Chapter 16
As much as I’d been looking forward to a real bed at the inn in Nunaqvik, I can’t quite bring myself to regret where I ended up instead.
Bright, cold light splashes into August’s cabin through the porthole window, lent a glittering quality by the ice and snow blanketing the shore.
August is still asleep, blanket bunched up around his waist, his face smooth and young-looking in sleep.
It strikes up a strange ache in me. Like remembering something I lost long ago. It makes me want to avert my eyes.
When I go to retrieve my clothes, it’s a shock when my bare feet touch the freezing floorboards. I dress quick as I can, shivering. The elation that clung to me upon first waking up ebbs quickly, to be replaced by worry as all the memories of last night trickle back in.
Drifting off next to August, tangled together on the too-narrow bunk.
His arm around my waist, pulling me to him after he blew out the lamp.
The mixture of contentment and low-simmering desire in my veins, marveling over what we had done and hoping—more than I’ve hoped in weeks—that there might be opportunities to do more things on other nights soon.
I glance at myself in August’s mirror—bright eyes, flushed cheeks—braid my hair quickly, then check my arms in the morning light. There are just a couple of stray new scales this morning, not enough to even bother plucking out. A sign of being happy, at peace.
But beneath the glow, I’m worried about Lydia and Josephine and Ezra and Silas, whether they made it out of the harbor and back to the inn. About the prisoner. About August and whether it was right to come to him like this.
Yes, I wanted him. I still do. But there’s a queasy undertone mixed into how I feel when I glance back at his sleeping form in the bunk. Knowing that it’s just as well most of me enjoyed last night, because I couldn’t have walked away, not without consequences.
I find the bone pendant tangled up in my shirt, and when I lift it up to put it back around my neck, it glitters in the morning light. My breath catches with the memory of what I’m meant to do.
I find a letter opener on August’s desk, prick my finger, and very carefully let one drop of blood fall onto the pendant, like I watched Josephine do early in the voyage. For a long moment nothing happens. Heart in my throat, I brace myself for the blood to slide uselessly off.
Then it sinks through the pendant’s hard surface and remains, a bright, bold spot of ruby. I let out a breath as understanding sinks in. With the freeing of the finfolk prisoner, one of my favors is complete. I am one step closer to being healed.
But the thought is little comfort. Because there’s no way to tell if it will be enough in the eyes of the finfolk. And that’s if I even make it to Drekja at all.
Suddenly, there’s a swell of voices from somewhere over my head, filtering indistinctly through the ceiling. I can’t make out their words, but they sound angry. My stomach drops and I finish dressing as quickly as I can.
By the time my feet hit the deck, Nunaqvik is a small shape behind us. The main deck is crowded with most of the Heralder crew, clustered around something or someone near the forecastle.
“Our hold was broken into while in the harbor.” Mance’s gravelly voice rises over the noise, harsh and commanding. “Must have happened while we were ashore in Nunaqvik. Something of great value was stolen.”
My stomach drops, and I take a deep breath as mutters rise from the crew all around. I knew, of course, that setting the prisoner free likely wouldn’t go unnoticed forever. But there should be no way for Mance to know who did it, I reassure myself as I make my way across the deck.
Then for a minute the crowd shifts and my stomach drops as I see what everyone is looking at. Silas stands pinioned between two burly Heralder men, who grasp his upper arms. I don’t make out his face before the crowd shifts and blocks my line of sight.
The Whistler crew, along with Kit and Lydia, are clustered by the starboard railing, bodies tense, and I rush to them. Josephine watches the proceedings at the forecastle with her brow furrowed with concern, and Ezra’s face is dark with anger, whereas Lydia’s is dead white.
“What happened?” I hiss as soon as I’m close enough not to be heard by anyone else. I turn to Lydia. “Did anyone see you last night?”
“We weren’t caught.” Lydia sounds distraught. “Silas and Ezra and Josephine and I all made it back to the inn. You were the one I was worried about.” She turns wide eyes on me. “But one of the sailors says he saw Silas walking to the docks last night. Mance accused Silas of breaking into the hold.”
“How can Mance prove it if no one saw you down there?” My mouth feels dry.
“He can’t prove it.” Ezra tugs at a nearby bit of rigging, knuckles white. “He’s just guessing because of who Silas is.”
