Chapter 1
HAZEL
Whitethorn Bay, England
The creaking sound of wet, splintered wood grated on my mind, and I shifted restlessly on the uncomfortable rope netting beneath me.
Surrounded by damp darkness and the inescapable smell of mildew and stale seawater, I’d lost track of how many days I’d been aboard this old, unsteady ship, without a clue of how long we had left on this journey.
Unsurprisingly, my father’s resentment of me grew tenfold after we laid my mother to rest. He gave me the luxury of a two-week long mourning period, during which he left me alone in my chambers, but as soon as it ended he gave me no grace for even the smallest error.
It began with subtle berating of my character and offhand remarks about how useless I was. How I was not blessed with intelligence like him, how I was nearly too old to find a husband, and how I’d only bring shame to our estate if I was childless and unmarried for much longer.
Soon the narrative changed, and as I failed to live up to his made-up standards, I was painted as an unstable and hostile burden to the family. It would be a disgrace for any man to be shackled to you, he’d said, on multiple occasions. You’re weak, frail, and ill in the head.
According to him, the death of my mother had caused a sort of mania in me, and there was apparently nothing his favored physicians could do to fix me. In my father’s eyes, I was a witch — a useless woman who could only bring misery and headaches to those around her.
I knew the banishment was coming, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved on the day he came to tell me of my demise.
Too many whispers of odd happenings and stories of my misery were floating around Whitethorn Bay, and he and our family’s associates were worried about my mental state. A classic case of “hysteria,” they called it, and I was to be sent away to an island to receive specialized healing.
I wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t an island of healing — it was a sanitarium.
The Akala Asylum was known as a home for those who were too afflicted by melancholy or mania to properly function.
Or, in other cases, a home for those who didn’t fit the mould built for them by high society, whose families needed somewhere to ship them off to and forget about their existence.
Lord Emerson believed this facility, located on a lone, rocky island off the coast of New England, where storms raged and sunshine rarely broke through the violent grey sky, was the perfect place for someone like me.
He gave me no time to protest or prepare.
Two days after he and his physicians informed me of my treatment plans, I was sent away on this rickety ship in the dead of night.
Banished to the sea with only a trunk filled with a few meager belongings, my fate had been sealed before I ever had the chance to protest.
The benefit of a hysteria accusation was that I was given a private section on the lower level of the ship.
Not quite a room, as it was a 100-square-foot corner sectioned off by barrels and cargo, but it afforded me a level of privacy I hadn’t expected.
I kept to myself, only leaving my makeshift bed for meals, which had dwindled to once per day, doing my best to stay out of the way.
The sailors were wretched, a superstitious bunch who were clearly unhappy they were being sent into treacherous waters to transport a woman with such an affliction.
I couldn’t fault them for it. I wanted nothing more than for this trip to be over, and found myself almost looking forward to reaching the rocky shores of Akala, if only for the promise of solid land and dry garments.
I shifted again in the uncomfortable netting, my threadbare nightgown tangling around my limbs as I sat up, allowing my bare feet to hang over the side of the bed.
My boots were tucked away with the rest of my things, waterlogged and reeking of sea rot, no use to me unless I was eager to contract chilled feet.
The ship lurched forward, reeling my thoughts back to the present as I lost my balance and toppled to the floor. I caught myself on my hands and knees, letting out a grunt as I was met with about an inch of ice-cold seawater.
That cannot be good, I thought. We’d hit quite a few storms on our journey across the Atlantic, but water didn’t typically end up inside the ship. Although this vessel was old, I assumed my father wouldn’t allow his crew to sail on something that wasn’t safe.
Sighing, I started to push myself off the wet wood only to be greeted by frantic footsteps splashing through the slowly rising water.
“It’s her,” a raspy voice sneered as rough hands yanked me to my feet.
I kept my mouth shut, terrified to speak. Most of the time, any words I let out were met with a swift slap to the face or a hard shove to the ground, anyway.
“Witch,” the man behind me whispered. “Stop this! Now!”
Trembling, I tried to ask what they were talking about, silenced by a wet, stinky rag shoved into my mouth.
“Take her to the upper deck. Maybe she needs some fresh air, aye?” The raspy voice of the Captain was met by the chortles of his men as he hauled me through the hull of the ship.
The fabric on my tongue tasted of rot, fish, and saltwater, and I fought against the bile burning in my throat, desperately trying not to heave.
My body shook as I was pushed through the cargo hold and up the creaky stairs to the main deck.
Outside, a raging storm like nothing I’d ever dreamed of rained hell upon the dilapidated ship.
Wind howled around us, giant waves beating against the sides of the ship as booming, thunderous roars tore through the noise of the night.
Lightning flashed across the black sky, the streaks blurred by the sheets of rain pouring down from the thick clouds.
I didn’t remember encountering a storm this terrifying on our journey, and my body only shivered harder as I was pelted with the icy droplets.
I hated thunderstorms. They’d scared me ever since I was a child, leading to horrendous nightmares and paralyzing anxiety.
Of course, I’d also had the misfortune to be born in Whitethorn Bay, where storms raged for most of the year.
It was the rainiest, dreariest town in all of England, but the port location was beneficial for my father’s business.
He was a high-level merchant, and he owned most of the fleets traversing the Atlantic Ocean.
Back and forth, he and his men carried goods and cargo from the Americas to England, and according to him, he was responsible for the booming economies of both continents.
I wasn’t sure how much of that I believed, as the way his men were treating me did not represent the behavior of sailors aboard a respectable trade vessel.
But I was unsurprised. My father had hated me since the day I was born, and my mother’s passing finally gave him the excuse he needed to get rid of me once and for all.
The storm raged harder as the sailors dragged me toward the bow of the ship, the wood creaking, rocking, cracking under the pressure. There was no way this vessel would make it out in one piece. In truth, we were likely headed towards a waterlogged, painful death.
Pain shot through my shoulders as rope twisted around my wrists, binding my arms behind my back before fastening more rope around my ankles.
“What are you doing to me?” The words came out with a choke, muffled through the gag. I knew they despised me. I knew they didn’t want to be on this voyage. But until now, they’d left me to my own devices. What changed?
The captain prowled around my body, stopping directly in front of me. Scowling, he gripped my chin in his dirty, calloused hand, and pure hatred flashed in his gaze.
“Your father doesn’t care whether you live or die, but you already know that, don’t you? So what’s the difference to us? He couldn’t have you publicly executed for witchcraft, so he sends you on a risky trade route on a nearly decommissioned ship. Well, I think it’s time for us to let you go.”
Witchcraft? I thought, no response forming on my lips.
My eyes stung and tears began to flow freely as he released my chin and patted my cheeks.
I tried to stop the emotions, to appear strong and fearless in front of these disgusting men, but my body wouldn’t allow it. Instead, I cried like a helpless child.
Without wasting another second, more rough hands gripped my feet and shoulders, hoisting my body into the air. No amount of tears or terrified pleading seemed to faze the men as they carried me to the ship’s railing.
“We’ll tell dear Father Emerson that you succumbed to consumption,” the captain sneered. “Just like your whore of a mother.”
Before I could take another breath, my body was flung off the railing of the boat, and I plunged into the cold, tumultuous depths of the Atlantic Ocean.