10. Swords and Smiles
SWORDS AND SMILES
Clutching the dagger to her chest under her blanket, Cecily shut her eyes and drifted into her little home.
The house was different tonight. She didn’t immediately know why, but then she saw it—here, where the sun had never once set…
it was evening. The last bit of light cut through the gossamer curtains in her parlor, turning the lavender walls and white furniture to gold, and she didn’t fear the coming night.
She wandered to the bedroom she’d invented for herself ages ago, though she had never spent any time there, more content to leave a part of herself aware of the world beyond.
But when she entered the room and slid the lock into place behind her, she found the bed already turned down, the pillows fluffed, and a lantern burning cheerfully on a small table.
A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, spilling gentle warmth into the room.
Comfort washed over her. She threw herself into the soft bed and pulled the thick blankets to her chin. The house was quiet, the doors locked, the footman guarding the entrance, and Jack’s knife sat next to the lantern, within easy reach if she needed it.
All was well—so marvelously content. So she blew out the light, safe and assured, then closed her eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
Cecily.
A beautiful voice turned her name into the loveliest sound she’d ever heard.
Wake up.
She gave a contented sigh and burrowed deeper into her pillows. Her bed was so warm and cozy. She would be happy to stay there forever.
Ashes.
Her eyes opened. A lantern hovered above her head, illuminating the scabbed wound on Jack’s face as he bent over her. She stared into his eyes, the sound of his voice fading with the dream.
“Ashes,” he whispered again.
The ship creaked, reminding her of where she was. For a moment, she forgot how she was supposed to feel about Jack, as seeing his face in the lantern light didn’t immediately tempt her toward hatred.
Perhaps it was only because she hadn’t slept so well in months.
Shoving the knife into her pocket, she followed him to the main deck beneath an overcast sky, closing her coat against the wind. She grabbed the bucket and headed for the first drum, missing her warm bed and its pile of pillows.
When she opened the little door, ashes trailed across the boards, toward the captain’s quarters.
As she watched them go, she could almost feel the way Copson had leaned close to apologize to her after the battle.
He’d surprised her again, proving himself to be more than the pirate the stories said he was.
He was that pirate, certainly, though she couldn’t determine why he bothered to be anything else.
“The captain…” she began to say, then let the breeze steal the thought and whisk it to sea as she reconsidered bringing him up.
Jack replied anyway. “What about him?”
She sat back on her haunches. She wasn’t owed answers about the captain, but her curiosity simmered as Jack waited for her to go on, any animosity held at bay by their truce.
“He told me he was sorry,” she finally said. “For my father’s death.”
Her heart twinged as those words nudged the bruise left from the previous day. Sorrow yawned within her, and she was mindful not to tumble headfirst into it.
“He’s not a devil,” Jack said, “contrary to what he lets people believe. And he’s good to loyal crew.”
Her lips pursed as she considered the pile of ashes. “Does saving Hester qualify me as loyal?”
“You had every opportunity to turn on us yesterday, but you didn’t.” He lifted a shoulder. “Only you can say if you’re loyal, and only we can say if we believe you.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was?” she asked, giving no indication of where her loyalty lay.
She scooped the rest of the ash into the bucket, but before she could reach for the handle, Jack lifted it away. He strode away to dump the contents into the water, then returned. She rose and took the empty pail from his hand.
“The truce still stands,” he said, his eyes dropping to where the knife was hidden in her pocket. “I’d believe you for now, but I think your loyalty will be a means to an end—to something or someone else you want more.”
Her mind flew to the courtyard of her little home. The front door was shut, the footman behind it. But Jack was right; she was only loyal to herself, even if he knew nothing of her intentions.
With a cat-like grin, she turned to the next drum. “What do you think that might be, Jack Copson?”
He followed a step behind. “Your freedom. No doubt you don’t feel free yet, but my gift certainly helped. Rousing you this morning was like trying to wake the dead.”
She knelt by the drum, opened the door, and looked up at him through the flurry of ashes. His eyes were calm, his face unguarded as the edges of his mouth lifted.
“When will I feel free?” she asked.
“The only one who thinks of you remotely as a prisoner is perhaps my father. And yourself.”
“And you,” she said with a sudden spike of irritation. She didn’t think she was a prisoner—she was a prisoner, and there was proof of it in her signature on the articles she had been forced to sign.
