Chapter 2

Alba stowed awayin the back of a fishmonger"s cart, surrounded by stinking barrels of cod and halibut, all the way until they passed a sign for a town called Findley. A town Alba had heard mentioned in passing while in Welkin or Belmar, a place he'd never been on his own. A staunch reminder that he'd barely been anywhere at all outside of where he was allowed to wander. A staunch reminder that running away, in many ways, wasn't easier than staying. Having to wrap his arms around himself to resist the urge to lunge from the wagon and race back to where things were familiar, even if terrible. Forcing himself to focus on how familiar didn't mean good. Familiar didn't mean safe.

Pulling up into a seller's market, the wagon driver swiftly uncovered Alba's hiding place, grabbing him by the back of the collar and throwing him to the street. Cursing at and kicking him until satisfied. Alba barely felt it. He barely even perceived the whispering onlookers huddled around, just pushing himself up at the first chance and dragging his aching body away, down the first quiet street in view.

Slumping against a brick wall to catch his breath, he pressed a cold hand to his swelling cheek and checked over his shoulder to see if anyone followed him. No one did. Without the sight of any Warren dogs sniffing around, Alba took it as proof they had no more idea where he was headed than he did. It didn't mean he was scot-free, as there were always recruiters traveling between towns to entrap na?ve sailors into contracts as torturous as his own—but just the briefest thought he'd evaded them was enough to make him grin, then laugh, though the sound quickly puttered out again as he attempted to stretch his leg and put some weight on it.

Before anything else, he had to find a walking stick. He wasn't going to make it much further without one.

There was a wad of cash still in his pocket from the day's sales at Maggie's stall, enough to buy a slender cane carved from a pine branch from the general store, then a cheap meal and a bath at the tavern. When asked if he wanted a place to sleep with it, Alba shook his head, just eating as fast as he could.

He couldn't stay in one place for long, especially not in a town like Findley that was only a few hour's wagon ride from Welkin. Josiah's men would be out looking for him, he knew. They'd probably already added the stolen money, the ruined fish, the mess, Josiah's doctor's fees to his longstanding debt, and Alba wasn't eager to know what they had in mind for him to work it off if caught. Not that Alba would feel the added weight of it on his conscience—he never knew what the original number accrued by his father even was, even while sailing, supposedly working it off bit by bit. Having learned years ago that no matter how hard, long, steadfastly he dedicated himself, that number would never go down enough for him to earn his freedom back. What was a little more added to an impossible fee?

Thanking the tavern owner, stacking the bills in a way the man wouldn't notice Alba had stiffed him a dollar from the price, Alba asked one last thing before getting back on his way.

"Can you tell me which way to Moon Harbor?"

The man raised an eyebrow, before shaking his head and taking Alba's practically licked-clean plate. "Never heard of it. Try takin' the fork east up the road, though, assumin' it's on the water."

That was good enough. Alba grabbed his jacket and hurried out, glad for the help of the cane that quickened his pace as the man called out for him about the missing cash.

He managedto hitchhike his way to Clearshore next, a wet little down on a stack of cliffs overlooking the sea that reminded Alba too much of Belmar. Smaller, smellier, air hazy with the plethora of steam ships sailing in and out of her port and crowding the docks.

He'd never seen so many in one place—the Warrens insisted on utilizing traditional sails for their trawlers, though rumors claimed they simply didn't want to, or even couldn't afford the investment in steamers. Alba couldn't help himself from wandering up and down the busy dock platforms to gaze at each and every one of them, not minding the smell, if anything finding it a strange comfort after even that short amount of time in strange places on land. He wasn't used to going so far on foot; to be close to the water again was a reassurance that nothing in the world was completely unfamiliar.

Between the ships, nets dumped whole sea's-worth of fish into barrels and buckets on the wooden planks, mostly groundfish and crab. So much at once that many were left to rot, forgotten or unneeded, tipped back into the water to make room for fresh catch coming in. Surely in a place like that, Alba thought he would find a single sailor who knew the name Moon Harbor, but most just waved him away when he approached. Insisting there was no work for him, to move along.