“We already tried to speak to Mance on his account,” Josephine adds, “but Silas is determined to take the fall. He’s saying he did it.” Her arms are crossed over her chest, brow furrowed with worry.
Staring into the shifting wall of bodies that blocks Silas from view, I feel sick, heart beating too fast. What now?
“Silas asked us to keep quiet,” Lydia mutters beside me.
“I don’t remember the part where we agreed.
” Abruptly, she spins on her heel and starts to shove through the crowd, ignoring the men when they curse and glare at her.
My heart jumps into my throat and I follow her as she stops in front of Mance and Silas.
Silas stands ramrod straight between the men holding him, his face blank, his eyes closed. Like he’s somewhere else in his mind. He keeps them that way even with Mance looming over him. “Open your eyes, boy,” Mance is hissing. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
“Captain!” Lydia’s voice rings out.
Silence falls among the crew as Mance pivots to face us, an unpleasant smile spreading across his face. Silas, too, turns his face toward Lydia and me, eyes still closed. But his mouth presses flat, and he shakes his head slightly, his meaning clear. Don’t say anything.
I stare at him, stomach churning as I remember what he said about Lydia and me having access to information.
He was right—as evidenced by August telling me his plans last night, just because I asked.
We have a better chance of learning more if Lydia and I remain guiltless.
But it feels wrong in every cell of my body.
Lydia steps right up to Mance. “What evidence do you have to accuse one of your officers of theft?” Her voice is icy and harsh, authoritative. She’s the one who’s a Fairfax through and through.
But Mance laughs in her face. The smell of stale breath and old cigarette smoke hits me too as I come up next to her.
“The boy confessed to the theft,” he says. “This isn’t your concern, Ladies Fairfax. Why don’t you retire for a spell and let me run my own ship?”
“This is a Fairfax Company ship,” I say. Behind him, I see Silas flinch at the sound of my voice. My arms itch, my fingers twitch as adrenaline streams through me. “Everything that happens aboard is our concern. What is it you said was stolen?”
He won’t want to let the whole crew know about the prisoner. Surely we can use that to our advantage somehow.
He sneers. “Finfolk relics. Bone carvings and curiosities.”
Behind him, August appears at the front of the crowd, making my breath catch.
His eyes rove over the scene, taking everything in, his expression faintly curious.
I wait for him to come to us, but he stays where he is, outside the circle of attention burning around Mance and Lydia and Silas and me.
I swallow and redirect my attention back to Mance.
“Why were such things locked up in the hold, Captain?” I hold his gaze, trying hard not to look at Silas. Why won’t he open his eyes? “Surely we could use that space for food or supplies.”
“A real sailor would know it’s no waste of space to carry a good luck charm or two. That it’s customary on jaunts like this.” His lip curls. “An honest sailor would know better than to touch them, but this one’s no honest sailor, is he? He’s something else.”
There’s an upswing in the noise of the crowd behind us, discontented and accusatory mutters, as Mance rounds on Silas again. “Open your eyes!” he snarls, so close that his breath blows back Silas’s hair. “Or are you afraid we’ll see the treachery there?”
Chills break out over my skin and I step forward.
“What you’re referring to, that’s nothing but a rumor, Mr. Mance.
I would have thought you above such petty gossip.
” It’s one thing for people to whisper about the scavenger, one thing for rumors to swirl.
Another thing for the captain himself to bolster people’s suspicions about Silas.
My heart screams at me to step in front of him and shield him from all this hatred. But my feet won’t obey.
“Rumors always come from somewhere, Lady Fairfax,” Mance says with a sickly sweet smile, not turning from Silas. “One last time, boy. Open your eyes.”
I plant my feet. “You have no proof—”
“OPEN YOUR EYES!” Mance roars and backhands Silas across the face, knocking his head to the side. Shock hollows me out as Mance grabs Silas’s jaw and wrenches his face back to forward.
Silas’s eyes are open and they have gone white.
No—not white, not one color at all, but every color swimming together.
The war visions overtaking him, I remember.
It looks like nothing so much as an oil spill, covering his eyes from corner to corner.
Like greasy tears might be about to run down his cheeks.
His jaw is clenched, blood dripping from a split lip.