If my poor ribbons weren’t crumpled and stuffed in Captain Fane’s fists like wet parchment, if they weren’t so exhausted and waterlogged, I might be able to rip them from his grasp and defend myself. I might be able to fight back.
Unfortunately, his hold is firm, pulling so harshly that my muscles and skin burn with every movement. If he pulls any harder, it feels as if he’ll rip them clean from my back, like yanking off a finger or plucking out an eye.
I try and fail to get them to rip out of his hands, but they’re too smashed, too wet, too tired. I’ve expended all my pitiful strength on getting Sail’s body off this cursed ship.
But at least I managed it.
I make myself a promise right here and now though. If I somehow make it through this, if the Red Raids don’t ruin me completely, I won’t allow myself to be stagnant anymore. I won’t allow myself to be so weak and inept.
I should’ve known better, after my childhood, after all the things I’ve been through. I should’ve known better than to become so complacent or languid.
If I could go back, I’d shake myself. I became like Coin, that solid gold bird forever resting on his roost. I clipped my own wings, I stayed listless on my perch.
So if I make it through this, if I live, I vow to myself that I won’t let it happen again. I won’t sit idly by and keep letting men crush me in their fists.
With the scar at my throat as a stark reminder, I firm up, crystallizing into a hardened rock of resolve. The healed line tingles, and my mind shifts to Digby. Did the Red Raids kill the scout who saw their movement? Did Digby and the others unwittingly follow the scout right into death?
I don’t know, and I don’t dare ask. Partly because if Digby and the others are still out there safe, I don’t want to tip the captain off. But another reason, a darker reason, is that I can’t bear to be told that the pirates killed them. Not yet. I can’t face that just yet.
For now, my mind needs for Digby to be out there, living and breathing. Maybe he’ll find Sail, in that grave of flurried snow, and lay some sort of tribute at his burial, one to stay with him in this desolate place while his spirit moves on to the great After.
It’s a nice thought, anyway.
His hold still rough, Captain Fane finishes dragging me to the back of the ship. I get hauled up a short five steps from the main deck, to the higher captain’s quarters. The wall is plain, save for a red slash marked down the door, a short eave jutting off the gable above.
My face is shoved against the closed door, my cheek pressed into the white weathered wood, splinters threatening to splice through my skin.
He holds me there with his forearm crushing my back, one fist still holding my satiny strands like a leash on a dog. With his other hand, he fishes into his pocket and pulls out a key, shoving it into the lock of the door.
I start struggling, though my efforts are weary. But I know for a fact that I don’t want to go inside. The moment I cross that threshold, things will happen—bad things.
“Hold still, or you’ll only make this worse for yourself,” he snaps.
Of course, that just makes me try to get away even more, but he shoves his hips against me, using his legs to pin me in place so I have nowhere to go, no way to move. I want to cry at the helplessness of it all, but I swallow that down. There’s no time for that, no time to break down.
He turns the lock with a click, shoving the key back into his pocket. But before he can turn the handle, Quarter calls for his attention. “Cap! We got a hawk!”
Captain Fane turns to look, keeping me stuck shoved against the door. I can’t see him, but I hear Quarter stomping up the stairs.
“Just came, Cap,” Quarter says as he stops beside us.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a large tawny hawk with a black beak sitting on Quarter’s forearm, talons digging into the fur.
The captain grabs a small metal vial off the bird’s leg and unrolls it, careful to keep it held beneath the eave, blocking it from the haggard rain. It’s a short piece of parchment, though its length grows as he unrolls it. All I can see is a messy scrawl of black, but the captain’s brows draw down, water dripping off his beaded beard as he reads.
Captain Fane mutters something I don’t catch and then shoves the parchment and vial into Quarter’s chest. “We need to send a reply?” Quarter questions.
“No. They’ll be here before the hawk could deliver it, anyway.”
Quarter frowns at the captain before replacing the empty vial on the hawk’s leg. As soon as it’s secure, the bird takes flight, shooting up into the sheet of rain and disappearing from view without a sound.
“Who’s going to be here?” Quarter asks.
Instead of answering, Captain Fane holds out a hand. “Give me your sash.” Quarter blinks for a moment before he reaches beneath his furs and begins to loosen the white sash tucked around his torso.
