Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I woke to the creak of wood and the rhythmic slosh of water against the hull, sounds that should have been soothing. Instead, they made my stomach lurch.
A dull, persistent ache pooled behind my eyes and radiated down my neck. My shoulder screamed in protest when I tried to move.
Right. Dislocated. Or close to it.
I forced my eyes open, the air an immediate sting that I had to wait a few breaths to see past. The ceiling above me was low, the dark wood beams illuminated by weak morning light that painted everything in shades of grey. I blinked in an effort to orient myself. Where in the seven hells—
The brig. Still in a godsdamn brig.
It was then that all of the events of the night rushed back: the ambush, August’s men lying bleeding on the deck, red droplets dripping through the cracks as I stared death in the eyes.
I was on the pirate’s ship.
Every movement sent a jolt of pain through my shoulder as I inched myself up to sitting.
My fingers traced the cold metal brackets fastening the bench to the wall.
Iron bars caged me in. The ship swayed differently now, no longer the gentle bob of a vessel at anchor but an undulating motion I recognized as sailing through open water.
I hated boats and, even more, open water.
I strained to see through the porthole and dread coiled tight in my chest: nothing but endless blue in every direction.
"Hello?" My voice came out rough, barely more than a croak. I swallowed against the knot that clogged my throat and drew my knees toward my chest, wincing as pain lanced through my body. I forced my mind to focus.
"Welcome aboard the Mourning Star, little bird."
"The Mourning Star," I hummed. "Where have I heard—"
"We saw her then." The man at the tavern had whispered. "She came out o’ the dark with no lanterns, her sails black as funeral shrouds. The Mourning Star."
The omen that made the sailors choke on their stew. The name that had paled their faces to sickly green and cast their eyes to the floor.
And I was in her belly.
"Fuck," I whispered.
I needed leverage. A bargaining chip. Something worth keeping me alive. My hands flew to my skirts, and—
The fabric hung limp against my legs.
"Fuck," I squealed, patting the folds where my satchel should have been.
My fingers scrabbled faster, more frantic, as if the satchel might materialize if I just searched hard enough.
My journal. It was gone.
"No. No, no, no."
Had I gotten it back since August took it? I felt as though maybe I had, but perhaps it had been a dream? My hands trembled. I couldn't swallow. I couldn't—
"Everything all right down here, miss?"
I snapped my gaze upward; my heart caught between desperate hope and fresh terror as a greying gentleman appeared before the bars. Though weathered, a glint of concern lay in his eyes. The fact that he pitied me but seemed unwilling to help set my temper alight.
"All right?" I stood and gripped the bars, rattling them in a white-knuckled grip. "I’m in a damned prison. Does that seem all right to you?"
He studied me with narrowed eyes, his gaze clinical rather than crude. I’d worn that same look myself countless times, but didn’t love it reflected back at me.
"Name’s Finch," he grumbled low. "I’m the Quartermaster of this here ship. Second-in-command."
Quartermaster. Second-in-command. I filed that away, wondering if there might be some friction between him and the captain I could exploit. Every ship had its politics. Every crew had its breaking point.
He slid a tin plate across the floor, stopping it deliberately out of my reach. "Cap’n said to check and make sure you hadn’t clawed your way off the ship."
My stomach growled at the sight of food, but I refused to lunge for it like some desperate animal.
I'd been hungry before. Foodless days at the orphanage had been common and it didn’t take long before food had become secondary in my life.
It was a necessity, one that I couldn’t count on to be regular, and that followed me into adulthood.
During long nights of observation, I'd often forgotten to eat until dawn.
This was just another test of endurance.
"Tell your captain," I snarled, fingers curling into claws against the bars, "that I demand to be seen or I’ll beat him senseless and sail us into the bloodiest pits of hell myself."
Something flickered in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or respect.
Not that I cared when my life’s work was in the hands of filthy pirates. "Where's my satchel?" I demanded.
"Cap’n’s got it," he said matter-of-factly.
"He has no right—"
"He’s the captain. Everything on this ship is his business."
"Well, the only reason I’m on this ship is because I was taken against my will, so my satchel is indeed still none of his business!"
Finch crossed his arms, still leaning against the opposite wall and watching me with that strange intensity.
"He’s been looking through your notes in that journal, I’d wager."
Shit.
Not only had he taken the satchel, he’d rifled through it and found my journal. Every constellation I’d ever mapped, every note about position opposed to date and time… If he lost it. Dirtied it with his nasty pirate fingers…
"Those belong to me," I snarled.
His only reply was a half-smile.
My fingers curled into fists so tight my nails bit half-moons into my palms. I imagined the bars between us bending under my rage.
"Tell me why I'm here," I said, forcing my voice steady.
"Cap'n's got a cipher needs breaking."
"Then he should've stayed in port. Universities are full of code-breakers."
Finch's mouth twitched, working silently as if testing words against his teeth. "You've got something special about you."
"And what might that be?"
"Trying to figure that out me’self." He leaned forward, the distance between us shrinking until I could count the weathered creases around his eyes. "Most souls Cap'n takes an interest in end up decorating the mainmast. Or feeding the depths. Not sleeping in the brig."
My throat went dry. "Then why put me in here at all?"
Finch straightened, something like desperation flickering in his eyes. "Cap'n gave explicit orders. No one touches you. Not the crew. Not me. No one. So I'll ask plain, Miss Godwin: what makes you worth protecting?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. At this moment, I had a lot more questions than answers. Most pressing being how loyal Finch was to the captain. If I didn’t prove myself useful right now, would he defy the orders given and get rid of me himself?
"I can read stars," I said finally.
"Plenty of folk can read stars. Even pirates," he said with a mocking smile.
"Not like I can." I jutted out my chin confidently. I’ve known my whole life that I was unlike any other.
Finch studied me for a long moment, then nodded as he pushed off the wall. "We'll see about that."
His boots thudded up the stairs, each step fading until the upper door slammed shut.
I sank back onto the bench and stared at the tin plate he'd left just beyond my reach. My stomach growled. Pride be damned. I stretched my good arm through the bars and dragged it close, forcing myself to eat the over-salted meat and stale bread that crumbled like sand in my mouth.
What makes you worth protecting?
The question haunted me.
All my life, men had looked at my mind as something to correct.
"Too clever for your own good," they'd say. August worst of all, trying to reshape me like clay into something ornamental rather than useful. When I’d refused to yield, he discarded me behind dusty shelves and piles of parchment that impeded any advancement in my work.
Yet this scarred captain with hatred brewing in his storm-grey eyes saw fit to keep me imprisoned rather than hanging off the mast.
For what purpose?
Sunlight crept across the hold, a slow-moving sundial marking time. I tracked its journey across warped planks, refusing to calculate how many leagues now stretched between me and shore.
I had dismissed the Mourning Star as only an omen, and now the omen had me in her clutches and all I could do now was find a way to survive.