Chapter 19
Anya Delemond
“Mother Moon,” Anya muttered, rubbing her temples. Ice picks beat against the inside of her skull as she sat up. Every muscle protested, each limb weighed down like a sack of sand.
There’s a first for everything, I suppose.
She’d never been hungover before. She could out drink most folk her size. Was that a bad batch of ale or something? Or had she simply drunk that damn much?
She forced her mind to work through the night prior. Breakfast. Yelling at Roderick. My ring getting warm.
The ring! She thrust her hand in front of her face, the only adornment her own claws, not a speck of gold in sight. She paled. Did I throw it overboard? She groaned. I have got to stop doing that. I can’t send all my problems out to sea.
Roderick. He was one of those problems. He’d—
Made a wise decision about the icebergs.
Without waking her.
She scanned the room. The usual blanketed mass that was Blackbird was flat and still.
Her friend was probably in the captain’s quarters reading up on the old tomes of ancient Aquillan fauna.
Her eye caught on a glimmer near the doorway.
Her knees crackled as she stood, followed by a twinge in her back.
My boots? She hoisted them up by the laces. Her ring was tied in the middle, with a little scrap of parchment rolled up inside it. She slipped the ring on her finger, shoving the note out. She laid back down and pressed the note flat against the blanket.
Things You’ve Thrown:
Me
This ring
These boots
-RB
She chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed, covering her mouth to stifle a full-blown howling laugh. She smiled and traced his messy handwriting with a single claw. Her mirth transformed into a blush as the memory of him pinning her hands to the baluster flooded her mind’s eye.
His fangs had been so close to her neck.
She slowly trailed a hand down her throat, testing the skin with two claws.
Her cheeks burned at the thought of being claimed in such a way—but not just by anyone.
Every time he flashed that crooked grin, she imagined him biting into her flesh, sucking and tasting her with a hungering passion.
The blooming heat in her belly seemed to thaw the memories of the drunken night prior.
Gliding her hands over the planes of his chest, his broad shoulders, those muscular arms—and those fangs.
She shivered and squeezed her thighs together, claws digging into the sheets beneath her.
In vino veritas, as they say.
She was getting what she deserved for such ludicrous behavior. The nearly full moon didn’t help at all, but it couldn’t be entirely to blame. Her body burned to be with Roderick in every sense. If he touched her in this moment, she’d surely pull him beneath the sheets, pride and logic be damned.
She sighed and pawed at the nightstand until her fingers found a small vial of honey-orange liquid: anti-fertility tonic. She popped the cork off and downed the contents. If it affected her monthly courses, perhaps it would help quell these thoughts.
Worth a shot.
“Roderick,” she breathed, falling back on the bed. She half wished the word would manifest him beside her; the gentle, considerate version of him she so ardently hoped was his true condition.
Give him a chance, her heart whispered, stoking the fantasy.
But once she told him she was the woman at the masquerade, there would be no going back.
That fanciful hope ebbed and flowed until she was whisked into a tranquil dream.
Anya slept at the base of an aged willow tree, with gnarling roots that reached over the riverbank a stone’s throw away. Warmth enveloped her from behind, gentle breath pulsing tickling her neck.
“The sun is starting to set, my dear. Wake up,” Roderick whispered, brushing a hand through her hair. “I know you don’t want to miss a minute of the stars.”
She buried her face in his chest, joy tugging the corners of her mouth as his cotton and warm iron scent tickled her nose.
“Five more minutes…” She rubbed her cheek against him affectionately.
“Wake up, Anya.”
“No.” She kissed his neck, keeping her eyes closed in protest.
“Anya…”
“Roderick…”
“Anya.”
“Roderick…”
“Anya!”
Anya bolted upright, banging her head on the upper bunk.
“Ah!” She hissed and rubbed her forehead.
“Oh! It’s just me! It’s just me! Are you bleeding, My Lady?” Blackbird gasped.
Anya patted her head. “No, but it hurts like sin.”
“Phew. Sorry for leaving you by yourself. You seemed quite comfortable when I left, and I wanted to get some reading done so—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself. Thank you for taking care of me last night.”
Blackbird fiddled her fingers together. “How much do you remember?”
“Enough to be thoroughly put off from drinking any time soon.”
The blissful dream gave her an emotional hangover. She tried to shake it off as she slunk to the small closet and selected a silver dress with comfortable, flowing sleeves, but her heart lingered in the memory. Roderick’s baritone voice still echoed in her mind.
