Page 60 of Tempest

She shot awake to the sound of Derry’s footsteps in the upstairs hall, followed by a tentative knock on the door. Blue slanted across Cat’s bedroom, the soft, early light before dawn peeking through the curtains. It was the kind of light that bid Cat to stay in bed, burrow down into the blankets, and force Fell to drag her down to the harbor.

But Cat Rose would not give him that satisfaction. She was on his leash, but she would not be his pet.

“I’m ready,” she said, yawning and untangling herself from the blankets and any remaining dreams.

Derry bustled in, lighting candles as she went. The smell of coffee and bacon followed her. Cat’s toes curled with delight. Whatever she faced next, at least she would do it with a full stomach.

And clean. Derry had indeed forced her into the bath the night before, washing Fort Morden’s prison away. Now in the predawn light she brushed through Cat’s chestnut hair one last time, before dividing it into two twists that met in a bun at the base of her neck. Though the humidity remained undefeated, the first frizzles of escaping hair curled around Cat’s ears.

She kept silent as Derry helped her dress, pulling her nightgown over her head. Briefly, Cat stood naked, watching the light behind the curtains as it grew brighter. Then her gaze drifted down to the muscle above her elbow, her inner arm paler than the more-exposed skin on her face.

A single tattoo stood out amongst her freckles, the lines of it red and crude. And beautiful. They formed the image of a single rose, smaller than her thumb. But unmistakable.

And easy to hide.

The rose seemed to burn, itching as it had under Fell’s scrutiny. Cat fought the urge to scratch at it, lest her skin flame and her dreams return. Besides, she had not told Moseley what her task was, let alone Derry. They did not need to be drawn into her mess.

And Cat Rose knew better than to leave loose ends.

She was not known for outrageous fashions like some women of Archenport. Quite the opposite. Cat usually preferred black, ever the Widow Rose. Before, during, and after the so-called pirate republic, there were always people in brighter, more stylish clothing. Lord Baltross’s tittering wife Fiona with her feathers. Jade Belloq in bright silks, donning the finest garments she could pillage from merchant ships. The women of Itzima, in whirling skirts of every color. Arcayans with their turquoise and gold jewelry, brighter than sea and sunlight. And now the officers’ wives, few as they were, new to the islands. They brought gowns and jewels from the Empire, fashions Cat had never seen before. Smaller waists, longer skirts, sharper collars, each more extravagant and impractical than the last.

Her dress was old black, nearly faded to gray, trimmed with white lace. Suitable enough for errands around town, though she doubted it would survive long on the deck of a ship. But she could hardly worry about such things now.

“All done,” Derry muttered, fastening Cat’s braided leather belt into place. It was worn and cracked, thicker than fashion dictated, the only piece out of place on a good Meridian lady.

That, and the coins sewn into her bodice.

And the knife in her stocking.

And the pistol in her hidden pocket.

* * *

IT WAS A tearful goodbye, even with iron Moseley. The old maid did her best not to show it, but Cat caught the wet gleam in her eyes. It was a rare sight, even after all their years together, through storm and war and heartbreak. Cat felt the same sting as she embraced her, holding on a little too tightly.

Derry was inconsolable, tempered only by the early hour. It would not do to wake the neighbors with her wailing, as Cat reminded her before leaving their home.

She half expected Fell and his carriage to be waiting outside, but Keystone Street was empty. Scoffing, Cat set off on the short journey to the docks. Of course he will not make this easy on me, she thought, hefting her larger bag on one shoulder, the drawstring purse over the other. Both thunked, heavy with hidden coin.

Cat only hoped it was enough.

The sky was pink when she reached the harbor, the dawn barely breaking. But it might as well have been high noon. Navy sailors, fishermen, traders, servants, and travelers scuttled along the waterside. Some were fresh off their boats and ships, eager for a tavern or a bunk. Others had only begun their days, carting supplies to the vessels in the harbor.

Careful to avoid fresh catch spilling from hauled nets, Cat worked her way through the crowd. Towards which ship, she did not know, but she looked with a keen eye.

Fell’s vessel, the Scorpion, lay at anchor in the bay. Triple-masted and double-decked, the man-o’-war was a commanding sight with at least sixty guns across her decks. She was dwarfed only by the Revel beside her. Cat smirked, remembering Captain Carley from the day before. He seemed pompous and overwrought. His ship was no different.

Not like the Scorpion, with which Cat was more familiar. She was smaller but more agile, with a veteran crew handpicked over many years in the Lyrian Sea. While the Revel looked fresh from the shipyard, the Scorpion had her distinct battle scars from years in the Lyrian Sea. It gave her a distinguished and fearsome look.

Captain Fell, despite his infuriating manner and social climbing, deserved such a warship.

And he deserves this too, Cat thought, laughing openly upon the docks.

Even from a distance, she could see Fell’s face turn red.

He stood at the rail of a merchant sloop half the size of his Scorpion, the shame of it written all over his body.

“Not a word,” he said as Cat boarded the vessel, still laughing.