Captain Fane turns his attention to me. Without a word, he starts to wrap my ribbons around my torso, pulling them so taut that it makes me grit my teeth in pain. He wraps them around and around, until their long lengths are completely bound around my middle, and then he ties the ends all in a knot, so tightly that I can’t move them at all.
“Get all the saddles in the kitchens and put them to work. Cook needs to get a dinner ready to be served within the hour. We have guests coming.”
He holds out his hand again, and Quarter quickly passes over the sash. The captain wraps it around me, just as tightly as he wrapped my ribbons, and ties that off too. Another deterrent in place to keep my ribbons immobile.
The captain spins me around and lowers himself so we’re eye-to-eye. His expression is angry, severe. “If any of the saddles try anything or disobey in any way…I want them stripped, whipped, and tossed overboard.”
Quarter nods at him, though his eyes are on me. Even with his red band over his face, I can tell he’s grinning. “Aye, Cap.”
With one last lingering glare my way, Captain Fane shoves me toward Quarter before storming off to the front of the ship, shouting orders about changing course.
“Alright, come on, you. And don’t even think about fucking up with those puppet strings of yours, or I’ll slice them clean off your back.”
The skin along my spine flinches, like the ribbons heard the threat.
With a grip on my arm, Quarter leads me down to the main deck again, straight over to the huddled saddles. “Right, you cunts! Follow me!”
Quarter doesn’t wait to see if they listen as he turns us, heading for a set of stairs in the middle of the ship that leads below deck. I can hear footsteps trail after us as Quarter and I make our way down the creaking stairs.
We pass through a narrow corridor, and then we go deeper into the back of the ship where we enter a long galley kitchen that reeks of potatoes and smoke.
At least we’re out of the storm and the kitchen is warm, thanks to the cast iron oven with roaring flames inside its belly. The walls and floors are made from the same white wood as everything else, except it’s been stained, black with soot in some places, splatters of old food stuck on others.
Standing over the iron oven is the cook, the only pirate I’ve seen so far who isn’t dressed in the same white fur as everyone else. He’s in a simple white leather vest and trousers instead, his meaty arms bare and littered with sloppy tattoos. He’s stout and short, with a crooked jaw that juts to the side, and a low brow that makes me wonder how well he can see above the pot he’s stirring.
A scowl crosses his ruddy face when he notices us enter. “What the damned hell I got women in my galley for?”
“Cap’s orders, Cook,” Quarter replies. “We got guests coming, apparently. We need a meal served up deck.” He jerks his head in our direction, where all of us are grouped together near the doorway. “They’re your help.”
Cook lets out a garbled string of curses, but Quarter pays it no mind. “Cap wants it ready by the hour.” Cook sends him a crude gesture but starts to yank out tinned supplies from the cupboards.
Another pirate comes in and leans against the wall, a dagger held in one hand as he stares at us. A guard dog to watch us and attack, if necessary.
Quarter looks back at us. “I’ll warn you now. Cook’s the meanest bastard of all of us. Getting whipped and tossed overboard will be the least of your worries if you fuck up in here.”
With those lovely parting words, Quarter pushes past us and walks out, leaving us alone.
Cook takes one look at us and narrows his eyes, using a rag to swipe over his sweat-lined face. “Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? I’ll boil your fucking hands if you don’t get to work. This meal ain’t gonna cook itself.”
I tense and so do the others, but then Rissa strides ahead, leading the way once again, getting the others to follow suit.
I stay at the back of the group, trying not to flinch every time Cook screams at us or tosses food our way. We hustle to do everything he says, even with our teeth chattering, our clothes and hair sopping wet. When one of the saddles accidentally makes a puddle on the floor, he kicks her down and makes her sop it up with a tiny, useless rag.
And all the while, as I chop and stir and wipe, with Cook snarling and the pirate guard watching, I try to work my ribbons loose, try to get the knots undone bit by bit without anyone seeing.
I have no idea who sent that messenger hawk to the captain, or who’s coming here, but I know the options are bleak. No one good would come to dine with the Red Raids.
Yet no matter who’s coming, I’m grateful for the interruption. If it weren’t for that letter, I would be in the captain’s clutches right now. The thought makes me shudder.
Even so, I know that this reprieve is temporary. Fleeting. I know that before this long, horrible night is through, I’ll be stuck in the captain’s clutches again. So all I can do is try to work my ribbons, and hope I don’t get caught.
