19. Sand-Sational
Sand-Sational
I wake alone as the first bit of pink light seeps in through the windows, the place where he was curled into my side only hours before cold to the touch.
Tamping down my disappointment, I slide out of bed and dress.
When I reemerge on deck, Silas and Astra are already at it, heads bent close as they peer over the map.
Astra looks up, but Silas’s eyes remain cast downward.
Is he embarrassed? Fearing for the lives of his crew is rational. Sometimes, the only way to grieve is to cry.
Or did I tell him too much? Did he sense my half-truth when I told him about the journal?
Silas knows I’m here, though. There’s a twitch of his hand, and his left foot slides out and points to me, pulled like a magnet.
Sighing, I climb the steps to the main deck and squint out over the water.
The sky is on fire. Oranges and pinks cast everything in a warm tone that feels at odds with the gloom of the crew.
Jack claps me on the shoulder, startling me. “We’re making land.”
“How?”
He motions over my head to the mainmast. “We’ll make do.”
Jack waits a beat, brow raised as if he’s expecting something. Forcing a smile, I nod and hurry down to the mess to help Pip with breakfast.
There’s a somber feel about the ship as I hand out bowls and mugs to the crew. They take them with weak smiles or blank expressions, and I wish I could console them, tell them something that will quiet the grief, if only for now, but I have no words, no magical solution for any of it.
With even fewer crew members than before, it takes me no time at all to make the rounds, a sobering thought. They watch the main deck as the rest of our crewmates slowly wake, as if expecting the five missing pirates to reappear. Even Pip is silent as I return to the mess with empty bowls and cups.
“It’ll get better,” he promises as I scrub them.
I wipe my forearm across my forehead. “How do you know that?”
“You spend ’nough time at sea, you get a feel for these things.”
I nod slowly before stacking the last bowl. My knuckles creak as I open and close my hands. After holding on to the lines and scrubbing the dishes, the exhaustion is setting in. I want to sleep, to relax in a secluded place somewhere, and just rest.
But then I hear shouting up top, and nodding to Pip, I hurry down the hall and up to the main deck. Adrenaline zapping through me, I spot it, there on the horizon.
Land.
I laugh giddily, my muscles uncoiling as I spy the large piece of land rising out of the water. It’s not Nassau, not anywhere I know, but it is land, and using the few sails we still have, we’ve made it.
Silas has beaten the odds once again.
There is relief on the others’ faces. This ship is their home—my home—but after the harrowing journey, we need a moment of respite from this place. It is full of dark memories, made darker by the storm, and a small slice of paradise is exactly what this crew needs.
With newfound energy, I help Mick and Hux ready the longboats as we near the island.
Silas calls to drop the jib sail, and then the mainsail.
As I tie off the line to the jib, Silas orders, “Drop anchor.” One of the crew members pulls the pin from the capstan, the chain rattling as the anchor plunges with a plop into the water below.
It’s a sweltering day, a strange contrast to the biting storm we’ve braved.
I wipe an arm across my sweaty brow and look out to the island.
It grows larger as the anchor drags, tall, green mountains rising along a narrow coast decorated with palm trees.
And before we know it, we’re stopped, the waves gently slapping against the hull as we bob in the water.
I’ve traveled through much of Europe and parts of Asia, Africa, and North America, but my knowledge of the Caribbean and its many islands has been scoured from media—movies and television.
I don’t know where we are, but I don’t care.
The thought of land, of that beach is enough to calm the growing unease in me.
“We need to rebuild.”
The voice soothes something in me. I turn toward Silas as he glances across the water to the island. He’s standing a fair distance back, but he is speaking to me, and that is all that matters. He’s been beating himself up over the ship, over the loss of crew, but there’s hope in his tone.
“We’ll rest first,” he says. “Give the crew some time.”
I straighten in surprise. “What about the lead?” I whisper.
His expression is blank, his dark eyes unreadable.
“We already suffered a loss this crew should have never suffered. The storm and the foremast…” He shakes his head and sighs. “If I do not give them a moment to grieve, to rest, I won’t have a crew for much longer.”
I take a step closer. Hesitating, he turns to leave, but as he does, he brushes his fingers over the back of my hand.
It’s so minuscule, so brief that no one would have noticed, but I know what he’s trying to say all the same: Thank you.
