Chapter Twenty-Eight
What took place in Hellion seems to have an effect on everyone, not only the four of us who went ashore.
Gabriel and Henry no longer bicker—at least, not over things that matter.
Margaret, Diana, and Eliza spend most of their time together.
Titus and Gabriel spar—Jack and Lewis take bets on who will win.
Sylvie and Liv take a shine to Rook, always urging him to play music—even when Charlie plugs his ears with cotton.
And sometimes, when the sun is setting, and we gather for supper together on the main deck, I can almost forget that we’re at war—can almost pretend this is all there is.
These people. These brief moments of joy with my family.
But at night, when I am alone in my quarters and the glowing silver ink of the Elysian Navigator forms the image of the Helm on the island of Ruin—when I recite the poem Batya had read from the shield—I know that none of this will last.
Day after day, I find reasons to avoid Titus. What if I’m misreading the signs, as I had with Will? What if I let myself fall for Titus, only to lose him, too?
The others seem to know what I’m doing, but no one says anything. I can tell Eliza wants to talk about it—Rook tries, but Diana chops him in the throat and he breaks off in a fit of choking—and even Margaret and Jack seem to be working up the courage to ask, but I never give them a chance.
One afternoon, on the second week of our voyage, Titus tries to give me a hand with the rigging, but I make a beeline for the companionway. I find Henry seated on a crate in the galley, his head in his hands.
“Need some help?”
He leans back, his fingers steepled under his chin, a smirk curling his lips. “If you think you can cook a better stew than me, by all means.”
I fold onto the crate beside him. “I know I can cook a better stew than you,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Gabriel could cook a better stew than you, and I don’t think he’s ever even stepped foot in here.”
He chuckles, but his eyes are dark. “Gabriel hardly knows how to hold a spoon.”
We glance at each other sidelong, our lips quirked, and when Henry finally breaks, I find myself holding back a few seconds longer, just to listen to his laughter. Laughter that still, even now, reminds me of all that he’s survived—all that we’ve survived together.
I rest my head on his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the top of my head. We sit in comfortable silence, listening as Henry’s magic brings a pot of water to a boil. But after a while, I feel him tense, his throat working on a swallow.
“My nightmares are getting worse,” he says.
“Mine too,” I admit, only to him. Only ever to him.
“I just don’t understand.…” He knits his hands in his lap, anxiously twisting his fingers. “Why would he ask that Annie go free?”
My heart drops into my stomach.
“He’s not supposed to care,” he says, voice low, as if he were reluctant to say the words aloud. “But… you said he spared Leo from the Deimos.”
I sip at the air, my head spinning. “Yes, but Henry… he killed Flynn, Sade, Batya—all those people at the palace—”
“I know,” he says, getting to his feet. He paces the small galley, his expression hard. “But what about Owen? What about all the people he killed while he was working for Morana?”
I wince. “That’s not the same.”
“How?” he insists, brow furrowed. “He killed my father, Aster. He’s the reason—the reason Dorothy is dead—”
“Will compelled you—”
“Owen tried to kill you!” His eyes are wild.
“You’ve forgiven him. I’ve forgiven him!
But it doesn’t change what he’s done—why he did it.
What if Will—” He grinds his teeth, braces his head between his hands.
“I just can’t believe that he’s not still there, somewhere. That he doesn’t have a reason.”
I feel like I’ve been struck. “You think he had a reason for compelling me to be with him?”
Now it’s Henry’s turn to wince. “That’s not what I—”
“That he had a reason to compel you to try to kill Margaret?” I get to my feet, holding his stare. “Letting Annie go, burning Leo’s body—he knows how that makes him look. It’s all a part of his game.”
The moment I say it out loud, I feel liberated somehow—as if I no longer have to fight to convince myself of the very thing Henry still hopes for.
That Will is in there somewhere—that any of us mattered to him.
That I mattered to him. Because even though I know now that I never loved him, I did care for him.
He mattered to me. But I can’t let that stand in the way of what I know I must do.
Henry’s jaw tightens, fist clenching at his side. He looks away at the pot of water as it boils over. “You’re probably right,” he says quietly. “Forget I said anything.”
I touch his shoulder, and he closes his eyes, lets out a tight breath. “The love we give doesn’t mean any less just because the person we gave it to didn’t want it.”
