Cook peers at me. “We’re pirates, lad. It’s what we do. Or did ye forget where ye came from?”
“No,” I mutter, as he turns away. “I haven’t forgotten.”
What will I do if theArdentattacks theLady Marcella? Will I be expected to fight—to kill? Is Locke going to kill innocent sailors? I know he’s done it before, and the knowledge rankles in my gut, a hideous truth I don’t want to face.
Locke is apirate. A thief. A murderer.
He is also kind, intelligent, and a skilled lover. How I wish he wasn’t! That would make it so much easier to hate him, to forget him.
And I can’t forget him. When we’re all on deck, waving to the islanders as we raise the anchor and set sail, I find my eyes darting to his tall form at the railing, a few paces away from me. His pale shirt isn’t laced at the front, and it billows in the wind, revealing glimpses of his tanned chest. He lifts a sinewy forearm as one of the women ashore shouts a shrill farewell, and I can’t help thinking of those strong fingers manipulating me so cleverly.
The mood aboard theArdenthas changed. The men should be mellower, and better rested, but instead there’s an odd restless energy swirling among them. Maybe it’s bloodlust, the anticipation of their impending attack on theLady Marcella. Whatever it is, I notice them snapping at each other more frequently, and picking on Dez and me.
Dez is spared the worst of their teasing, since he’s the Captain’s cousin—but their jabs at me are much sharper now. Before they were good-natured jostles and the occasional mocking nickname, like “Spot” or “Twigs.” Once the navigator asked if I could stand in as one of his star-charts so he could plot our course on my freckled skin.
But now the teasing is worse, especially from the two pirates who hung out with Locke in the hot spring—Tir and Gorm. They noticed Locke’s preference for me, and I suspect they’ve told the other sailors about it. A couple days after our departure from the isles, when I’m passing out bowls of food for the men, Gorm makes some comment about the spokes on the ship’s wheel, and how they’d be “a perfect fit for Nick’s asshole”—a comment followed by guffaws from the rest of the crew.
I ignore him and continue handing out the food. But as usual, I wasn’t able to carry everyone’s portion at once, and I run out of bowls just as I reach the other belligerent pirate, Tir.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pointing to my empty basket. “I’ll go back to the galley for more.”
“Hurry along, won’t you, Shit-splatter,” he says. A few of the other sailors burst into laughter.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Locke’s tall, stiff form, arms folded. With all my heart I hope he doesn’t intervene, because doing so will only give them more fodder for cruelty.
I don’t dare glance at Locke, and if I look at Tir he’ll take it as a challenge, so I simply duck my head and turn away.
But Gorm blocks my path. “By the powers, you’re right, Tir! Looks like Nick’s mama shitted him out into the world and didn’t wipe his face clean afterward. ’Twould explain why the boy stinks so bad. Why do we never see ye wash, eh Nick? I’d say it’s time for a good scrubbing, and we’ll hang ye to dry afterward.”
Keeping my eyes down, I say, “I have a job to do.”
For a moment I fear Gorm won’t move. Then he shrugs and steps aside. “Well, get on with it then.”
As I’m walking past him, his boot pops out, and my foot catches on it. I sprawl headlong, crunching the basket beneath me.
28
I lie sprawled on the deck, on top of the crushed serving basket. My ribs ache, and for a few seconds I can’t inhale. My lungs won’t function.
I want Locke to help me up. But I understand why he doesn’t.
Instead I struggle to my feet alone and finish my serving duties. Cook glances from the crushed basket to my face, and when I explain that I tripped, his eyes narrow, as if he suspects there is more to the tale. When it’s time for the evening meal, he sends Dez up to serve the men in my place.
The ship has a mess, a space for the men to eat, but there are so many extra sailors aboard that those tables are being used as bunks, with trunks of loot stowed beneath them. Aboard theArdent, everyone eats where they may. Dez and I get the leftovers, but Cook always has an eye to us, to make sure we get a decent portion. Another mark of kindness that I didn’t expect aboard ship.
But Cook’s brand of surly, subtle generosity can’t dispel the sting of what Tir and Gorm said to me.
It’s a calm evening, with a brisk wind that’s carrying us ever faster toward theLady Marcellaand her richly stocked hold. Most of the sailors go below to sleep, while a few remain above to keep the ship running through the night.
I try to rest, but the sleeping quarters feel stuffy and hot, thick with male breath and gases and sweat. And then there’s the smell of my pillow—I’m fairly sure someone peed on it, or worse. I lie motionless, pretending to sleep, even when someone bumps my hammock and tweaks my ear.
After a while, the pirates settle down, and I ease myself out of the hammock and pad barefoot along the corridor. The steps of the ladder are cool and smooth under my feet, and when I break out onto the deck, the night air rushes over me, fresh, sweet, and welcoming. I inhale deeply and walk the main deck toward the bow.
When I want to look out at the sea, I don’t climb to the quarter deck or the sterncastle deck, because when Captain Neelan isn’t in his cabin, or in the hold counting the stores, he’s usually on the quarter deck, steering the ship. Other times he lingers on the sterncastle deck, or in the navigation room adjoining it. The Captain pays me little attention, and I prefer to keep it that way. My preferred observation spot is much farther toward the front of the ship.
A few streamers of dark cloud lie across the deep blue of the night sky. Its expanse is gloriously freckled with stars. I feel a latent kinship with the sky, with its frost-flecked design—no rhyme or reason, just a wild spray of sparkling lights.
The two sailors busy about the main deck don’t speak to me, so I mount the steps to the forecastle deck, which is blessedly empty. I hitch my legs over the forecastle railing and drop down to the narrow fore peak, from which the bowsprit runs out to sea.
