Chapter 37 Tendrils of Compassion
Chapter thirty-seven
Tendrils of Compassion
Six days later, aboard the cutter Halcyon
Perched at the bow, Lark tucked her legs beneath her, the wind full in her face, making the longer hairs along her crown billow like the jib sail at her back.
They’d been at sea three days after having to wait for a storm to pass.
The sailing vessel was a beauty—polished teak, quality canvas, sleek design.
A narrow galley was outfitted with a propane stove, an ice chest, a cozy booth, and dead dials, useless buttons, and a silent radio.
With drawers under steps and storage under seats, no space was wasted.
Below were two cabins, whose benches folded out into double beds, separated by the privy—which always seemed to be in use—on one side and a closet and pantry on the other.
A small aft cabin barely fit the captain’s bed.
The four women took the forward-most cabin, the men the other, while Skipper Jonas Pike and first mate Rory Flynn took turns sleeping and running the Halcyon.
A steering wheel jutted from a post near the stern, surrounded by bench seating and a little table that folded up and down.
The skipper had set an ambitious pace, the Gulf Stream bearing them like a hidden engine, a dark river threading through the greater sea. “If the wind and weather hold, we’ll make port in under two weeks,” Pike had predicted.
“A month round trip?” Queen Frost had balked. She hadn’t realized how many nautical miles the trip entailed. Lark gave her credit for not backing out. And, if she was being honest with herself, she was glad Frost was on board, sharing a cabin with her, Skye, and Skye’s aunt.
Lark leaned over the rail, scanning for dolphins. None had shown this morning. Still, the warm sun beaming on her skin, the salt air in her nose, and the fresh breeze invigorated her.
Footsteps on the deck made her whip her head around, glad there was no hair to blow in her eyes.
“My queen,” she uttered in surprise and scrambled up, gripping the railing as the bow pitched through the waves.
She was glad the motion didn’t make her sick the way it did Wes.
He’d spent these first three days hugging a railing, face green, and mood sour.
“Don’t get up,” she said, waving her back to the deck. “I came to sit up here and see what fascinates you so about this spot.”
Instinctively, Lark reached out, taking Frost’s arm to steady her. “Are you sure? It’s much windier here than behind the cabin.”
The queen arched a brow, a crooked smile on her lips. “Which is why my hair is secured with a braid and tie.”
Lark didn’t let go until the queen was safely seated, then plopped beside her. The space before the bowsprit was so narrow, they were practically touching. The nearness sent a shiver racing through her, unexpected and disorienting.
“Just no falling overboard,” Lark said nervously.
At that, Queen Frost made a sarcastic expression that left Lark momentarily speechless.
It seemed so out of character, so human.
For the first time, Lark glimpsed the woman behind the crown.
Under the royal trappings, the burden of leadership, and the expected formality, beat the heart and mind of a woman possessing a sense of humor.
“So, why do you like coming up here?”
“It’s quiet, not so crowded,” she said, amazed that Frost even noticed when she slipped away. “And I like to watch the dolphins. They aren’t here today, but sometimes they ride the bow. They’re amazing animals, and they always seem so happy. Being near them just makes me feel good.”
Being near Queen Frost made Lark feel good too, she realized.
“I love dolphins,” the queen replied wistfully. “I remember reaching over the side and touching one when I was little, and my parents took my brother and me sailing. Simpler times.”
Lark regarded Frost, a few loose strands battered by the breeze.
Between the sun and wind, she squinted, her azure eyes outshining the sea itself.
I hope her skin doesn’t chap or burn. I wonder if she used a cream before coming on deck?
When the queen turned to meet her gaze, Lark glanced away.
She didn’t want Frost to think she had been staring or to read the concern in her expression.
“That must have been wonderful,” she answered. Guilt pricked her over the angry words she’d hurled weeks ago. She had yet to apologize, even though this was the first time they’d been alone together. Courage, Lark. You must do this.
Lark hugged one knee, peering at the beautiful, powerful, intelligent woman beside her. “Queen Frost, I owe you an apology. When I learned my friend had died, I said some cruel and inappropriate words, which I regret.”
“Azaleen,” she said, a placid expression softening her fair face. “If we’re going to be spending a month in close quarters, you may as well call me Azaleen.”
Lark blinked, a flutter winging through her heart. She swallowed as she watched Azaleen gazing at her with appreciation.