He followed the smell of food to the town's inn, ordering their cheapest meal and something to drink, as well as however many cigarettes he could get with a dollar. It stank of sweat and aged salt in the large eating area, humid and hot with a burning fire in the corner and reeking of talking mouths full of unbrushed teeth. A good place to blend in—while equally knowing that was exactly the sort of place Josiah's men would think to look for a missing sailor like him. He would make himself scarce after a few bites, just enough to quell the hungry raking of his stomach.

"Heard you asking ‘bout Moon Harbor on the docks," a stranger grunted as he claimed an empty stool alongside where Alba sat. "What's a good lad like you wantin' with a cursed place like that?"

Alba recognized so many of his crew mates, captains, waterlogged seamen in the stranger's face parched by decades in the sun, wiry hair matted beneath a cotton hat with a narrow rim. Aged tattoos peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt, the cuffs of his jacket, many matching Alba's own.

"Cursed place?" he asked, motioning for the bartender to refill the man's beer to hopefully keep him talking. Having no intention of paying for it when they were done. The man threw back half of it before continuing.

"Aye," he breathed. "Won't catch no fisher who knows a thing trawlin' in or outside those waters. Not anymore."

"Not anymore?" Alba asked. "Protective of their waters, or something?"

"Yes and no." The man shook his head, taking another drink. "But even if'n you manage to catch somethin' without them noticin', don't reckon you'd be eager to keep it. Things in that water grow wrong. Curse any man who eats anything from ‘em. Shame, heard it used to be such a pretty place."

Alba couldn't help but smirk. He'd heard enough stories just like that one, old myths around hunting grounds, reasons why a captain refused to go into one area of the sea over another, some even willing to add two days onto a journey to fully skirt around a particular spot on a map.

But knowing how secretive his mother had been with even just the name of the town his entire life, something told Alba such rumors were more likely passed by people of that town, themselves, to keep sailors from poaching what was theirs. To keep unwanted strangers and the trouble they might bring far from their shores.

"Well—can you tell me where to find it anyway? I have some business there?—"

"Find work some'ere else, lad," the stranger grunted, finishing his drink, then motioning to the plate of food in front of Alba to silently ask for one of his own. Alba sighed, nearly calling the bartender over—before two figures stepped into the crowded bar behind them.

He couldn't see faces beneath the brims of hats, but didn't need to. Sliding what remained of his own plate to the man, Alba grabbed his coat and left out the back before the bartender—or anyone else—could notice.

Alba lingerednear the docks another hour, asking anyone who passed by if they knew anything of Moon Harbor, Whitesand Cove, before knowing it wasn't safe to hover any longer than that. Especially as the sun set and darkness came, bringing with it chilly air and rain and a growing ache in his leg, Alba had to find somewhere to go. Somewhere that wasn't there, not with two dogs sniffing around.

Following a crowd of people carrying bags and clutching their jackets close, he overheard a name that caught his attention—Bluecastle. Bluecastle Township, located a few miles away; a name mentioned in his mother's message, one he hadn't considered might be a town. He went straight for the wagon boarding to head in that very direction, barely buying a seat just before it headed off.

Bluecastle Township was bigger than Alba expected, hesitating near the cart as the rest of the passengers disembarked behind him. Knowing a room at the inn would cost more in a place that bustled so loudly, where streets were lit by rows of kerosene lanterns rather than flickering wicks like in Belmar.

He only had a few dollars left. He didn't want to waste them. He still didn't know where he was going or how much it would cost to get there—or even why his mother's note had mentioned Bluecastle in the first place. He might have thought her there waiting for him, had the telegram not come from Moon Harbor directly.

Pulling the message card from his coat, careful to shield it from the rain, he gently cursed her for being so intricate in her riddles. He never liked them as a child, either.

