Chapter Six Before
THE CHURCH PREACHED of hell, a place of eternal damnation, of torture, a red place filled with burning flames. By now, Cat knew those preachings were false. Hell was not red. It was verdant green and tropical blue.
But it certainly still burned.
The air shimmered with heat, though dawn had only just broken over Rosby.
Storm season waned but would linger for a month still.
Such were the seasons here—not winter, spring, summer, and fall, but storm and sun, with seam season between.
Cat eyed the horizon as she stalked away from the main house, heading for the barn.
But there was no telltale line of black thunderheads against the blue.
Furious as they were, the storms were the only reprieve from the sweltering heat and humidity, the air so thick she felt as if she were swimming.
The sun cupped her face, still relentless, but no longer a shock. Gone was the pale skin of a fine Meridian lady, replaced by freckles and a bronze flush across the high points of her face.
Rosby was a small island, smaller than a country estate back home in Meridia.
She could cross the greatest length of it in less than an hour at a steady walk.
Despite the climbing temperature she began to run, bypassing palm trees and beautiful, if unwieldy, flowers.
They had no gardener, though Lord Rose assured her he would hire one at first opportunity.
Cat doubted it, as she doubted every word out of her husband’s mouth.
He had not even replaced Mr. Greer, who chose piracy over this life.
After six months on the island, Cat could hardly blame their former servant for his decision.
The dirt under her feet shifted, revealing the sand beneath the topsoil.
Lord Rose would never be able to plant here, no matter how much money he threw at the prospect.
Not sugar, not cotton, not tobacco, not even roses for his namesake.
Cat gritted her teeth, listing the dead ends as she reached the ramshackle stable and their single horse.
Sweat dripped down her neck, her legs trying to outstrip her mind, as if she might simply run fast enough to escape the wretched island and the life around her.
The graying horse was faster still, and yet, never fast enough.
Only on Sparrow’s back did Cat’s mind fall silent, with the wind in her face and salt in her teeth.
Six months since we came, she thought.
I am twenty years old today.
Her vision blurred, the sea and sky washing together until she did not know where one began and the other ended. Until the shade of them swirled into a haunting color.
The color of a tempest and sharp, unyielding eyes.
As she had on the Credence, she thought of jumping into the sea to swim or drown. To disappear into a storm and be swept away.
She hated the pirate for stopping her.
Valerian Kane, she thought, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She cursed him as she cursed her husband, as she cursed Rosby, as she cursed every moment since she had agreed to marry.
I don’t pity the likes of you, the pirate had said on the ship, glaring down on her with those tempest eyes.
Cat’s grip tightened until the reins began to cut off the circulation in her fingers, numbness a more welcome sensation than shame.
Only when Sparrow’s flank went slick with sweat, her jaw foaming, did Cat reluctantly slow the horse, her own forehead hot, her hands striped by the bite of the leather.
It did not feel like a birthday, but still she wished. For her sisters, silly and sheltered as they were. Or even her mother.
But then Cat was already long separated from that life, and them.
If anything, she had been separated from them before she set sail for the Lyrian.
The distance began long before, in a crumbling country house, in the shadows, growing up in the ruin of lives unlived.
With her books and her cards and her infinite sisters all scrounging for smaller pieces of the world.
And her mother, shut up in her study, one hand on letters from the bank, the other curled around a glass of wine.
How like her I am now, though I did everything to put as much distance between us as there could be in this world.
Sparrow slowed to a walk, turning her head to blink one eye at Cat slowly. As if the horse could feel her pain.
Grow wings, she thought, imploring the mare beneath her. Grow wings and take us both away. Run us across the sea and carry us home.
The foolish wish of a more foolish woman.
I have no home to return to, not truly, Cat thought, returning Sparrow to the stable and setting her tack aside.
There is nothing for me in Meridia, or any corner of the Empire.
Ryman sold almost everything and brought the rest to this island.
My own family would never take me in, and certainly not as a runaway wife.
I would be no better there than I am here.
She retreated to the veranda with a sour expression, eager to sponge herself off and spend the hotter parts of the day reading in whatever cool corner she could find.
She was careful not to lean on the chipped white railing lest it crumble beneath her weight.
