34. The Captain’s Favor
THE CAPTAIN’S FAVOR
Being haunted was an exercise in patience as it turned everyone into their worst selves.
The men were heated, the women were snappy, and then there were those who stared at nothing and would have refused to rise from bed were it not for Copson or Jack barking commands at all hours.
Even Hester had taken to walking around with her cleavers, glowering at everyone. Cecily had managed to get her to put them away for twenty minutes, during which Hester had broken down in tears with a newfound regret over killing her first husband.
Even Greyson, gentle giant that he was, always looked seconds away from hurling someone overboard.
Hester said it was because he dwelled on memories of parents who’d abandoned him at the docks as an adolescent.
He’d struggled to learn, and his family thought lowly sailors might find more use for him, sparing them the embarrassment of having such a son.
He heard those words again, as clearly as though they were spoken aloud, and Cecily often saw him with tears in his eyes.
When she learned of his past, she felt gutted for having called him an idiot after Hester was nearly killed in that first raid. She made a point to tell him so. He hadn’t said much—he’d only thrown a heavy arm around her shoulders in an awkward hug, mumbled, “S’alright,” and then lumbered off.
More of the crew began hallucinating—some heard voices or saw things that weren’t there, and it threatened to drive them to madness.
For Cecily, the blood never left her hands.
Sometimes it was a stain, and other times it ran thick enough to drip from her fingertips, reminding her of her past, her present, and the future she was unsure of as the threat of death loomed over all of them.
The haunting only grew worse with each day that passed.
Wet sails and a few barnacles became stinking, sandy mud piled in the corners of every deck, swords patched with bits of coral, and starfish and anemones stuck to pillows, blankets, and boots.
Everything reeked of ocean decay, and not even the warming drums could thwart the pervasive chill, even though it was the middle of July.
She saw little of the night crew and even less of Jack. While he captained the ship, she shivered in their bed despite the blankets they’d both piled there. The extra covers weren’t enough even when she dressed in her thickest clothing and wore her red coat.
When the temperature had started to drop, she’d spent long minutes staring at the garment in the armoire, mulling over the rush of feelings it brought.
Blood dripped over her fingers as she remembered Morgyn wearing it and all that had come after.
Regardless, she put it on. And though she didn’t feel particularly good about it—she didn’t feel good about anything, really—she would wear confidence as she played her part, just as Copson had asked.
Every day, all day, she pretended to be carefree and unafraid.
The day crew was never the wiser that she was so disturbed that she spent a good portion of each night retching into a bucket or silently screaming into her pillow.
In those moments, the ship seemed to mimic her, creaking and whining to protest their constant, punishing speed.
But the Fortuna Royale held together, as did they all.
A week after Copson split the crew, Cecily brought him lunch.
She’d started doing it as less of a kindness and more of a respite as the haunting progressed. The captain seemed like the only unflappable man she saw during the day, and she supposed if she was brave enough to approach him by herself, everything else might seem less intense.
He also never left the helm, so she couldn’t tell how he was staying fed. Since he was steering the ship and wielding magical stones of unspeakable power, she’d rather him be alert.
As she mounted the quarterdeck around noon, she slapped a piece of dried meat into Copson’s open palm. She wore a pair of black leather gloves now, partly to avoid the chill but mostly to ignore her bloody fingers.
“You look tired,” he said. He always greeted her with an insult, which she chose to interpret his way of thanking her.
“You look haggard,” she replied without missing a beat.
This earned a rough chuckle. Copson was more of an ally than he’d ever been, and they’d managed to have a pleasant conversation once or twice—meaning neither of them insinuated through tone or threat that the other’s absence would be preferred.
He was still unaware that she knew of his life beyond piracy, and it was in moments like these when she struggled most to keep it to herself. When he insulted her, she occasionally longed to snap back with a smart, spiteful remark.
Are you an ass as a gentleman too? Or is your shit demeanor unique to piracy?
Though tempting, she never said such things to his face.