I want to curl my hand over his, pull him toward me, but now is not the time, and here is not the place.
So I settle for a soft smile.
As Silas disappears, Jack stops before me, the logbook under his arm. “Laszlo, can you grab the materials for sail making? We ’ave some work ahead of us yet.”
Nodding, I push my way through the crew crowding the deck and jog down into the hold.
It’s still eerily quiet down here, and I fight a shudder as I search through the bags in the dark.
I gather up the bag of sailcloth and other materials, but as I lift and hoist it over my shoulder, I spot the bag of discarded garments I hid in the corner.
I set the bag down and rifle through the contents, coming away with my phone, still zipped up tight in the bag Louise insisted I use.
If I recall correctly, I had about 60 percent battery left, and I’m tempted to check it, to pretend like the magic that brought me here will hook me up with cell reception.
Opening the phone bag, I slip my little notebook into the back and stuff it into my pocket before closing the top of the canvas bag and grabbing the supplies.
Sail-making materials thrown over my shoulder, I hurry to the main deck and climb down into one of the boats, settling into the seat across from Silas.
Sir is curled in his lap, tail twitching as he stares out at the water.
Silas looks from me to the bag at my feet with a frown as I assume my place at the oars.
“What took you so long?” he asks.
I shrug as I fight through the ache in my muscles and row us to shore. “Wasn’t where I thought it was,” I lie.
The other boats trickle from the ship, and it is almost routine now as I leap out of the boat and drag it to the beach, helping lift supplies before trudging up the sand to set up camp.
But I can feel the weight of my phone in my pocket, a strangely unfamiliar thing now after weeks without it.
My fingers stretch out as if to reach for it, but Silas stands silently across the sand.
His dark gaze is trained on me, waiting to see what I am hiding.
Because he already knows me so well.
I wish I could tell him, show him. But it could ruin everything. He might stop kissing me the way he does, stop opening up, stop trusting me. I don’t want a silly little piece of technology to come between us.
Gathering up some of the fabric for the sails, I trudge through the sand and find my way to a spot under a nearby tree, sinking onto the beach and spreading my legs out before me.
Jack kneels beside me, affixing a leather tool around the heel of my palm with a round, hard surface along a thick strap.
“A sailmakers palm. It’ll ’elp push the needle through,” he explains.
He shows me how to punch holes in the fabric with an awl, a tool with a long, sharp end and a short wooden base.
When the holes are punched, I guide the waxed thread through a large needle and begin.
Though I am no master sewer, my stitches are only slightly crooked, and Jack gives me a nod of approval before checking on the others.
As I work, the last boat arrives from She Deceitful, and some of the crew tie up tarps to supply shade across the beach.
When I’ve stitched along one seam, I sew over the tail of the thread before lodging the needle into the fabric.
I pull off the sailmakers palm and check to make sure no one is watching.
Humming under my breath, I slide out my phone.
It’s still in the protective case, still here somehow.
Oh, how I missed it. It is strange and smooth in my fingers, and I press my thumb to the power button.
I’m sweating, not from the heat, but from the nervous energy that has my knee bouncing as my phone takes its sweet time powering on. It vibrates in my hand as the screen lights up.
My lock screen pops up, a photo of Louise and me as kids frozen in action as she presses her ice cream cone to my nose.
I smile. Though a certain pirate captain has preoccupied my thoughts as of late, I miss Louise.
I miss her strange mannerisms, her endless supply of energy, the way she pushes me when I’m ready to give up.
I miss my friends. I miss reading books and writing stories and meeting readers and authors. Things and people I took for granted.
Something in me aches as I stare down at my phone.
“What is that?”
I squeal in surprise and throw my phone. With fumbling fingers, I catch it, drop it, and catch it again before turning slowly to stare up at Silas. Oh no, oh nonononono, this is the worst possible circumstance.
“It’s nothing,” I lie. Damn it all, I hate lying to him.
He crouches before me, drawing a finger in the sand. Wincing, I slip my hand and phone under the sail fabric as the pit in my stomach bottoms out. “You’re lying to me.” He looks pointedly to the sailcloth where I’m hiding the phone, his brow cocked. “What is it, Laszlo.”
It is not a question, it’s a command.
And it’s not from Silas, it’s from Captain Night.