Chapter Eleven After #2
Moseley did not share the sentiment. Her frown became a sneer, her cheeks flushing red.
“He informed on you last night and saves your neck in the morning,” she snapped. “What a gentleman.”
Cat felt her mouth twitch, but not to sneer. Her lips pulled into a smirk.
“There are no gentlemen in a hurricane,” she muttered, though Moseley would not understand. The words were too old, an echo from another life upon the Lyrian Sea. “A storm is coming, Moseley. And I fear I must sail into it. I suppose it is my own fault.”
With a will, Moseley stood. Cat half expected her to salute. Gods knew she had more honor and duty in her pinky finger than half the imperial navy.
“Your fault?” Again, Moseley took her by the arm, a steadying grip in a restless sea.
“It is no one’s fault but the Meridian Empire, Cat.
All this is their work and no one else’s.
They burn, they destroy. They build over what was and force the rest of us to bear it.
” Then she crooked a smile, showing the charming gap in her front two teeth.
“Besides, one tavern wench could hardly destroy the pirate republic. Don’t think so highly of yourself, Lady Rose. ”
Cat forced a smile, for Moseley’s sake, even as the pain in her chest grew.
“I do not believe I could think any less,” she whispered to Moseley’s retreating form.
* * *
THE TRIO SPENT the rest of the day and well into the night preparing for the journey.
Most time-consuming was the sewing. Cat would not be able to take much with her, but the clothes she packed were well altered.
They laced coins into her jacket lining and between the folds of her black dresses, as much as could be hidden.
It was less than Cat hoped to carry, but she made do, adding a false bottom to her leather bag.
And her skirts all had pockets added already to hold a handkerchief or her small pistol, whichever suited.
Only when the clock in the dining room chimed midnight did the women relent. With all her effects in order, Cat collapsed into bed, already counting down to when she would need to wake again. It was a foolish endeavor.
If I fall asleep now, I’ll have five hours at least.
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for the bliss of a dreamless sleep. Instead, a face swam up out of the darkness of her mind, unmistakable. His hair glinted bright gold, lit by an unseen sun. And his eyes flashed blue-gray-green, the shifting color of a tempest.
Four hours.
Cat tried to will Valerian from her thoughts, her fists clenching beneath the blankets. The memory returned anyway, welling up like blood from a wound.
Four years ago. It was sun season with a dead wind, the sails of the Covenant slack and listless. Too hot to row, too hot to do anything but anchor off in the shallows and let the crew seek what respite they could in the shade of the palm trees on a desolate island.
And the crew knew better than to follow their captain and his lady, the pair of them walking alone down the beach.
Warmth spread across her body, until her nightdress stuck to her skin.
Three hours.
Val loved to swim. Cat used to wonder if he was truly a son of the Meridian docks, born an ocean away in a gray country to a gray city.
She liked to imagine he was a child of the Lyrian first, then spirited off on a ship, taken far from home only to return years later.
It was the only explanation. He belonged to the Lyrian as much as the dolphins, the reefs, the roving sharks, and shifting tides.
As much as the ghosts on the beaches, the ruins of stone, the people replaced and swept away.
And the people who remained, steadfast against the changing wind and changing map.
It was written in his skin, bronzed and hardened by sun and salt.
In his hair, the ends bleached near to white.
In long-fingered hands, scarred and smoothed over.
When he dove into the shallows, his figure rippled, no longer the shape of a man but something else.
A sea creature, a god long forgotten, if it ever existed at all.
Then he turned back to shore, to Cat in the shadow of a palm tree. Salt water rolled off his naked form, but the sun was relentless. He was already dry when he reached her.
She was not.
Two hours.
Her fingers walked the paths his hands had once, finding familiar ground, and her heartbeat quickened. Tension coiled in her core, a curl of rope wound too tightly. And then, with practiced circles, easy patterns, she came undone.
The room was silent but for her heartbeat and catching breath. She expected the release to help a little, to send her spiraling into sleep. Instead, it was a torment, a frail shadow of what had been.
Cat could not remember the name of the island. She doubted it had one, like any of the hundred other spits of sand scattered throughout the sea. But Cat wished she had something other than a memory to mark the place.
