Chapter 38 Where Silence Breaks
Chapter thirty-eight
Where Silence Breaks
Three days later, after dinner aboard the Halcyon
Azaleen joined Camille, Skye, and Lark in their cabin, crank lanterns casting a warm glow over a rousing game of gin rummy.
A table sat between the two benches when they weren’t folded out for sleeping, and the cards mostly stayed put with the gentle rocking of the boat.
A day earlier, the sea had turned rough, the Halcyon battling rain and wind.
They made a quick stop by Captains Cove to drop off Jose and Sandy.
Their story had checked out, and, once all decided the queen was in no danger, Lark and the rest of the VERT team went for a much-needed run while Azaleen and Camille enjoyed a few hours on land.
Eight families lived in the forgotten village, thriving without the weight of government or religious mandate.
Fortunately, they had another seaworthy vessel and several small fishing boats, so the loss of the trawler wasn’t entirely devastating.
Though Azaleen never mentioned being the queen of Verdancia—the temptation of a kidnapping looming much too great—they were treated like royalty by the coast community, who rarely entertained visitors.
Then, they were back on their way north.
“Gin!” Camille Navarro laid down nine cards from her hand and slapped the last one on the discard pile.
Skye’s mouth fell agape. “Why, you sneaky so-and-so! You’re not supposed to hoard all the tricks, so we can’t play on them. You’re supposed to put them down as you collect them.” She slapped her fan of cards on the table in frustration.
“That’s not a rule,” Camille answered with a sly wink. “One should never reveal what cards she’s holding prematurely, isn’t that right, Azaleen?”
“While this is often quite necessary in national negotiations, I hardly see the imperative of employing that tactic in a friendly game of cards,” smirked Azaleen. “Your niece looks positively incensed.”
She took a glance across the table at Lark, who seemed to take her loss in stride. The quality appealed to Azaleen, adding another tick to the “things I like about Lark” column. And, she had to admit that her initial “don’t like about Lark” headliner—“smells like bear grease”—hadn’t resurfaced.
“Yeah,” Skye seconded, scooping the cards into a big pile. “I want a rematch, and no cheating this time.”
“Well, technically, she wasn’t cheating,” Lark confirmed. “Just being sneaky. You could always try turning the tables on her.”
“We’ll see about that! My turn to deal.” Skye shuffled the cards most thoroughly while Azaleen exchanged a humorous look with Camille.
“I hope negotiations with High Chief Batise go better than this.”
“Oh, they will,” Camille assured her. “I won’t be concerned with family rivalry when sitting at the table with her.”
Returning her gaze to Lark, Azaleen asked, “What would your gramma say about this dilemma?” Lark had talked a great deal about the remarkable woman who raised her, and Azaleen couldn’t wait to meet her—although she wondered when and if she ever would.
Lark had been quite open in telling stories about Saltmarsh Reach, her family, and her adventures.
It was easy to see why Caelen, with his enthusiastic personality and vivid imagination, was so drawn to her.
Lark was an open book, unlike Azaleen, who held everything inside, guarded and protected.
The queen had started picturing hunting trips with Sam, the loyal pointer—not a hound, as Lark had explained the difference.
But most remarkable was Inez Carvalho Sutter.
Azaleen couldn’t help but contrast her with her own mother.
Both had survived the horrors of the War of Ruin and lost loved ones yet had dealt with tragedy so differently.
While she dearly loved her mother, Azaleen couldn’t help but wish she would age like Inez—with strength, resilience, good humor, and a sound mind.
Even blindness doesn’t stand in her way.
Lark responded, a twinkle in her eye, “She’d say, ‘Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish,’ and that applies to both of you Navarro women.” The sage comment drew a giggle from Azaleen. Realizing her revelry had gotten the best of her, she quickly covered her mouth.
“Now,” Skye pronounced, cards dealt. “Lark goes first, and I’ll be ready for your tricks, Aunt Camille. This is a game I can finish.”
The two exchanged identical snarky expressions, causing Lark to chuckle. “It’s so obvious you two are related.”
Skye turned a withering look at Lark. “Don’t be so sure. Mistakes could have been made.”
“Highly doubtful.” Lark plucked a card, shuffled it through her hand, and discarded. “I’ll win this round.” Her grin could have rivaled the sun.
“We’ll see about that.” Azaleen suppressed a smile, flicked her a challenging glance, and took her turn.
Lanky young first mate Flynn burst into their cabin, a look of fearful awe on his face. “You’ve got to come see this!”
