Page 101 of The Pirate Queen

“I think so.”

Grace swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Nothing hurts except her head.

Eóin gives her a moment to process the relief. And when she takes a long, shuddering breath, he says, “Come with me.”

Grace lets her father lead her to the cabin door. The hold is open and Niamh’s crew has formed a line, passing crates and barrels and bags from the Esperança into the space below.

“Their fee?” she asks.

“I had negotiated ten percent of the cargo for moving through our waters,” he says. “But because the crew of the Esperança attacked first, we required double that amount. They are relieved to be alive. And we will make great use of the sugar, port, and spices they were carrying to Scotland.”

“This is not the route to Scotland,” Grace says.

“They were trying to escape the levies required by going through the English Channel. Their captain is young. Ambitious.”

Blood is smeared across the deck and her father explains, with no small amount of pride, that Donal killed his attacker. And hers is but twenty feet away, tied to the mast. He is bloody and bruised and watching her with the kind of hatred she has only ever experienced from Donal’s mother.

They wait until all the cargo has been placed into the hold, until the hatch is closed once more, and all the Esperança’s crew has lined up along their own gunwale. When their captain nods to Eóin, he leads Grace to her attacker. The man kicks out lamely in protest.

“His life is yours to take,” Eóin says, then sets his own dagger into her trembling hand. “G’wan. This is justice.”

She would prefer Cook’s old knife. This one feels heavy and unwieldy and foreign. But it must frighten the man, because he flinches. Then he snarls and kicks out again. He spits. Curses. The tendons along his neck protrude like old ropes. He seems possessed.

Grace takes a step forward. She feels every eye on her. Father. Brother. Niamh’s crew. Every sailor on the Esperança. The focus makes her feel heavy. She wishes she could disappear.

Her hand begins to shake and she hates herself for it.

Grace doesn’t know what to do. No one taught her how to hold a knife, much less kill a man, and they offer no instruction now. She looks to her brother in desperation.

I can’t, she says with only a glance.

I know, he answers with one of his own.

But Grace tries and he lets her. She lifts the blade, but the sea dog only laughs.

Sweat runs in a channel down the small of her back.

She swallows hard and sets the blade to his throat, right against the hard knot of his Adam’s apple. The trembling in her hand continues. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to steady herself. Hot tears burn her eyes.

Grace hears the creak of the ship and the distant call of seabirds. She hears waves lapping against the wood. She hears her own stuttered breath and the grinding of the sailor’s teeth.

Her hand falls away.

She takes a step back.

When the sailor laughs again, Donal pulls the blade from her hand and grabs the man’s hair. With one hand Donal yanks the sea dog’s head back. With the other, he cuts hard and deep from one ear to the other directly beneath his jaw. Blood spills in a heavy river down the front of the sailor’s shirt. He gasps, and pink bubbles gurgle from the cut. His eyes are wild. His body thrashes.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

His head falls forward, his body limp.

When Grace looks to her father for help, for encouragement, she sees only disappointment in his eyes.

Grace is no longer built like a ship’s mast; there is a shape to her, such that her mother worries about the trouble it may attract in the coming years. Given what happened last month with the Esperança, it is a fair concern. Her mother is concerned about many things. Not least of which is the fresh blood on Grace’s leine. She can see the frown lines forming between Maeve’s brows as she holds the garment in her hands.

“When did this start?” her mother asks.