Chapter Twenty-Two
I find Owen in the galley, chopping carrots with a knife that’s meant for killing, not cooking. Henry doesn’t seem to mind him, which is strange, considering Henry minds almost everyone. Especially a pirate.
Especially the pirate responsible for his father’s death.
Especially the pirate he blames for what happened to Dorothy.
When I creep down the companionway that leads to the tiny kitchen, I pause, watching the two of them, waiting for Henry to drive a butcher knife through Owen’s chest.
Instead, Henry says, “We don’t get to control what happens to us, but we get to decide what we do with it.”
And I understand. Owen might not have an X tattooed behind his ear, marking him as a victim of the Deathwail like Henry and me, but my brother has revealed something to him—something about what he endured as Morana’s servant. And Henry knows all too well what it means to be used.
“You sound like you’ve been chatting with Margaret,” Owen says, a sly smirk curling his lips.
Henry nearly misses the onion he’s chopping.
I let the steps creak underfoot, announcing my arrival.
I make a show of inhaling deeply. “Stew again. Lovely.”
Henry shoots me a glare over his shoulder. “Actually,” he drawls, “we’re having roast chicken.”
“Thought the crew could use a little pick-me-up,” Owen adds, flipping his knife in the air and catching it behind his back. “Moondancer gifted us enough poultry to feed a small army. One little feast won’t hurt anyone, aye?”
I can’t argue. “Good,” I say, “one more bowl of stew and I might have—”
Something rustles inside the crate to my left. Owen and Henry point their blades at the wooden box marked PROPERTY OF THE MOONDANCER.
“Shh!” A muffled hiss.
I open the lid of the crate, my heart in my throat.
“Surprise?” Elsie offers a weak grin, waving up at me from the bottom of the crate.
My little sister tumbles out of the wooden box and throws herself at Owen—he barely has enough time to set the knife aside before she tackles him.
“I’m sorry—” Elsie hiccups, weeping. “I was eavesdropping and”—she wheezes, tripping over her words—“I didn’t believe them!” She wipes her snotty face on Owen’s shirt. “They said you were alive and—”
Owen sinks to a crouch, eye level with our youngest sibling, smiling at her as if I’d opened the crate and a little star had leaped out.
“It’s you!” Elsie’s bottom lip quivers, her eyes bright. “It’s really you!”
She clings to him, burying her face in his shirt.
I think of the scar on Margaret’s forearm, the burn that won’t heal. I think of Annie, her eyes glowing red, surrounded by Underlings.
“No!” I shout, even though my voice cracks. “We have to take her back. She can’t stay.”
Owen looks up at me, nodding slowly. “She’s right,” he says to Elsie. “They need you back at home. Albert needs you.”
She pushes away from Owen, glaring at me, her face as red as the tomato Henry has taken to slicing. “I’m coming with you!” she says. “I invoke the rights of the stowaway!”
I glance at Owen. He shrugs, brows lifted, and mouths, “Pirate.” A grin tugs at my lips, but I smother it with a scowl.
“And what rights are those?” I inquire, playing along.
Elsie clears her throat. “Um… well, there’s the right to earn my keep!” She nods eagerly. “And the right to tend to the chickens! And swab the deck, and…”
“And?” Owen prompts.
“And…” Elsie furrows her brow, clearly thinking hard.
Just then, a slender calico springs from the open crate and lands in Elsie’s arms.
She grins sheepishly. “And the right to supervise Rooster?”
Elsie and the cat—Rooster—both look up at me with pleading eyes.
Owen joins in, his bottom lip jutting out in a mock pout.
I huff a sigh. “You do exactly as I say.” I point at Elsie and Rooster in turn. “No arguing. If you’re going to be part of this crew, you’re going to take orders like everyone else.”
She beams. “Aye, Captain!”
Rooster meows.
Owen cheers, sweeping Elsie into another hug and lifting her in the air. Even Henry smiles.
I’m halfway up the steps when I hear Elsie say, “I knew you saw a Hippocampus!”
My foot hovers over the next tread, my chest tight.
Owen once claimed he saw a Hippocampus—a benevolent Myth with the top half of a horse and the bottom half of a fish, so rare that few believe they exist. Legend says they bring good luck to those who catch a glimpse of them.
I understand, instantly, what she means by this. Elsie believes he saw a Hippocampus, and the luck it brought him is that he’s here with us now, rather than dead at the bottom of the ocean.
I can’t help but wonder if the price paid for the luck it brought him wasn’t more costly than the reward.
Still, when Owen says, “Told you!” I hear the laughter in his voice, and I thank the Stars for that Hippocampus, wherever it is, for gifting our brother this moment with Elsie, no matter the cost.