One hour.
She shot awake to the sound of Derry’s footsteps in the upstairs hall, followed by a tentative knock on the door.
Blue slanted across Cat’s bedroom, the soft, early light before dawn peeking through the curtains.
It was the kind of light that bid Cat to stay in bed, burrow down into the blankets, and force Fell to drag her down to the harbor.
But Cat Rose would not give him that satisfaction. She was on his leash, but she would not be his pet.
“I’m ready,” she said, yawning and untangling herself from the blankets and any remaining dreams.
Derry bustled in, lighting candles as she went. The smell of coffee and bacon followed her. Cat’s toes curled with delight. Whatever she faced next, at least she would do it with a full stomach.
And clean. Derry had indeed forced her into the bath the night before, washing Fort Morden’s prison away.
Now in the predawn light she brushed through Cat’s chestnut hair one last time, before dividing it into two twists that met in a bun at the base of her neck.
Though the humidity remained undefeated, the first frizzles of escaping hair curled around Cat’s ears.
She kept silent as Derry helped her dress, pulling her nightgown over her head. Briefly, Cat stood naked, watching the light behind the curtains as it grew brighter. Then her gaze drifted down to the muscle above her elbow, her inner arm paler than the more-exposed skin on her face.
A single tattoo stood out amongst her freckles, the lines of it red and crude. And beautiful. They formed the image of a single rose, smaller than her thumb. But unmistakable.
And easy to hide.
The rose seemed to burn, itching as it had under Fell’s scrutiny. Cat fought the urge to scratch at it, lest her skin flame and her dreams return. Besides, she had not told Moseley what her task was, let alone Derry. They did not need to be drawn into her mess.
And Cat Rose knew better than to leave loose ends.
She was not known for outrageous fashions like some women of Archenport.
Quite the opposite. Cat usually preferred black, ever the Widow Rose.
Before, during, and after the so-called pirate republic, there were always people in brighter, more stylish clothing.
Lord Baltross’s tittering wife Fiona with her feathers.
Jade Belloq in bright silks, donning the finest garments she could pillage from merchant ships.
The women of Itzima, in whirling skirts of every color.
Arcayans with their turquoise and gold jewelry, brighter than sea and sunlight.
And now the officers’ wives, few as they were, new to the islands.
They brought gowns and jewels from the Empire, fashions Cat had never seen before.
Smaller waists, longer skirts, sharper collars, each more extravagant and impractical than the last.
Her dress was old black, nearly faded to gray, trimmed with white lace. Suitable enough for errands around town, though she doubted it would survive long on the deck of a ship. But she could hardly worry about such things now.
“All done,” Derry muttered, fastening Cat’s braided leather belt into place. It was worn and cracked, thicker than fashion dictated, the only piece out of place on a good Meridian lady.
That, and the coins sewn into her bodice.
And the knife in her stocking.
And the pistol in her hidden pocket.
* * *
IT WAS A tearful goodbye, even with iron Moseley.
The old maid did her best not to show it, but Cat caught the wet gleam in her eyes.
It was a rare sight, even after all their years together, through storm and war and heartbreak.
Cat felt the same sting as she embraced her, holding on a little too tightly.
Derry was inconsolable, tempered only by the early hour. It would not do to wake the neighbors with her wailing, as Cat reminded her before leaving their home.
She half expected Fell and his carriage to be waiting outside, but Keystone Street was empty.
Scoffing, Cat set off on the short journey to the docks.
Of course he will not make this easy on me, she thought, hefting her larger bag on one shoulder, the drawstring purse over the other. Both thunked, heavy with hidden coin.
Cat only hoped it was enough.
The sky was pink when she reached the harbor, the dawn barely breaking.
But it might as well have been high noon.
Navy sailors, fishermen, traders, servants, and travelers scuttled along the waterside.
Some were fresh off their boats and ships, eager for a tavern or a bunk.
Others had only begun their days, carting supplies to the vessels in the harbor.
Careful to avoid fresh catch spilling from hauled nets, Cat worked her way through the crowd. Towards which ship, she did not know, but she looked with a keen eye.