Such was the way of it on Rosby Island. Most things were breaking or broken, from the doorknobs in her bedchamber to the cracked wineglasses, the half-flooded cellar, the rusty hinges, the rotted wood, the overgrown garden, the stained bed linens, the flea-bitten cats, the endless stinging flies, the food that was more salt than meat, Ryman despondent or raging—
“Husband,” Cat clipped, coming face to face with the devil himself. Already she resigned herself to thoughts of the bedchamber, and a scalding bath to follow. At least he was quick about it. Many women were not so lucky.
Even on their birthdays.
“Wife,” Ryman replied, his tone dry as her own. She did not expect him to acknowledge what day it was, if he even knew it.
Somehow, the months on the island lay worse on him than the months at sea.
Lord Rose was no longer a sick shade of yellow, but cherry red, his sunburned skin curiously never fading into a tan.
He did not bother with a wig in the heat, his dusty blond hair looking grayer with every passing morning.
Even his clothes, the once-fine white shirts and buckled shoes, were stained with sweat and salt.
Ryman seemed to be rotting from the inside out.
His appearance matches his heart, Cat thought with detachment.
And yet, he was not so unkempt as usual. Despite his general stink and sweating face, his collar was laced up his throat instead of open, his greasy hair brushed back into a little tail. He even wore a neat vest, breeches, and boots.
“Are you going somewhere?” Cat asked, not bothering to mask her eagerness.
Ryman’s thin lips twitched. “Lady Rose, attend to yourself. You should not greet our guests in such a state.”
Then he shifted, indicating to the rest of the veranda.
Shock prickled down Cat’s spine, the sweat drying on her skin.
Over his shoulder, at the corner of the veranda, two figures came into focus, both in uniform, their coats a familiar cobalt blue.
Officers of the Meridian navy.
They sat around a low table, a tray of drinks in front of them, with Sara standing nearby to attend to any requests. She glared at the ground, her severe black bun somehow even tighter today.
“Guests,” Cat echoed, forcing herself to speak in a flat tone. It was better to seem unsurprised or at least bored by the prospect of guests, rather than terribly unprepared. “Of course. Welcome to Rosby, gentlemen.”
She dropped into a quick curtsy, feeling every bit of grime on her skin. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck, the rest frizzing from a messy braid.
“If I could beg your pardon for a moment,” she added, straightening back up. “I am just returned from my morning ride—”
But one of the navy officers took a step forwards, his hands clasped behind his back.
Cat clenched her teeth, surveying him as she did everything else. Looking for the cracks, the rot, the decay. Strangely, she found none.
He was fair skinned for a sailor, his black hair combed neatly back from his face.
Long, dark lashes rimmed his eyes, making the silver of them striking.
If the heat bothered him, Cat could not tell.
He seemed quite comfortable, at ease even.
She guessed him twenty-five at most, only a year or two beyond the Royal Naval College.
And his uniform was impeccable, the blue of his coat freshly dyed, without any dust or errant thread.
He wore the simple insignia of a lower ranked officer, just a plain white band at the cuffs of his sleeves and lapels of his coat.
Cat did not know all the varying degrees of rank within the navy but could tell he was the most junior, his compatriot’s coat edged in gold alongside the white.
“Yours is a fine horse, my lady,” the young officer said, throwing her a lopsided smile.
For a moment, Cat thought herself back in Meridia, in a country hall or a vast ballroom, watching navy officers circle a dance floor in search of wide-eyed prey. Once it thrilled her. Now she saw the charm—and the lie—for what it was.
“You are kind to say so,” Cat replied, looking back to the stables across the lawn. “If incorrect.”
The officer blinked, his smile freezing on his face. Next to him, Ryman took on a bewildered look.
Cat raised her chin. “My horse is a left-behind, like everything else on this island.”
Like me.
Next to her, Ryman turned even redder and made a noise like a rooster readying himself to crow.
“Attend to yourself,” he sputtered, waving her towards the interior of the house. Over his shoulder, the raven-haired officer continued to stare, his eyes taking an odd glint.
Cat returned the look with disdain before stepping into the dark front hall. She loosed a breath through her teeth, exhaling her frustrations as her eyes adjusted to the shadows of the house.