Chapter 4
Here’s the thing about secret passageways.
By their nature, they can’t be all that complex to operate.
After all, they are most often utilized in times of distress.
Imagine an enemy crew invading your ship in the middle of the night.
You don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark for your secret passageway latch, and you most certainly don’t want to light a lamp.
At least, I wouldn’t. So that’s the logic I’m going with to assure myself that there has to be some mechanism to make this easy to open.
I glance up at the tapestry that I pulled aside, then at the tassel hanging from one end. When I grab it and pull, something clicks.
And the boards on this wall, which I’ve just now noticed are vertical instead of horizontal (should have been my first clue), separate just slightly. I push, revealing a doorway.
The draft from the passageway tickles my cheek. Exhilaration runs through my bones as I slip inside.
I take a pause to consider whether to shut it behind me. The last thing I want is to get trapped in here. Then again, at this point, I’d rather starve by my own hand than die at the Nomad’s. Already know what that’s like, thank you very much.
I shut the door behind me and feel it click. Instead of letting myself panic at the sound of the lock in the mechanism, I remind myself that the Nomad wouldn’t want himself stuck in here either. If I need it, there will be a way out.
I slink down the passageway, though I’m not sure why I’m bothering with hunching. I doubt the Nomad is stationing guards here. Less coming and going is always better.
The passageway itself remains parallel to the ship, though I suppose it has to.
It’s not like this is a castle, where it could wind down into dungeons.
It’s slender. Just large enough for me to squeeze through sideways.
I was never claustrophobic as a girl, but after my stint being held captive by a carnival master (long story), I learned quickly that small spaces were not my friend.
I close my eyes and inhale. It’s meant to be a calming mechanism, but the air in this passageway is foul.
Musty. It feels thick in my nose and my throat, and I have a flashback to a vision of the Nomad drowning me, which quickly reminds me of the time I partially drowned Wendy, which I still feel guilty about.
She hadn’t known at the time, but I was doing it for her own good, attempting to rid her body of the faerie dust Peter had her on in an attempt to make sure she never saw the wraiths on the island who could show her the unflattering truth about him.
But I can’t afford to think about my friend right now. Sorry, Wendy.
I steel myself, then sidle through the small space.
On the other side of the wall, guards shout.
This ship is large, but it won’t be long until the guards have searched every room.
I doubt the Nomad will suspect I’ve found his secret passageway.
At least not initially. Why would a prisoner make their way to their captor’s rooms, after all?
Then again, he’s been combing the world for me for years. Eventually, the drive to find me will send him down here, even if he knows it’s a long shot. Like the impulse to search for a lost precious object in the same place you’ve searched a thousand times.
When I reach the end of the passageway, it opens into a room that’s larger than I expected.
It’s dark, almost empty except for the shadows and the object on the far side.
My heart lurches with a thrill at the recognition of the object as my eyes adjust to the darkness, aided by the tiniest porthole through which a flicker of white streams.
It’s a rowboat. As I stumble toward it, I nearly trip on a pair of oars crossed on the floor. I knew it. I knew the Nomad would have an escape route in case of an assassin.
I set the oars into the rowboat, careful to keep them from clinking. I don’t want any guards who happen to be on the other side of the wall hearing a commotion.
Coming off either side of the rowboat are ropes, each suspended from the ceiling and connected to the center of the boat by a lever.
I find a latch on the floor, and when I pull it, the floor lets out, swaying on its hinges as it reveals the moonlit waters of the ocean down below.
Wind whips up from the waves beneath, spraying droplets into my face.
The salt in the air tastes like freedom.
Careful not to fall into the gap between the hole in the floor and the boat, I climb into the vessel.
When I go to pull the lever in the boat to activate the lever system, it won’t budge.
I push down on it, shoving with all my strength until instead of the lever moving, the boat, suspended by the ropes, begins to sway.
Panic surges through my muscles. I’m so close to freedom, and I’m not about to let the fact that the Nomad forgot to grease his lever keep me from it.
I glance at the ropes on either side. I’ll have to make this quick. If I slice only one, the front of the boat will drop toward the waves, and I’ll go careening with it, given my wings are no longer functional.
Thanks, Peter.
I could jump, but only as a last resort. I have no idea how far we are from the shore.
No, I need to slice the ropes. If only I had a dagger.
I grind my teeth, annoyed at the guard in the hall for not having one on him.
I could venture back to the Nomad’s quarters.
Surely, he has something he’s kept away in that ornate chest. But it’s too risky.
I’ll just have to be quick enough to cut both ropes at the same time.
I glance down at my nails. Like I said, I’m lucky they were too stupid to trim them.
I brace myself, then launch into a twirl. My right hand makes contact with the forward rope, slashing it with ease, but my left hand never makes it.
Because something firm closes around my wrist.
Calloused fingers.
I glance up to identify my assailant, but before my eyes can adjust, the bottom of the boat falls out underneath me, dangling by a single rope.
With my other hand, I grab the rope that’s still intact. But this proves unnecessary. The grip on my wrist is firm.
I suppose the Nomad won’t be tossing me to my death then.
My legs dangle underneath me, useless without a foothold to steady them. When I glance up, it’s to a cruel, familiar smile. To a shade of blue that’s haunted my nights for years.
“Congratulations, Tink, if that’s what they call you these days,” says the Nomad. “You pass.”