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“Aye, a vote,” Bailey said.
The Mereish ship began to tack. I hadn’t been aboard ship long, but I knew enough to suspect what was happening.
“Captain,” I repeated, louder this time. “I think she’s trying to come this way.”
“What?” Demery pushed the brim of his tricorn hat up with a knuckle and took the spyglass, training it on the other ship. He frowned, flat and resigned. “Damn.”
Athe cleared her throat. “You can hardly deny the crew a prize sailing right into our laps.”
“Yes, yes.” Demery lowered the glass, scratched his forehead, and fit his hat back into place. “Well, we’re pirates, so I suppose we should act piratical. Mary, you’re looking disarming today, would you mind remaining on deck?”
I frowned at him. “Why?”
“Give us a good wind, smile and wave at the Mereish as we close. Look pleasant.”
Nerves fluttered in my stomach. “You want to trick them? But they’re already coming towards us.”
“So ensure they don’t growwise—let’sget this done quickly and cleanly, no delays and no damage to my ship, thank you.” Demery looked to Athe. “Run up Mereish colors and the mail flag. They’ll assume we’ve letters to the homeland.You—”He turned back to me. “Go find some pretty Mereish clothes and paint your eyes, then come back and stay here with me. It’ll be a few hours until we close, providing they don’t run.”
“I don’t look Mereish,” I protested, gesturing to my face. The color of my skin and hair were passable, Mereish and Aeadine coming in the same varieties of pale or dark, or blond or raven-haired. But the structure of my features was classic MiddleAeadine—smallnose and mouth, broad cheeks and round face.
“You don’t have to look Mereish, just like you belong to them,” Demery told me and offered his arm. “Come, I need to change too.”
I didn’t find that precisely consoling, but I relented.
Together we returned to the main cabin. I locked myself into my smaller room and donned the required clothes, exchanging my short bodice, neckerchief and outer skirt for a Mereish-style wrap overgown with jewel tones, fur trim and thick embroidery from wrist to elbow. I removed my hip pads too, narrowing my silhouette, and located a small jar of black eye paint.
I stared at it. I’d never applied the substance before, and no matter how I wedged my small hand mirror into a stack of books and clothes, it toppled with the sway of the ship.
Finally, I opened the door to the main cabin again. “Captain, the gown is enough. Thispaint—”
I paused. Demery was securing a broad leather belt over his own wrapped overcoat, knee-length, sapphire and trimmed with heavy silver embroidery. Not only did he cut a dashing figure, but he wore the garb with a suspicious level of confidence and familiarity.
He caught me watching him and grinned crookedly. “Ethnic ambiguity is a useful thing,” he observed, then held out his hand. “You must see me in an Usti kaftan, I look like I stepped from a Yustoff painting. Come, I’ll help you with that.”
I handed over the paint and brush, both his appearance and the thought of him applying the paint giving me hesitation. “Perhaps Widderow could help me?” I suggested.
“Widderow is as useless with paints as Bailey would be.” Demery uncapped the little jar and set it on the table, then dipped the brush and gave me a prompting look. “Tilt your chin back and look down.”
I complied, and with great care, he drew fine lines from the outer corners of my eyes. I was keenly conscious of our proximity, and strove to breathe quietly.
Demery, for his part, appeared unperturbed. With a nudge of a knuckle, he directed me to turn my head one way, then the other. He applied a few more careful strokes, then stepped back.
“Perfect,” he pronounced, brush still poised. “Try not to blink until it dries.”
I immediately blinked. His grin deepened and I smiled wryly in return. “Sorry. Where did you learn to do that?”
“No matter, I’m sure it will smudge in the weather anyhow. Where did I learn? I’ve lived a varied life, and loved varied women.”
“Do you have a woman now?” I wanted to know. “Somewhere on shore?”
“No, no.” Demery started to shake his head, then his eyes crinkled. “Well, your mother has always struck me. Perhaps she’d be interested in retiring with me? We’re still young enough to make a good go of things.”
I drew back, scandalized. “If youdare—”
Demery burst out laughing, drowning my indignance. “Your mother is a sister to me, Ms. Firth,” he soothed, rubbing at his chin and giving me a look that might have been fond, however brief it lingered. “We’ve been through too much together for romantic entanglements. Romances born out of such trials? They rarely last.”
“Good,” I bit back. I could imagine my mother with someone other than myfather—myfather, after all, had already moved on. But the thought of her with Demery made my cheeks burn.
