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“Already passed us, drawing up for a full broadside?” Grant suggested.
I tried to find a witty retort, but I’d lost the will. I stared out at the Mereish ships, anxiety deadening my tongue, then returned to the table.
I sat, hard, and Grant returned to perch across from me, tense on the edge of his chair. Our cards lay forgotten on the tabletop for a silent minute, sliding to and fro with the rocking of the ship.
“What was it like, where you grew up?” the former highwayman suddenly asked. “The inn? The forest?”
I looked at him for a moment, numb and battling not to think of the Mereish ships. Then I sunk back in my chair and looked past him, past our pursuers, over the sea and back to the Wold. “Safe.”
***
Soon after, all lanterns passed beyond sight of the stern window. Grant and I crept out the quarterdeck doors and peered across the ship, past the snowy forms of pirates at the long guns.
Demery and Athe stood at the rail, shoulder to shoulder, hats and coats dusted with snow, and watched the great warships sail beyond them. The Mereish sailed close enough that I could make out the shadowed shapes of crewmen on their decks, hear the rush of their bows and the snap of war banners in the wind.
I sawHarpy’s ghisting too. She slipped from the wood of the mainmast, a faint blue glow and feminine shape. In the snow it was hard to see her clearly, but she glowed with an ethereal blue light. She, too, watched the Mereish, her head slowly turning as they passed.
Finally, the warships vanished into the night. The ghisting disappeared and the crew relaxed, coughing and clearing their throats, thumping one another on the back and saluting Athe and Demery.
I retreated into the passageway and offered Grant a weak smile.
“We’re not dead,” I pointed out, all hostility forgotten. “Or captives of the Mereish.”
Grant returned my smile with one equally as tired. “Yes, thank the Saint. And thank you for the distraction, tonight. I’ll admit, you’re a fine hand at cards.”
“It was my pleasure.” I retreated to the door of the cabin, hiding a smile in the shadows. I tapped the doorframe with a few absent fingers, feeling as though I should say more, but unable to put the words together. “Good night, Mr. Grant.”
He touched his hat, his face equally hidden in the darkness. “Good night, Ms. Firth.”
NINETEEN
Daughter of the Fleetbreaker
MARY
Did no one train you to stormsing, girl?” the old woman asked. She shut a crate of grenados, packed in straw. “Good thing I have a use for you, or we might feed you to the chickens. Fourteen. Girl? Do not make meregret—”
“I’m writing!” I gestured to the ledger I’d wedged between my elbow and a crooked wrist, inkpot perilously cradled in my fingers above. Unable to sleep and with Grant comatose in his hammock, I’d reported to Widderow for numbers duty. A decision I was beginning to regret. “I wrote it, see. And as to the singing, no. No one trained me, but I’ll learn. All I need is practice.”
“As you say, as you say.” The older woman sniffed, surveying the goods stacked around us. We were in the small, ironclad hold that served as magazine, surrounded by kegs and barrels of powder, racks of shot and crates of various other deadly things. Widderow barely seemed conscious of the nature of the items. All morning she’d been pinching gunpowder as if it were flour and assessing grenados like a grocer might apples, complaining at our lack of provisioning and lamenting Demery’s strained finances. I’d little concept of what a stocked armory should look like, but I could see the empty racks for shot and half-empty kegs of powder.
Demery’s lack of preparedness made my nerves hum. I’d seen Lirr’s crew, armed to the teeth and at ease in their gruesome victory. I could only pray that we’d find willing investors in Usti.
Usti. I’d never in my life considered visiting such a place, let alone leaving the Wold. I missed it, the leaves and the sun and the hush. For a moment I let myself drift back there, quill in hand. Widderow’s muttering and shuffling faded away.
“Old Crow.” A man stepped into the corner of my eye, snapping me back to reality.
“Away!” Widderow threw out an arm, banishing him. “Boots outside that doorframe, sailor.”
The crewman retreated into the passageway. He scowled, glanced at me self-consciously, then looked back at Widderow. “Captain wants to speak to you.”
“About what?”
“Hesten Port.”
Widderow frowned, jowls draping over her collar. “Fine. Ms. Firth, do the last two crates yourself and bring me the ledger. Do not smudge those numbers. Understood?”
I nodded, setting down the book, inkpot and quill on a barrel. Widderow left. Footsteps faded as I moved to one of the crates the woman had indicated, unlatched it, and carefully leaned the lid against the bulkhead. Grenados packed in straw lay before me, just waiting to be filled with powder and hurled at enemies.