He swipes a tear from his face with the back of his hand—pats the top of my head. “Wise words.” He adds, a teasing smirk curling his lips, “For a pirate.”
I find that, even on the Starchaser, the galley becomes a sort of haven.
Most nights, when I venture down the companionway, Owen is already there, helping Henry prepare our meals, filling the space with their laughter.
They welcome me into their routine cheerfully, and the three of us create a rhythm that reminds me of the years Owen and I spent cooking with Father aboard the Lightbringer.
The night before we reach the Republic of Ruin, we all gather before supper on the main deck.
Tomorrow, we make landfall. But tonight, we dance.
Rook plays a merry tune, Jack sings at the top of his lungs, and Margaret, Elsie, Diana, Eliza, and I spin in wild circles about the deck, our faces flushed, heads thrown back with laughter.
There was a time I thought I might never feel like this again.
When we first arrived at Bludgrave Manor, I was forced to leave my life aboard the Lightbringer behind—sailing the Western Sea with my siblings, with Owen.
Being here, aboard the Starchaser, almost feels like a dream.
And I know, tomorrow, the dream will end.
But now, this moment, it’s as if we’d all decided we’re determined to make this feeling last—to enjoy tonight, no matter what tomorrow brings. Defiant. Hopeful. Reckless.
I lock eyes with Titus across the deck. He lounges atop a barrel, his legs spread wide, arms propped on the taffrail, half-listening to Gabriel and Owen’s conversation.
He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, and when he realizes he’s caught my eye, he brings his fingers to his mouth, almost absentmindedly, a slow, lazy smirk curling his lips.
He gets to his feet, and my pulse jumps. Quietly, he makes his way to my quarters—slips inside without so much as a look over his shoulder to see if I’ve followed.
Eliza drops my hand, and Margaret practically pushes me out of their circle.
“If you two don’t talk,” Diana says, pointing at the door to the captain’s quarters, her brow cocked, “we’ve already agreed we’re locking you in that room until one of you breaks down and admits you’re an idiot.”
I hesitate, but it’s Elsie who gives me one final shove in his direction.
“Be nice!” she says.
I feel their eyes on me as I make my way to the double doors.
Someone cheers, and I look up to see Henry and Jack high-fiving near where Rook hollers from the helm.
I shoot them a glare as Charlie grumpily hands over a pouch of coins to Lewis, but slip inside the captain’s quarters fighting an exasperated smile.
My heart leaps into my throat as I close the door behind me.
“Too much?” Titus asks, rubbing the nape of his neck.
He stands in front of a small makeshift table in the center of the room. A candelabra and two bowls of stew sit atop the barrel, draped with a white sheet.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I thought you hated dinner?”
“Only because I never had the pleasure of your company.”
He stands perfectly still, as if bracing for impact.
“It’s lovely,” I say, my cheeks warm.
A sharp intake of breath. And then—that smile. His face, lit by the soft, buttery-gold candlelight, brightens. He motions to one of the two crates. “Care to join me?”
My shoulder brushes his as I move past him to take my seat, and I think he might choke.
He clears his throat, sitting across from me, his long legs jutting out to the side of the barrel, his feet close enough to touch mine.
“You even catered my favorite dish,” I say dryly, nudging his foot. “Did you put this together all by yourself?”
His gaze widens, and I think his hand trembles as he runs it through his hair, shoving stray strands out of his face.
“Henry helped,” he says quietly, a bashful grin tugging at his lips.
“I think he wants his kitchen back. And I didn’t ask Rook or Eliza, but they found ways to…
include themselves.” He rolls his eyes. “And their opinions.”
My lips twitch. “I’m sure they did.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “Have I ever told you the story of the first time I met Rook?”
I smile, and it isn’t forced. “Why do I get the feeling he landed himself in some sort of outlandish trouble, and you had to swoop in and save him?”
He throws his head back, and my stomach jolts, flips, drops when he laughs—wild and carefree. There—there he is. No mask. Just Titus.
I would give anything to hear that laugh again.
“Actually,” he tells me, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, “it was the other way around.”
“Do tell!”
And he does. He tells me the story, then another.
I tell him about the first fish I ever caught.
He tells me about the time he tried to hug a dolphin.
I tell him about the day I knocked out Lewis’s front teeth with a spoon—“Baby teeth!” I insist, but we’re both laughing so hard we’re wheezing for breath, and Titus is clutching his abdomen, begging me to stop.