It was the last thing he wanted to do, knowing it would leave a mark of his whereabouts should anyone ask the teller about messages sent from their clicker, but Alba sought out Bluecastle's post office. He had Moon Harbor's location number on the telegram in his hand, he could send a message asking for help. He would sit and wait for as long as it was safe. He only needed one more clue. Anything.

But as he approached the post office doors, there on the notice board right outside, he got one. A single clue, clear as day. Practically laughing at him for losing his patience just a moment too soon.

SINGLE WICKIE NEEDED. WHITESAND COVE. LIFETIME CONTRACT. $30/WEEK. NO PRIOR EXPERIENCE NEEDED. CHECK IN WITH POST CLERK.

Alba tore the flier from the board with a shivering hand, a funnel of rainwater spilling from the eaves overhead and drenching his already soaked coat. Moon Harbor. Whitesand Cove. Wickie. Bluecastle.

He raced into the post office, shaking off the rain like a dog and hurrying to the clerk. Showing the flier, they handed back a single envelope through the grated window, and Alba took it eagerly. Finding a bench out of the way, his eyes flashed up constantly with every pedestrian who came and went, though the office was hardly busy at such an hour. Knowing to let his guard down for even a moment might be the last of him.

Inside the envelope was a crisp two-dollar bill, a ticket for the river ferry, and a note instructing where to go from the third stop up the river.

"Careful with that one, boy," the postman grunted as Alba leafed through the contents, making Alba jump. The man leaned casually on one elbow as he spoke, newspaper spread on the desk in front of him as there weren't enough folk to keep him busy so late at night. "Wages are high for a reason."

"What do you mean?" Alba asked, glancing at the water-specked advertisement again. He'd barely skimmed the dollar amount the first time.

"Someone's in here putting up a flier for the same tendin' job every month, like clockwork. Must be a reason so many wickies leave despite the pay."

"Lighthouse keepin's not an easy job," Alba answered without thinking, glancing down at the note again. The post-teller's attention flickered to Alba's cane, looking like he wanted to say something about it, before rolling his eyes and going back to his newspaper. Alba didn't say anything else, either, focused on how the telegram from his mother poked out from where he'd tucked it down the cuff of his jacket to keep dry.

None of that mattered to him—he wasn't going there to take a job.

He tucked the note, the ticket, even the telegram back into the envelope, then used the two-dollar bill to bribe the teller to let him sleep there for the night. It wasn't comfortable, but it was warm. It was safe, so long as no one came looking for him before the sun came up. He prayed as much. Not when he was so close.

The ferry stationwas located alongside the post office, both buildings perched on the edge of the canal and smelling of rich, sweet water once the rainclouds dissipated and the sun came with morning. Alba didn't sleep particularly soundly, but it was still a welcome rest, filled with thin dreams of smiling fish and pretty mermaids swimming in circles around him, calling out how eager the were to meet him and finally take an offered piece of his hair. He smiled back at them. He laughed when they tousled fingers through his braid, loosening it until the red strands were caught in the wind, then the waves. Beckoning him to come faster, they were eager to meet. Eager to grant his wishes in exchange for a few strands. When he finally woke again, he was sure he tasted saltwater on his tongue.

Alba was the first person on the platform so early, claiming a seat near the front to be the first on board when it was time. It would be another few hours before the boat came, which meant he was free to listen to the birds as they shivered off a night-long rain; to breathe in the smell of the fresh earth and the canal, intermixed with faint hints of the city at his back; to eavesdrop as pedestrians passed by on the walkway opposite the ferry station's breezeway.

He wasn't completely unequippped to navigate unfamiliar towns, especially port towns, especially after so long traveling from place while sailing—but after so many years developed sea legs accustomed to the constant rocking of waves, he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the solid flatness of the earth. He found himself unconsciously swaying to and fro while waiting for the ferry, as if the bench treaded water where he sat.