“Apology accepted. You were grieving, in shock, and you were right. I hadn’t been totally honest.”
“Luke explained it to me,” Lark responded.
“I assumed the worst, but you couldn’t give me what you didn’t have, and nobody could know the dire straits Verdancia was in.
Leif, my little brother, wrote to say a shipment arrived at Saltmarsh Reach, and we’ve retrieved more supplies since the hospital. Is the country in better shape now?”
Azaleen turned to the front, watching the sparkling waters, and took a deep breath.
“Better. Not where we need to be. My medical researchers finally reported last week that they’ve completed testing on the penicillin they’ve been working on and are ready to mass-produce it.
That alone will save thousands of lives. ”
“That’s terrific,” Lark replied enthusiastically. Azaleen didn’t seem thrilled.
“You know, my grandpa used to tell me about life before the war,” she expounded.
“Cancer had been eradicated, between discovering a cure and the widespread use of vaccines. The average lifespan was a hundred, and most folks stayed vital into their eighties. They had holographic immersive television, advanced recycling, and computerized automobiles that could drive themselves while you slept.” Her attention shot back to Lark.
“That’s why only ancient combustion engines still run.
EMPs knocked out everything electric—except for that damn giant computer core in Clover Hollow Mountain.
” She lowered her chin and shook her head before gazing back over the water.
“Appalachia’s full of fruitcakes,” Lark quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “And besides, who needs an ego-inflated computer? Nobody in the Reach, I can tell you that.”
Turning toward her, a wry smile tugged at Azaleen’s mouth. “You know, Lark, my son Caelen says you’re ‘jacked’—whatever that means. Something good, I presume, because he keeps begging me to let you teach him to run up walls.”
Another flutter rushed through Lark. This was the longest conversation she’d had with the queen, and, in it, she’d accepted her apology, asked to be called by her first name, and now informed her that Caelen holds her in high esteem.
Images from the dream she’d had flashed across her mind.
Her cheeks flushed. Maybe Azaleen will think it’s from the wind.
“Skipper!” an excited tenor voice rang out. First mate Rory Flynn balanced on the spreader, two-thirds of the way up the mast. “Somethin’s in the water.” He pointed ahead to starboard. Gripping the rail, Lark pushed to her feet.
Ahead, shapes bobbed in the waves. “It could be wreckage.” She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. “Flotsam, jetsam, perhaps.”
“What do ya see, boy?” boomed Pike from his post at the steering wheel.
“I’ll grab my binoculars,” Luke said. Harlan followed him into the cabin, most likely to get his rifle.
“Looks like parts of a boat tangled up in something slimy,” Flynn reported as he clung to the mast, wiry as a monkey.
“Diego, take the wheel,” ordered Pike. He rushed about, tugging ropes and cranking chains, reefing the sails of the cutter.
“He’s slowing us down to take a look,” Lark commented, glancing at the skipper.
Well into his sixties, Jonas Pike carried himself with the steady assurance of someone who’d weathered more storms than most sailors will see in a lifetime.
Although his broad shoulders stooped slightly, he moved with practiced ease, strong hands performing rigorous work.
He wore a full, bristling beard transitioning from brown to gray, and a traditional navy peacoat and sailor’s cap.
“Captain Pike knows boats and the sea.” Azaleen rose as well, peering over the waves. “He was my father’s trusted friend, took us out on the water. He served in Verdancia’s tiny navy for a decade, but, when the king died, he retired to private life in New Charleston.”
“What’s that?” Lark pointed at a gelatinous shimmer surrounding the wreckage, reflecting sunrays with an unnatural glow.
“Rory, get down here,” bellowed the skipper, “and don’t mess around. It’s those monstrous jellyfish.”
The Halcyon slowed to a crawl, sails sagging, as the sea writhed with translucent bodies, their long filaments drifting like ghostly nets.
To Lark, they resembled soggy silk parachutes, iridescent in abalone hues, their cords floating around them in the foam.
In the middle of the tangle rocked half a hull and splintered debris.
Rory slid down the mast, Luke reemerged with binoculars, and Harlan gripped his long gun. A ripple of movement caught Lark’s eye.
“There’re people over there!” she called out so the entire crew could hear. “They could be alive.”
Luke rounded one side of the cabin and Jonas Pike the other, scanning the floating debris from the bow. Pressing in between Lark and Azaleen, Luke raised the binoculars, adjusted the wheel.