Noting his sincerity, Azaleen laid down her cards and stood. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “You’ve just got to see.”
Tugged by curiosity, she followed him out into the bracing air, joined by her companions. Azaleen suddenly wished she’d thrown on a cloak. Everyone had gathered on deck as an awful hush draped over the ocean beneath a moonlit midnight-blue sky.
“Wow,” Luke sighed. “Eerie, all right.” He nudged Diego, and the two of them eased back to allow Azaleen room.
Lark stepped up to the railing right beside her.
To port, half-sunken vessels jutted from the water like broken teeth along the barren Dead Coast, moonlight slicking across their jagged edges.
Not a gull cried, not a fish stirred—the silence of the place pressed on them heavier than the night’s aura.
The boat rocked, and Azaleen’s hand came down atop Lark’s on the rail.
An electric pulse raced up her arm, and she inched her hand to the side.
This wasn’t a moment for intimacy—surrounded by crew, under the haunting shadow of desolation.
And yet, the incidental touch had felt intimate—at least to Azaleen.
Purposefully, she kept her focus on the sight ahead.
Lark’s heart leaped at Azaleen’s touch. It had been an accident, and she’d quickly moved her hand away.
Still, it stirred something unexpected in Lark.
The queen was, well, the queen—older, wiser, far more important and wealthier than a swamp rat.
Of course, she was attracted to her—who wouldn’t be?
But to have such a reaction, to feel such a jolt of desire, was unthinkable.
A dream was one thing; to imagine she and Azaleen could have a genuine connection was something else entirely. Too unrealistic to consider.
Shaking it away, Lark gazed at the surreal scene before them.
The sea grave sprawled like a forest of broken masts, moonlight catching on rust-flaked steel and skeletal rigging.
Rusted hulls, half-swallowed by the sea, heaved with the tide like corpses refusing to sink.
The air reeked of iron and decay, as though centuries of rust had soured the salt spray.
A prickle crawled along the short hairs on the back of her neck, a sensation of trespass in a place not meant for the living.
Skipper Jonas Pike’s voice broke the silence. “A ship’s graveyard isn’t just wrecks, Your Excellency—it’s the sea reminding us how many captains thought they were smarter than her.” He kept Halcyon’s course arrow-true, his eyes never leaving the hulks as if afraid one might shift and bar their way.
“I suspect the captains weren’t at fault for this,” Azaleen replied. “How were they to know when a bomb would fall near their port, or if a tsunami raised by a faraway detonation would overwhelm them?”
“I wonder how many people were aboard when the disaster struck?” Lark asked. “How many souls went down with them?”
No one dared answer. Every lap of water against the hull carried a hollow echo, a reminder of the drowned steel around them.
Lark tried to make out a nameplate caught in the moonlight—its letters corroded but still legible, whispering of a world long gone.
Maersk. She’d never heard the name. Barnacle-crusted funnels jutted like skeletal fingers, clutching for the stars.
Some were rolled over, their hulls facing skyward.
Others, only the bow tip or stern propellers were visible.
A cruise ship’s portholes gleamed faintly, moon mirrors like ghostly eyes tracking their passage.
The creak of their own rigging felt indecently loud in the suffocating hush.
Lark glanced at Azaleen, standing only a breath away, their shoulders still touching in the crush of their shipmates.
She read a poignant look there—eyes filled with remorse, memory perhaps, as if the queen shared a silent reunion with the dead.
In the weeks they’d spent in close quarters, Lark had glimpsed hints of a more relaxed, down-to-earth Azaleen—the woman behind the crown.
However, she guarded her words and emotions, avoiding personal topics, only mentioning her children, never her mother, father, brother, or herself.
She reserved her opinions for professional matters, conducting herself with dignity and poise.
Still, Lark had noticed those unguarded moments when a sliver of vulnerability slipped past her defenses. This was one of those moments. If Lark didn’t know better, she could have sworn a pinch of fear swam in those haunted blue eyes.
“Do you think it’s a bad omen?” the Flynn boy asked.
“No, laddie.” Pike kept the rudder steady. “But it’d be disrespectful to disturb it. Best keep clear—maybe say a prayer.” A lone gull wheeled overhead but made no sound, wings slicing the air in silence.
“I suppose I could,” Secretary Navarro volunteered. “As a diplomat, I’ve learned many prayers.”
The skipper nodded, and Lark bowed her head in respect.