“You think I want to drag you out here every morning and mind you all day?” He shook his head, his smile rueful. “It’s terribly inconvenient. If I had a say, you’d be free to do as you please.”
She turned to the ashes. “And the articles? I can’t leave. You made me agree to them.”
“There are ways out.”
Her gaze sliced back to him.
“Loyalty and respect,” he told her before she could ask.
“If leaving is truly a reward for you, incentivize the captain to give it to you. Copson doesn’t let people leave whenever they like.
He doesn’t want his whole crew walking out at once, but if they don’t owe him and they’re determined to go, he’ll let them. ”
Cecily slammed the door shut. “You’re suggesting I owe him something?”
“Well, he let you live.”
She scoffed. “Seems unwise to be surrounded by people he dislikes if he lets the good ones leave.”
Once again, Jack took the ash bucket and tossed the contents over the edge.
“You misunderstand,” he said when he came back.
“When Copson can’t tolerate someone, they die.
And besides, most people don’t try to leave.
They don’t sign up to be pirates if they have something better to do. It’s a last resort for most.”
She pulled the bucket from his hand and moved to the next fire. “Was it a last resort for you?”
“I’m here for loyalty,” he said. “And if loyalty eventually takes me elsewhere, so be it.”
As though summoned by Jack’s declaration, the captain’s door opened. Copson stepped out, his cool, cloud-blue eyes swept over the deck, and then he headed toward his son.
Assuming there was nothing the captain would want to say to her, Cecily focused on her task and ignored him.
“Some of the crew lacks skill,” Copson said.
Huge bloody understatement, she thought to herself.
A moment passed, then Jack said, “Cecily.”
Worried she might have said her thoughts aloud, she raised her head to find the captain looking at her—talking to her. Copson’s eyes weren’t kind, and she wondered if they ever had been.
“They’re awful,” she agreed, gripping her trowel as she weathered his stare. “Your original crew is fine, though,” she added, more for flattery.
Loyalty and respect, Jack had said, and while Cecily was under no impression she’d impressed the captain in the last few seconds, a small compliment couldn’t hurt.
Copson’s mouth pulled into a wry grin beneath his beard. “Jack tells me you have quite an opinion about it.”
Her cheeks warmed. What had he said? Would he have softened her words? Jack’s face remained impassive as he and his father waited for her answer.
“Yes,” she finally said, but she didn’t elaborate, lest she dig her grave any deeper with the captain.
“He was impressed with you yesterday,” Copson said. “For that matter, so was I.”
Her blush deepened, and the edge of Jack’s mouth cut into a smirk at the sight of it.
“No talent goes unused on this ship,” Copson said, and it sounded more threatening than complimentary. “So until we reach Tortuga, you’ll train the less competent crew with Jack.”
“Train them?” Cecily peered at Jack, who regarded Copson with a raised brow. “Will I be allowed a sword?”
“I hardly think it’d be prudent to spar Jack with a stick,” Copson said dryly. “Jack, find her a sword, but only while you train. I stand by my order—she’s not to keep any weapons.”
Jack’s dagger was warm in her pocket, but the first mate gave no sign that he’d already defied his father’s wishes. It seemed his own loyalty was patchy in some areas, but Cecily couldn’t spare the time to gloat—she was getting a sword, and her heart lifted.
Copson’s eyes landed on the slash through Jack’s cheek. “Careful,” he warned.
Jack watched him go, his expression hard. Cecily noted it, but said nothing—if the truce stood for him, she’d honor it too.
She finished the ashes in almost no time at all and lit the fires. Then Jack nodded to the lower decks.
“Galley till noon,” he said, shucking off his coat and leaving it on a crate. Several sailors had made their way to the main deck to raise the sails. “We’ll meet after.”
Perhaps she’d expected to start right then, but as eager as she was for a sword, there was work to be done.
She must have frowned because Jack added, “I won’t argue about it.”
“I wasn’t going to argue.” Not if it would jeopardize her chance for more freedom on this ship.
He began rolling up his sleeves. “Eat before you come back,” he said boredly. His eyes raked down her body. “Breakfast and lunch.”
Cecily scowled. He’d heard Stede implore her to eat more the other day, and after all he’d deduced about her against her will, she didn’t need him to know this too—and acknowledge it so blatantly. “Dictating my meals now?”
“You’re rather small,” he said without any hint of shame.
Her eyes narrowed. “And you’re rather self-assured.”