And with that, he steps back into the darkness, clinging to the wall, his body dissolving into smoke until the last swirl fades into the thin air, and I am alone once again.
“Thank you,” I whisper, even though he is already gone. With a pounding heart, I lie down fully and close my eyes, glad for the chance.
My last thought before drifting into dreamless sleep is the strange warmth of his skin brushing against mine.
Chapter Fourteen
Thehammockrocksina slow, steady rhythm, almost convincing my body to sink back into sleep. Everything still feels heavy from yesterday. My throat is raw from all the coughing, from the salt water I swallowed. Just as I drift into consciousness, a boot thuds against wood. Then another. A rope squeals overhead, loud enough to snap me fully awake.
The orlop is still dim, light spilling down from the hatch above and tinting the space in a warm, dusty gold. When I blink and sit up, careful not to rock the hammock too much, I notice howdamp my clothes still are. The air clings to my skin, humidity pressing in from all sides. If the Sea of Renewal is known for anything, it’s the heat. And we sailed deeper into the heat of it during the night.
A few feet away, Lark is already up. He sits on a chest with his knees pulled up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. Nightglass crouches beside him, tying something at his ankle. A strip of cloth, it looks like. His movements are careful and practiced. He doesn’t look at me. Neither does Lark, at first.
“Good morning, sailor,” I say quietly, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side of the hammock and stand.
My bare feet hit the cold boards, and I suck in a sharp breath. Now I’m more thankful than ever for the boots I found.
Lark’s head snaps up. He gives me a quick nod and a tight smile. “Morning.”
As his father finishes the knot, Lark hops off the chest. “It’s already late. You’re helping me with breakfast today,” he announces as he pulls on his boots and bolts for the stairs.
“You coming?” he shouts from above.
I glance at Nightglass. He finally looks at me, just briefly.
“He’s right,” he says, “make yourself useful here, lass.”
I bite my lip and scan the space. A few other men are already moving around below deck, lower ranks, from what I’ve gathered. They give me a wide berth, passing as if I carry something contagious. I reach for the charm, reassured when I feel it beneath the fabric of my gown.
“I’m coming!” I call after Lark and start up the steps.
Of course, I’m not nearly as fast as he is. He’s already waiting on deck, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Someone brushes past me with a bucket, face turned away, the impact making the water splash over the edges and onto my feet.
Fine. Pretend I’m not here. Better than hurling abuse at me, I suppose.
I follow Lark toward the stern, where the galley sits tucked into the ship. I remember this place from days ago—though it feels much longer than that.
This time, the galley is alive.
Heat rolls from the stove. A pan hisses, fat spitting as something fries. A large pot simmers beside it, steam curling upward. The smell of ham and vegetables fills the space, making my stomach growl loudly in response. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, before the tribunal.
The cook stands over the stove, broad-backed and solid, sleeves rolled up to reveal scarred forearms. His hair is streaked with grey and pulled back with a string, his face stern and lined, like someone who’s spent years under the blazing sun. When he turns, his eyes are sharp as he assesses me.
“You bring some help, boy?” he asks, not unkind, but direct nonetheless.
“Aye,” Lark answers, already rolling up his sleeves. He slides a small blade across the table toward me before grabbing two loaves of bread and setting to work. I take the knife and start slicing. The crust of the bread is tough to cut through, the blade almost slipping into my fingers. I soon get the hang of it, though.
For a while, no one speaks. The galley fills with the sounds of work, knife on wood as we cut, the scrape of plates, and the steady simmer of the pot. Lark watches my hands from the corner of his eye, either trying to copy my movements or making sure I don’t mess up and lose a finger. Maybe a mixture of both.
“I voted to keep you," the cook says suddenly as he turns to set bowls and plates on the table.
I pause for half a breath, then keep cutting. It feels good to know that some pirates voted in my favor, and to know who they are. One less man I have to watch as closely as the others.
“It was almost a tie,” he continues, smoothing the front of his makeshift apron. “Many of us lost family to the song of a siren. Vicious little things you are.”
I nod, focusing on the bread again. “I understand. But it’s good to hear that only half of you want me dead.”
He lets out a deep laugh, and I fight a smile as it fills the air. As instructed by the cook, Lark and I fill the plates and bowls, setting out portions as the crew filters in one by one. Some ignore me completely. Others give curt nods of thanks. A few still spit curses at me as though they have witnessed first-hand what my kind is capable of.