Page 59 of Tempest

Moseley did not share the sentiment. Her frown became a sneer, her cheeks flushing red.

“He informed on you last night and saves your neck in the morning,” she snapped. “What a gentleman.”

Cat felt her mouth twitch, but not to sneer. Her lips pulled into a smirk.

“There are no gentlemen in a hurricane,” she muttered, though Moseley would not understand. The words were too old, an echo from another life upon the Lyrian Sea. “A storm is coming, Moseley. And I fear I must sail into it. I suppose it is my own fault.”

With a will, Moseley stood. Cat half expected her to salute. Gods knew she had more honor and duty in her pinky finger than half the imperial navy.

“Your fault?” Again, Moseley took her by the arm, a steadying grip in a restless sea.

“It is no one’s fault but the Meridian Empire, Cat. All this is their work and no one else’s. They burn, they destroy. They build over what was and force the rest of us to bear it.” Then she crooked a smile, showing the charming gap in her front two teeth. “Besides, one tavern wench could hardly destroy the pirate republic. Don’t think so highly of yourself, Lady Rose.”

Cat forced a smile, for Moseley’s sake, even as the pain in her chest grew.

“I do not believe I could think any less,” she whispered to Moseley’s retreating form.

* * *

THE TRIO SPENT the rest of the day and well into the night preparing for the journey.

Most time-consuming was the sewing. Cat would not be able to take much with her, but the clothes she packed were well altered. They laced coins into her jacket lining and between the folds of her black dresses, as much as could be hidden. It was less than Cat hoped to carry, but she made do, adding a false bottom to her leather bag. And her skirts all had pockets added already to hold a handkerchief or her small pistol, whichever suited.

Only when the clock in the dining room chimed midnight did the women relent. With all her effects in order, Cat collapsed into bed, already counting down to when she would need to wake again. It was a foolish endeavor.

If I fall asleep now, I’ll have five hours at least.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for the bliss of a dreamless sleep. Instead, a face swam up out of the darkness of her mind, unmistakable. His hair glinted bright gold, lit by an unseen sun. And his eyes flashed blue-gray-green, the shifting color of a tempest.

Four hours.

Cat tried to will Valerian from her thoughts, her fists clenching beneath the blankets. The memory returned anyway, welling up like blood from a wound.

Four years ago. It was sun season with a dead wind, the sails of the Covenant slack and listless. Too hot to row, too hot to do anything but anchor off in the shallows and let the crew seek what respite they could in the shade of the palm trees on a desolate island.

And the crew knew better than to follow their captain and his lady, the pair of them walking alone down the beach.

Warmth spread across her body, until her nightdress stuck to her skin.

Three hours.

Val loved to swim. Cat used to wonder if he was truly a son of the Meridian docks, born an ocean away in a gray country to a gray city. She liked to imagine he was a child of the Lyrian first, then spirited off on a ship, taken far from home only to return years later. It was the only explanation. He belonged to the Lyrian as much as the dolphins, the reefs, the roving sharks, and shifting tides. As much as the ghosts on the beaches, the ruins of stone, the people replaced and swept away. And the people who remained, steadfast against the changing wind and changing map.

It was written in his skin, bronzed and hardened by sun and salt. In his hair, the ends bleached near to white. In long-fingered hands, scarred and smoothed over. When he dove into the shallows, his figure rippled, no longer the shape of a man but something else. A sea creature, a god long forgotten, if it ever existed at all.

Then he turned back to shore, to Cat in the shadow of a palm tree. Salt water rolled off his naked form, but the sun was relentless. He was already dry when he reached her.

She was not.

Two hours.

Her fingers walked the paths his hands had once, finding familiar ground, and her heartbeat quickened. Tension coiled in her core, a curl of rope wound too tightly. And then, with practiced circles, easy patterns, she came undone.

The room was silent but for her heartbeat and catching breath. She expected the release to help a little, to send her spiraling into sleep. Instead, it was a torment, a frail shadow of what had been.

Cat could not remember the name of the island. She doubted it had one, like any of the hundred other spits of sand scattered throughout the sea. But Cat wished she had something other than a memory to mark the place.

One hour.