I know you don’t want to miss a minute of the stars.
“Are you all right, My Lady?”
Anya blinked at her friend, hurled into the present. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were talking in your sleep.” Blackbird leaned in. “You were saying Lord Bryson’s name. Did you have a nightmare?”
Worse.
“Something like that,” Anya answered, shoving her arms through the sleeves of the dress. She could hardly keep up with Blackbird’s bubbly energy.
“Some food will do you good. There is nothing breakfast can’t solve.” Blackbird swung the door open, holding it for her. “Hurry! I can smell the honey toast already!”
Her stomach roiled at the thought of eating anything. Meanwhile, Blackbird could be on death’s door and ask the reaper for a biscuit. She watched her lady-in-waiting skip ahead, then halt a step and turn around. The discomfort must have been plain on her face.
“At least try to eat something, My Lady. Toast and tea? Some porridge?”
“Tea for sure,” Anya muttered. Some strong black tea might ease her throbbing head. As they padded down the hall, every baked good and steaming pot melded together to form one overwhelming scent. Her throat threatened to exact revenge for her reckless night, but she forced it down.
Annette pushed the kitchen door open, one hand held to the squirming bundle wrapped to her chest. She flitted from table to table, asking everyone how their food was. Sailors doted on her daughter, smiling and laughing as the little Lycanian baby cooed.
The remainder of her drunken stupor came back in that moment.
Ale on the floor.
Shattered dishes.
Blueberry jam!
Oh stars! Her pupils constricted into fearful slits.
How could she leave such a disaster for poor Annette to wake up to?
Annette had enough on her plate as it stood.
A spouse, a baby, cooking for the entire crew—this was worse than any other besotted regret she’d had in the past. Had Roderick ratted her out?
“Good morning, Your Highness!” Annette beamed at her.
“I’m sorry!” Anya blurted.
“Sorry for what?” Annette cocked her head, shifting her silver braids to the side.
“The kitchen—I—” She stumbled over her words, trying to peer over the open counter dividing the kitchen and galley.
Annette placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Your Highness? What about the kitchen?”
“Nothing.” Anya shook her head. “I had a dream someone made a mess in there.”
“Oh!” Annette chuckled. “That would be a nightmare. I assure you; it was just that. The kitchen was as spotless as I left it after dinner. But never mind that. Did I hear you say you wanted tea?”
Spotless.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered, her gaze drifting to where Roderick sat at the table closest to the one she and Blackbird usually sat at.
He had dark circles under his eyes and kept his head down as he slowly ate a bowl of porridge piled with dried fruit and nuts.
He seemed to be focusing every fiber of his being on the simple act of eating.
He was tired.
“What kind?”
“Black with lemon would be lovely,” Anya answered. It wasn’t her usual rose hip, but she needed the help waking up. Annette nodded and swept back to the kitchen.
The spotless kitchen.
“Did you tidy the kitchen last night?” Anya whispered to Blackbird, selecting a bowl of porridge with a swirl of honey.
Blackbird scrunched her brows together. “No. Was I supposed to?”
“No, I just—never mind.”
He did that for me? Anya’s heart fluttered as she glanced at Roderick again, catching his eye.
He quickly shifted his attention back down to his breakfast. She struggled to imagine the knight mopping a floor or picking up shards of ceramic on his hands and knees, but there was no other possible explanation.
Give him a chance.
She followed Blackbird to their usual table under the porthole. It was one of the few chances they got to enjoy some true daylight.
A pie was resting in the middle of the tabletop.
It looked fresh, hardly a few hours old.
Her mouth watered at the sight. She tested the air with a pointed sniff.
Mulberry? She hadn’t had mulberry pie since last autumn.
She’d been craving it last night. She’d known there was a jar of the damned things somewhere in that kitchen but never found it.
The blueberry jam was a poor consolation prize.
“A pie!” Blackbird clapped her hands together. She would often clap for food like she was at the theater. “Annette must have made it for you! She’s so sweet!”
“Pie does actually sound pretty good.” She scooched a chair back and sat. Two plates were stacked beside the pie with a knife laying across.
“See? We just had to find the magic food to stoke your stomach!” Blackbird quickly cut a piece, elegantly moving the slice to the plate and passing it to Anya. Sticky purple berries slid onto the white ceramic.