Even closing his eyes, Alba could smell the frigid, salty air of the north. He felt the constant wavering of leaning against one of the trawling reels. The voices of a slowly-gathering crowd at his back were the men he sailed with; the lapping water of the canal was the sea kissing the side of the ship as if inviting the boards to split open and spill their contents into the water to be devoured.

But Alba wasn't on a dogger, he wasn't in the north. It was the prior night's rain that dampened his hair, not snow or frost blown from the sheer edges of glacial corridors on either side of them. He was on solid land. He was on his way to find his mother in Moon Harbor, where they might escape the grasp of the Warren Sailing Company once and for all.

Despite being nowhere near the ships and the sea that once framed his entire being—upon opening his eyes, there was still a face Alba recognized in the morning light. Hovering in the throng of people filling the ferry station, as the vessel itself finally trundled up to the platform. Alba blinked in hopes it was only his imagination, but the face remained—and the man's eyes landed on Alba the exact moment the ferry bell rang out for boarding. They stared at one another for only a moment—before Alba's instincts came alive, and he leapt to his feet.

It took only a split second of his cane tangling in a stranger's luggage for Marco to catch him, grabbing Alba roughly by the collar and yanking him back. Alba nearly fell, caught at the last moment and spun around as if it was all just some sort of misunderstanding. A hand found the small of his back, guiding him toward the road as he scrambled breathlessly to gather his bearings.

"There, there," Marco whispered. He was a tall, burly man, one of Josiah's closest associates after working alongside his older brother Herman Warren for years before his death. Skilled in as many tricks of sailing as any other, but none more than sniffing out lost sailors like Alba.

Far from the first time Alba had been snatched by him, he knew it would certainly be the last if he allowed himself to be lead away any further than that. The moment they left the crowd on the platform, there would be others. There would be hands all over him, grabbing and tying and throwing Alba onto the back of a horse, into a wagon, wherever they could get him. He would never get another chance to run again; Josiah would make sure of it.

Alba pushed through the petrifying, nauseating sensation of the large hand on his back. Knowing its strength from the first time he was touched like that, thirteen-years-old on the street in Welkin. Called over, then walked to the wagon at the far end of town. Beaten and gagged when he realized what was happening. Kicking and screaming, crying out for his mother, taken into Belmar where they threw him in the brig of a ship right as it set sail. No chance to say goodbye. To tell his mother where he was going, that he'd never asked for it. It was a whole year before Alba was allowed to return and apologize to her.

Not again, not again—he wouldn't be taken away from his mother again.

Lacing his cane between Marco's legs was enough to make the man stumble, and Alba's foot slamming into the crook of his knee made him drop. Just enough for Marco to throw his hands out, enough for Alba to twist away and stumble into the nearest cluster of pedestrians.

They swore at him, shoving him in return, but Alba's ears only rang with the sound of the ferry bell; with Marco's voice behind him shouting ‘stop!'; with a decade-old memory of that same voice laughing while throwing him, bruised and bleeding and subdued, into the back of a wagon. Telling him ‘you're not going anywhere, little prince.'

Alba shoved through the crowd toward the ferry, using his cane to clear a path, shouting for all of them to get out of his way, deafened by the sound of Marco chasing after him.

The ghost of fingers trailed through strands of his hair just as he barely leapt onto the rear platform of the ferry already pulling away from the platform.

The ticket-man gave Alba a bewildered look, half a second from tossing him right back into the canal, but Alba quickly produced his ticket.

He glanced over his shoulder as his ticket was checked, meeting Marco's eyes one last time. A predator narrowly missing its prey, Marco's eyes were cold, sharp, and Alba knew that likely wouldn't be the last time they saw one another. Not if he wasn't careful.

But he would be—he'd be careful. He'd find his mother and leave with her. They would go somewhere safe to live, to make a life, where Alba could finally be a good son and take care of her like she was meant to be cared for. Somewhere no one would ever find them. He only had to reach Moon Harbor, first.