On the deck below, several pirates huddled around the warming drums. Their eyes were shadowed, their faces gaunt and pale as they shivered against the wind. One looked up at her, and she offered a smile. He smiled back, then huddled closer to the fire.
Her grin slowly faded as her eyes swept over the rest of the crew. It was hard to maintain the appearance of being fine, and she let her smile fade entirely as she turned to glance behind them.
A ghostly speck followed them from far off, lingering along the horizon. It had appeared after they’d begun using the tide stones, and inched closer each day. When evening fell, a red aura glowed around the faint silhouette of a ship.
Jonah.
“For God’s sake,” Copson scolded, “stop looking at it.”
Cecily pulled her gaze away. They were under orders not to look back, as though seeing the Neptune would entice it to sail even faster.
Jack was the first to notice it in the early hours of the morning.
After telling his father, he’d retired to his cabin where Cecily had made the simple mistake of asking how he was.
He had snapped at her, she’d snapped back, they fought, and then she’d finally realized he was being so surly because he was panicking.
Mid-fight, she had pulled him into her arms and held him until he stopped trembling. Then she’d sent him to bed with a promise that everything would be alright. They both knew it was empty, but there was little else to say or do.
That was the most they’d spoken since the haunting began.
Cecily pulled her coat tighter around her. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I…forgot. Someone was coughing all night.”
She offered it like an excuse, but it was more than that. She had to tell someone about what she’d heard, and while Jack was asleep and Hester was already burdened enough, she had little rapport to lose with the captain.
It had taken her hours to realize that the painfully familiar coughing she heard was part of the haunting.
Mere hours after she’d pulled on her gloves to hide her bloody hands, she had begun to hear it in the walls—wheezing breaths and a wet hacking that sent her back to the days when her father was dying and there was nothing she could do to help him.
And though she’d heard similar the day she met Robin, this time she knew it was her father.
She could hear a remnant of his voice in the horrible wheezing, like he was about to speak.
Even though a year had passed and her heart had scarred enough to grow around the gaping hole of his loss, remorse hounded her, asking if she’d done enough, if it was her fault, if she could have saved him.
If she’d saved him, she would have saved herself too, as well as all the people who had died because of her.
Blood had run over her hands at the thought while the distant coughing continued. And on and on it went…
At some point in the night, Hester had let herself in and curled up next to Cecily. While both their husbands braved the night, the two women held each other for comfort and warmth, and Cecily had placed her head over Hester’s heart to drown out the sound of her father’s death.
Copson stared at her, one brow raised.
“What?” she said, pulling herself from her thoughts.
“I asked if they ever stopped coughing.”
She shook her head, her lips pressed in a thin line. Those dying breaths followed her so closely that she half expected her father to appear and express outrage at what she’d become.
Copson seemed to understand as he gave a single bleak nod.
She pulled her arms in tighter, curling her gloved hands into fists against the cold. “You’re oddly calm.”
One side of his beard pulled up with the edge of his mouth.
“I’m merely familiar with remorse, Miss Shoard.
” This time, when he said her name, she didn’t think he did it to remind her of her place.
It sounded too natural, like a slip of the tongue rather than a barb.
“And I’m used to setting it aside for the things I must do. ”
She swayed as she considered this. “Does it ever go away?” Perhaps no one would know better than him.
His shoulders raised on a breath, then dropped with a sigh. “That depends on you. I doubt I’m any good authority.” His eyes cut to her. “Now humor my curiosity. What have I seen you making?”
Keeping one arm folded tightly over her middle, she sheepishly reached into the pocket of her coat and retrieved a small blade made from one of the black scales she’d taken from the merman.
“As though you don’t already have enough,” the captain mused, but he released the wheel to take the small weapon, its veins of green glittering in the watery sunlight.
Once the scales had dried, they were hard enough to be filed into blades. Anyone who didn’t know the craft might have found no flaw in the scale’s sharpened edges, or the wooden handle she’d affixed to it with a bit of rope and resin. Once finished, it was roughly the same size as her bone knives.
Copson, however, saw what she did. “You need a better handle,” he said.