Page 5 of Tempest

Moseley dipped her head, a glint in her eye.

“You haven’t been a lady in years,” she replied, smirking.

A laugh rose in Cat’s throat, and for a second she forgot the empty tavern, the bodies outside, and the last six months entirely.

“On that, we can agree.”

Chapter Two Before

MUCH AS SHE hated it, Lady Catrine Rose found herself grateful to the perilous ocean.

The waves were terrifying but they kept her husband sick at all hours, too distracted with emptying his guts to bother with his young wife. Lord Rose had not touched her since their last night on the Continent, giving her several long weeks of peace. Despite all the discomforts of their voyage, she feared the day they reached the calmer tides of the Lyrian Sea.

Nineteen and naïve, Cat had not imagined marriage would be this way. But it was a crueler cage than the life she left, bound to a negligent husband instead of a negligent mother.

He was Lord Rose, master of the estate across the lake, with soft hands and a softer smile. So many girls to choose from, and he chose me, she thought, the memory bitter in her mouth. How she wished she could reach back in time to grab the young bride by the throat and drag her screaming from the altar.

But how could I have known?

A silk jacket mended instead of replaced. Dusty rooms in Rose Manor, shut up well before the season. Fewer servants with every day. Creditors on the lord’s doorstep. No family members at the wedding ceremony. And letters, so many letters, all of them dismissed with those soft, white hands.

Until Lord Ryman Rose could not dismiss them anymore. Until the carriages were brought, the cases packed, the estate sold mere weeks after Catrine became lady of the house. By then, the ink was dry on the marriage license, and the deed of sale. By then, she had traded her veil for shackles, and the rolling green hills of the Meridian countryside for the heaving blue waves of the ocean.

By grace of the Meridian gods, Lord Rose kept a separate cabin onboard, and she was spared the worst of his sea sickness, both above and below deck. Wife though she was, it was not her place to attend to an ill husband. They still had servants for such things, and each one earned their pay twice over helping Lord Rose retch into a bucket or over the side of the ship.

And when he is not retching, he is ranting, Cat knew, remembering his voice as it shook the walls of Rose Manor. She tried not to picture it, both her husband, red-faced as his namesake, nor the fine home in the Meridian countryside, its windows shuttered and its contents packed away. She barely knew the place—but still, it felt like a loss.

But there was no use in thinking about all the things that lay behind, more distant by the day. It was better to pass the time preparing for what was to come. Or so she told herself, picking up her book on the Lyrian Sea, holding it close in the dim light of her little cabin.

Her finger held the mottled page, marking her spot in the wall of black text. Even so, the words blurred. Esperese cities, Meridian colonies, traders of Itzima far to the south, farm islands ruled by planter kings. The continental powers seemed to have swallowed the Lyrian Sea whole—save for one island.

Arcayo.

The unfamiliar name stood out sharply, solid against the wavering sea of ink.

A sovereign nation, unbound to any continental power. The Arcayans do not worship the true Church, or gods of any kind, but the Lyrian Sea itself, under a belief called the Song—

The deck rolled beneath her, more gently than it had all day, and Cat snapped her book shut. Her heartbeat skittered. She knew what calmer seas meant, and for whom.

Quickly, she slid off her narrow bunk, planting her feet against the rhythm of the ship, and donned a heavy shawl on her way out. It was spring, but the wind was still cold across the ocean, the air chill and damp.

As expected, Lord Ryman Rose was already oozing his way down the stairs from the deck. He braced one hand against the wall, his red-rimmed eyes finding her in the low light. Without his powdered wigs and brocade coats, Lord Rose looked boyish, though he was twenty years her senior. His dirty blond hair lay stringy about his face, having come loose from its knot. He could not grow a beard, and no amount of powder could hide the sallow tone of his skin, yellowed by weeks of nausea.

Mr. Greer, one of their remaining servants, followed, a bucket in his hand.

“And where are you going?” Ryman demanded, his spittle flecking the air.

Cat pressed back against the wall, trying to make herself small in the narrow passage. She lowered her eyes and curtsied as best she could against the roll of the ship.

“My lord,” she said, her gentle voice well practiced. A thousand miles away, her governess would have been proud. “I meant to take some air on the deck. Will you not join me above?”

Ryman gave a shudder, disgusted at the prospect. But then his eyes flicked between his cabin door and her own, clearly weighing the options. Cat’s fists clenched, hidden in her skirts, prayer beads worming between her fingers. Silently, she hoped her husband would elect to sleep and not summon her to perform her wifely duties.

“My lord, the captain did say we would only have an hour or so of calm waters,” Mr. Greer offered. He shot Cat a meaningful look behind her husband’s back.

Ryman’s lip twisted, and Cat braced. Perhaps she had miscalculated, and his appetite for her body finally outweighed his need for sleep. Perhaps she should have feigned unconsciousness behind a locked door, though that would have done little if His Lordship was of a certain mind.

He took another stumbling step. Despite the long weeks since they had last stood on land, Lord Rose never seemed to develop sea legs.