Margaret, Charlie, and Lewis take turns scolding Elsie, but by the time the sun hangs low in the sky, the youngest Oberon child has taken to causing mayhem aboard the Starchaser. And though Gabriel pretends to be annoyed when Rooster curls around his leg, I see right through his scowl.
I think about what Owen said concerning the crew needing a pick-me-up. I suppose nothing raises morale like the hopeful laughter of a child at play.
And then there’s Titus. He lingers near the companionway that leads to the brig, as if he were prepared to dive belowdecks if she were to come too close. When Elsie approaches him cautiously, curiously, his eyes flash with unbridled terror.
Elsie sticks out her hand. He stares at it like she had pointed a dagger at his heart.
“My sister talks about you,” Elsie says flatly. “A lot.”
Titus’s lip twitches. “Oh, really?” He flicks a glance at me, starting toward him and Elsie from across the deck. “Which one?”
“Both of them, actually.”
Titus’s eyes widen, brows shooting up in surprise. “You don’t say.”
“Well, Marge thinks you’re a pompous ass.” Elsie doesn’t miss a beat. “And Az—”
“That’s enough of that!” I cover Elsie’s mouth, picking her up and spinning her around before setting her back on her own two feet. “Don’t you have some chickens to feed?”
Elsie peers around me, her brow quirked as she shares a look with Titus that spells trouble. “Mm-hmm. Chickens.”
As I watch her skip away, I feel Titus’s looming presence at my back.
He hums. “Interesting.”
I turn on my heel, hoping the warmth in my cheeks doesn’t show. “I was trying to spare your feelings. You wouldn’t have liked what she had to say.”
A smirk. “How considerate of you.”
I roll my eyes, attempting to push past him, but he catches my arm. Leans in close.
“You don’t have to talk about me behind my back,” he whispers, his voice rough. The low vibration tickles my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “If you’d like to make a complaint, I’d be happy to hear you out directly.”
I turn toward him, and my nose brushes his, but he doesn’t pull away, and neither do I.
“I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your day,” I say. “I know you have some very important sulking to do.”
Titus’s eyes flare. “For you, I’d make time.”
“How about tonight?”
Titus’s gaze drops to my mouth. “It’s a date.”
His breath ghosts my lips. My heart skips a beat.
Someone clears their throat, and we jump five feet apart.
“Am I”—Charlie glances between the two of us—“interrupting something?”
“No!” we blurt in unison.
“Of course not,” Titus says, his tone pitched.
Charlie twists, as if to leave. “I can come back.”
“No, we—you—” I try.
“I—It’s—See—” Titus stammers, rubbing the nape of his neck.
“We’re good,” I say. “Great, actually! Just… discussing—”
“Strategy,” Titus finishes, nodding earnestly. “For, uh… our expedition to Hellion.”
“Lots of—er—planning to do.”
Titus barks a laugh. “Planning,” he echoes, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s going well. All the… planning.”
Charlie gives Titus a once-over, eyes narrowing. He clucks his tongue. “Glad to hear it. May I speak with you, Captain?” He turns to me, his lips pressed tight as if he were smothering a laugh. “Unless this is a bad time…?”
“We can talk in my quarters!” I grab Charlie by the arm and haul him away.
He lets out a low whistle. “Well—”
“Not a word,” I snap.
I don’t look over my shoulder, but I feel Titus’s eyes follow me all the way to the captain’s quarters. I slam the doors behind me, my arms crossed.
I fan my face. Is it always this hot this time of year? “What did you need to talk to me about?”
Charlie grins innocently. “Oh, nothing,” he says with a shrug. “You two just looked a little too cozy for comfort.”
I gape at him. My face feels like it were on fire. “We were not cozy.”
He gives me a look.
It’s well past sunset when Owen wins his sixth game of Clubs.
The crew gathers around a makeshift table on the main deck, playing my family’s favorite card game, some of us watching, others starting to doze.
“Time for bed,” Owen tells Elsie, who whines, and argues, and insists on one more game.
“At least tell me a story.” Elsie pouts.
Owen says nothing as he gets to his feet, but when he gestures at the companionway that leads to the bunkhouse, Elsie races ahead.
Owen turns to me over his shoulder, points a finger. “Don’t fall asleep yet, all of you,” he says as he disappears belowdecks. Margaret’s just begun to snore, her head lolling onto Jack’s shoulder, when Owen returns, hiding something behind his back.
He smiles like a fiend. “Ta-da!”
He holds the bottle of rum over his head like a crown.
Eliza claps, jarring Margaret awake with a confused snort. Margaret focuses on the glass bottle as Owen presents it to the crew, and she throws her head back with laughter.
“Now you’re talking!”