

“You are kind to say so,” Cat replied, looking back to the stables across the lawn. “If incorrect.”

The officer blinked, his smile freezing on his face. Next to him, Ryman took on a bewildered look.

Cat raised her chin. “My horse is a left-behind, like everything else on this island.”

Like me.

Next to her, Ryman turned even redder and made a noise like a rooster readying himself to crow.

“Attend to yourself,” he sputtered, waving her towards the interior of the house. Over his shoulder, the raven-haired officer continued to stare, his eyes taking an odd glint.

Cat returned the look with disdain before stepping into the dark front hall. She loosed a breath through her teeth, exhaling her frustrations as her eyes adjusted to the shadows of the house.

“How about a bath, my lady?” Ms. Moseley said as she joined Cat in the hall.

The older maid was green-eyed and brassy-haired, though streaks had given over to gray. She had the look of a farmhand, not a lady’s maid, and the manner of one too. She came with the island, so to speak, having tended to Rosby before Ryman ever inherited. Blunt and practical, Moseley was a little too honest for her own good. Cat loved her at first sight. She was not like Sara, or the servants Cat knew back in the Empire. All silent as mice, trailing after their mistresses with downcast eyes.

“A bath sounds wonderful,” Cat said, feeling the sweat on her skin. “I probably smell of horse.”

“At least you don’t look like one,” Moseley replied with a grin, her teeth a flash against the dark house. All the windows were shuttered to keep out the daily heat and hold on to some cool shade. She gestured for Cat to move, shooing her down the central hall, past the creaking staircase.

“Come now, let the old left-behind work.”

Cat hesitated, worrying her lip in her teeth. “I didn’t mean you, Moseley.”

“Of course you did, and who am I to argue?” Moseley answered and clicked her tongue. She shuffled Cat along as if she were a sheep on a country lane. “I was left behind by the old master, same as Sparrow and anything else not nailed down.”

“Well, I don’t know what this place would be without you.”

“A ruin, probably.” The maid shrugged as they reached the kitchen at the back of the house.

Dust clung to the floors, the estate far too big for only the few servants to manage. Though Moseley certainly tried, ordering the others about like soldiers in a regiment.

They crossed the kitchen together, the ceiling lower here, the floor made of solid brick instead of planked wood. Coals glowed in the hearth and Cat caught the smell of bread baking. The door to the root cellar was open, and dried herbs dangled in the gloom. A half-plucked chicken sat on the stout table, as well as a pile of sad greens from the garden nearby, ready to be washed and cooked.

Part of Cat wanted to help, knowing Moseley and Sara would have their hands full preparing dinner for Ryman and his guests. The rest of her knew she would only be in the way, her skills in the kitchen more a hindrance than an aid.

“I suppose if I left the island, your husband would have to sell,” Moseley added, the pair of them stepping into the adjoining chamber.

What was once a storeroom for the kitchen had been converted to a room for washing. A tub sat in the corner, the tarnished metal gleaming in the low light.

“Do run off, then, won’t you?” Cat mumbled. She retrieved the small basket by the window that held a corner of soap and a tattered sponge.

At the door to the kitchen garden, Moseley grinned. “I’ll pack two bags, my lady.”

* * *

A BOOK DANGLED from her hand, the pages sliding in and out of focus. Cat could have stayed in the water for hours, suspended, floating, pretending the bath was her own ship on the sea, carrying her off to wherever she wished to go.

Even if she couldn’t think of a place to wish for.

She knew she would start sweating again as soon as she stepped out of the lukewarm water, and the great wheel of discomfort would turn once more. With guests to mind too. Already she felt exhausted by the prospect of their company. It would be another experiment in boredom or suffering. To sit silently and pretend to be enamored with their no-doubt embellished tales of war on the waves. They would boast and lie, as the black-haired officer had. And probably swindle her husband out of a few coins, if the cards or dice came out.