Chapter Six #2
I never realized how exhausting work can be.
By the time I return to my hammock, I am sore and irritable from bending over my ledgers all morning and afternoon.
I slide out of my jacket and hang it carefully on the top hammock of my bunk.
No one ever took the space below mine, so I have moved myself into the lower hammock—less risk of falling and breaking my nose—and taken to draping my clothes in the upper hammock to keep them fairly wrinkle-free.
I am working open my cravat when a bowl of something akin to stew appears before my eyes.
I turn to see Tristan beaming as he holds it out to me.
Trevor helps himself to a seat on my hammock, but I don’t complain.
I let my cravat slide free and drop it onto the upper hammock, then take the bowl with a wide smile.
“Thank you, Tristan.”
Though they are twins, it’s easy to tell Tristan and Trevor apart.
They both have reddish-brown hair—Tristan’s long, Trevor’s cropped short—and sad puppy-dog eyes, but Trevor has been working very hard on growing a beard.
(It’s patchy but still commendable for a lad his age.) Tristan either prefers his face clean shaven, like me, or can’t grow whiskers at all.
It gives him a boyish charm that I find irresistibly endearing.
I daresay Tristan may very well be my favorite person on the crew—though it’s early days yet and his adorable earnestness may prove to be more irritating than I anticipate. For now, however, I enjoy his company. And Trevor’s as well, though he’s a bit more standoffish.
“Yer welcome, Mr. Kit. I knew you’d forget to get dinner again.”
I do rather like that he has taken to calling me Mr. Kit, instead of Mortimer, and encourages the crew to do the same.
I’m surprised by the way it makes me feel somehow protective over him, which is silly because I am fairly certain Tristan could knock me on my ass in ten seconds flat, like every other man on this ship.
But something about him feels so very tender.
It’s been barely a week, and yet with the twins, I feel like I’ve known them my entire life.
I’ve never had that before. I don’t really know what to do with it either, so I try not to think on it too much and just enjoy their company when I can.
“He doesn’t forget,” Trevor mumbles with his mouth full of bread. “He skips the line ’cause he knows you’ll bring him dinner.”
“That’s not true,” Tristan insists.
“I didn’t forget,” I say as I carefully move to sit beside Trevor without toppling the hammock. “I was just too tired to stand in line. I thought I could afford to skip a meal, but I am very pleased to not have to.”
“See?” Trevor gives a smug smile.
“Well, I don’t mind either way,” Tristan says.
“Ye goin’ to ask him?” Trevor prods, sopping up the last of his broth with his bread.
“Ask me what?” I interject after a swallow of stew.
“You wanted to know too!” Tristan protests.
“What’s going on?”
“Tristan wants to know if yer a prince.”
I laugh and look from one twin to the other—but neither of them is laughing with me. “What are you on about?”
“Someone said yer a runaway prince,” Tristan explains, his cheeks developing the most adorable shade of pink.
“I’m not a runaway prince,” I say, rolling my eyes and taking another bite of my stew. “I’m not even a member of the peerage. I’m just plain old Kit Mortimer.”
“Nothin’ about ye is plain,” Trevor teases, nudging my thigh with his own to point out the contrast of my trousers against his.
“You know what I meant.”
“Ye talk fancy,” Tristan adds. “Real posh.” He straightens his back and elongates his nose by pursing his lips when he says it.
I laugh and throw a chunk of bread his way. “Well, I’m not a prince. I’m just… educated.”
“Cap’n says yer real good with yer sums,” Tristan says.
My face grows hot. I am unused to compliments on things other than my appearance.
And I rather like that the captain is speaking highly of me when I’m not even around to hear it.
Though I wouldn’t mind if he spoke highly of me to my face more often too.
“Ah, I’m… adequate with them. Nothing terribly impressive, I assure you.
” I shift in the hammock and push a bit of stew around in my bowl.
“Better’n either of us,” Trevor says with a little grin that tells me he is unbothered by this.
“If yer done, I’ll take yer bowl back to the mess,” Tristan offers.
“Stop suckin’ up,” Trevor says.
“I’m bein’ nice!” Tristan argues as he takes my bowl from me. “But since yer bein’ a jerk, you can take ’em.” He stacks all the bowls onto Trevor’s lap and grins. “G’night.”
Trevor glares at his twin’s back as Tristan crosses the fo’c’sle to the bunk they share, but I am saved from any awkwardness when he stands up and nods a good night to me before obediently leaving to carry the stack of bowls to the mess.
I pull off my shoes and tuck them under my hammock before settling in for the night.
My innards dip as the hammock sways with the swell of the ocean outside.
Most nights, sleeping on the hammock feels a bit like floating.
I watch in the dim light of the fo’c’sle as the walls around us rock but I remain somehow stationary.
Of course I understand the physics behind it. But it feels surreal anyway.
Tonight, however, my hammock wobbles with the shift of the ship. I can’t help but wonder if I am simply too awake or if something actually is different. The movements make it difficult, but eventually the hum of the men speaking softly, and the quiet rush of water against wood, lull me to sleep.
Until I am unceremoniously thrown from my hammock and land on the damp floor with a thud as the ringing in my ears fades into muffled screams from overhead.