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The swaying…why am I still swaying?
I’m trying to process my surroundings and piece together last night’s events while Flora, heedless of my pain, prattles on about climbing “up here” in a dress and heels to wake me.
“Up here?” I croak.
She rolls her eyes and shoves an antacid tablet at me. “Chew this before you sit up. I’m not dealing with your vomit on top of getting you to the chapel.”
Chapel.
Oh. Bloody hell.
I toss the tablet aside with disdain and finally sit up to look around.
“Damn,” I say, taking in the view of the harbor, the lush mountains, the small, bustling city, and the rocky beaches. Not a remote tropical island, mind you, but the southern coast of Gravenland in the cold September North Sea.
Ah, yes. My home.
And there’s the marina, and…yes, there is the empty slip where the S.S. Frigge, the royal yacht, ought to be.
“Huh,” I grunt.
More pieces of last night trickle into the forefront of my mind.
I’m not sure at which point I passed out in the crow’s nest of good ol’ Frigge. Slumber came upon me sometime after the pyrotechnics professional refused to launch my homemade fireworks, and mercifully before I managed to light the DIY rocket myself in a drunken snit.
Flora heaves herself onto the platform and opens a bag slung over her shoulder.
“Drink this, take this, and eat this,” she says, punctuating her orders by setting down a bottle of water, a pill case, and a greasy sandwich wrapped in brown paper.
“You’re bossy,” I mutter, unwrapping the sandwich. It’s still warm, and the scent of duck hits my nostrils. My mouth waters, and I dive into the sandwich.
“Someone has to be when it comes to you,” she says, wrangling the crossbody bag from her bare shoulder and rubbing the skin there.
“Father does his part,” I remark through a mouthful of bread, meat, cheese, lettuce, and butter.
Flora winces in disgust at the sight of me eating. “Yes, well, he’s not here to do the actual work of getting you married. Shouting and threatening to cut you off is the easy part. Physically maneuvering you is the real work, brother.”
“Not wrong,” I say while tearing off another huge bite.
Flora shakes her head and looks me up and down. “You’ll need a shave too. I shoved everything we need in the bag. All except for the wedding suit, but this will have to do. Unless, of course, you shit yourself. Did you shit or piss yourself, dear brother?”
I shoot her an offended look as I chew. “No! The fuck, Flora?”
“Well, you didn’t invite me to your bachelor party, so how was I to know how drunk you got last night? Or perhaps still are?”
“Not still drunk,” I say. “And I wouldn’t invite you to watch me steal the royal yacht. Wouldn’t want you to be complicit. Or be interrogated later.”
She blinks at me, wagging ridiculously long fake eyelashes at me. “How thoughtful. Now. Finish your water and take two of those pills for your headache.”
My sister really climbed up to the damn crow’s nest for me.
Guilt overtakes me. Gods, I hate that feeling.
“How did you get here?” I ask after swallowing the last bite of my sandwich.
“I climbed. I’m surprised all my cursing didn’t wake you on my way up.”
I give her a half-grin, remembering more of my dream. Yikes.
