Chapter 13 #3
I let my smile fall away, since apparently it wasn’t convincing to begin with. “Just a little seasick, maybe.”
“Well, eating the crew’s food won’t help you there,” August says. “Come have dinner with me and the captain. It’s not fitting, you hanging around out here like a common sailor.”
I might have dined with them before Kit was caught stowing away, but now it’s the last thing I want to do.
I can’t help but eye August, measuring him up.
He planned this voyage; he decreed exactly what supplies in what amounts should be brought with us from Kirkrell.
Does he know about the secret compartment and what’s inside?
“I hope Mance didn’t give you too hard a time about Kit,” August says, interpreting my glare as displeasure about the captain. “He’s used to being in charge of everything that goes on on his ship. Doesn’t like surprises.”
I want to remind August that the Heralder isn’t his ship.
It’s the company’s. But then it occurs to me I should be playing nice with Mance.
August too. Maybe if I’m clever, I can find out what they both know about the finman in the hold.
I reach out and take August’s hand, squeezing slightly, feeling the heat of his skin through my gloves.
“Let me change clothes and I’ll meet you there. ”
Going into the stateroom, smoothing down the front of my dress, I feel rattled, jumpy.
I knew that the old guard of the Fairfax Whaling Company, the shareholders and officers and many of the sailors, didn’t necessarily respect me.
But the finfolk prisoner in the hold is evidence of outright deception and subversion.
Mance must know about it. Does August know too? And if he does, what else might he be lying to me about?
There’s fear of the finfolk there too, deep and instinctive, to know I am sharing this vessel with one of them.
The same beings that slaughtered Mama and Papa and so many others, their unnatural storms serving as weapons as surely as swords or cannons would.
Trapped and diminished as the finman in the hold seemed, those green eyes spoke of hunger and defiance, of danger.
Mance looks consternated to be playing host as we sit down.
A meal for three has been laid out already—fresh bread and salt fish and soup, all on ceramic dishes, rather than the battered tin bowls the rest of the crew uses.
August seems comfortable with the situation, even as our stabs at small talk grow increasingly contrived.
I am too on edge to be charming, and Mance clearly has no interest in humoring my attempts.
“Do you expect we’ll encounter finfolk on this voyage?” I ask finally, directing my question at Mance. “Where are they most commonly seen?” I don’t want to reveal what I’ve found, not without knowing who’s keeping the prisoner below, and for what purpose. But I do need to learn more.
August glances at me—he knows I’m familiar with the maps of finfolk sightings that Fairfax Company officers have put together. But let them think I’m simply seeking reassurance. It’s not hard to let a note of fear trickle into my voice.
Mance takes another leisurely bite of fish before he deigns to respond.
“They rarely venture south of the seas off Nulusk,” he says shortly.
“I’d be surprised if we see them at all, considering.
They’d be smart to stay away with the weaponry we have on board.
” He nods at August, who allows a small smile of pride at the weapons he’s designed.
“But how would the finfolk know what weapons we have or don’t have?” I choose my words carefully. “I always thought of them as a force of nature. Not rational. Not afraid of us.”
This is more or less true in my experience—back in Abbonheim, people speak about finfolk without curiosity, only fear, the way one might speak of hurricanes.
And even the heroes and heroines of Mama’s fae tales never concerned themselves overmuch with the finfolk’s fears or desires, just how to outwit them.
But I wonder, now, if sailors understand them differently.
Or if Mance is hoping to learn more by capturing one.
“Who’s to say,” the captain says with a grunt after a moment. “I always supposed they could smell iron.” Mance’s eyes flit to August. “Would be good to find out.”
My skin prickles. Does August know something? He takes a long sip of wine and says, “Perhaps that’s something we could look into.” He’s looking at Mance, but his eyes go to me as he speaks.
I try to keep my voice neutral. “It would be difficult to get close enough to study them.”
“Difficult, yes.” His face turns to me, head tilting and a faint smile appearing on his lips. “But the knowledge may be worth the risk.”
“Take a turn about the deck with me?” I ask August after dinner.
I want to keep him occupied for as long as possible, knowing that as we conversed with Mance, Silas was going down to the hold, where Ezra waited with the prisoner.
I haven’t seen them since, and I have a sinking feeling that I’ve tipped my hand with my questions.
If August does know about the prisoner and if he can guess that I know too, I don’t want him descending to the hold to check on things.
When we walk across the deck hand in hand, I see Silas and Ezra sharpening lance blades over a worktable.
Ezra catches my eye as we pass, shooting me a look of grim acknowledgment, but Silas doesn’t lift his gaze from his work, knuckles white as he passes a blade over and over again across a grindstone.
I can feel the fury coming off him in waves, tangible as heat off coals, and it puts me even more on edge—fearing that August will feel it too and wonder as to its origins.
August doesn’t say anything, though, just wraps an arm around me as a cool breeze lifts off the sea, pulling me into the warmth of him.
I try to tell myself that it doesn’t matter if August and Mance learn what we’ve seen.
This ship belongs to my family’s company.
I have a right to look around, to know what’s happening aboard.
But that doesn’t quiet the deep instinct that tells me to play innocent.
Tells me something is wrong. I’m still not ready to believe that August means to kill me.
But I don’t think I fully trust him either.
Not anymore.