Nineteen Ismoathe Port, Aeadine

NINETEEN

Ismoathe Port, Aeadine

Five Years Ago

SAMUEL

T here were only six letters in the stack, but they weighed heavy in my hands. Each one bore my name in a smooth, precise script, and, even after months sitting in my private rooms in Ismoathe, they smelled distantly of roses.

I turned the top letter over and stared at the seal. Unbroken. Pristine white wax. No family mark, just a thumbprint.

Without bothering to shrug off my snow-caked coat, I strode to the fireplace—lit by servants as soon as Reliance had dropped anchor in Ismoathe harbor—and made to throw the letters in.

My fingers tightened with a protesting crinkle of thick linen paper and refused to open. Memories assailed me instead, twined in the thin scent of rosewater perfume. Alice Irving, young and sweet, watching me across the garden of her husband's—my captain's—estate. Ms. Irving standing listless beside her husband as he berated a midshipman over a minor breach of etiquette at table. Ms. Irving clutching my hand as I helped her ascend a staircase.

"Sam, where is your razor… What are you burning?" Benedict appeared at my side—my twin and mirror in every way, from our faces to statures and lieutenants' frock coats: knee-length, dark blue, and cuffed with black.

I shoved the letters into my pocket. "I just needed more light."

Benedict glanced around the chamber. It was well-appointed but plain, with a curtained bed, an array of rugs, a desk and a bookshelf. Each book sat perfectly aligned, each rug squared to the walls and furniture. My sea trunk still sat by the door, unopened next to my shoes and hat.

"It is dingy in here." Benedict started towards the curtained window, leaving a trail of snowmelt on the rugs.

"Shoes," I snapped.

Benedict glanced down then back up at me with arched brows. "Yes, sir," he drawled, tugging an imaginary forelock and kicking off his shoes. Stocking-footed, he padded the rest of the way to the window and opened the curtains.

My rooms might not have been lavish, but they had a fine view. On the top floor of a boarding house at the edge of Ismoathe's cluttered docks, my window afforded an impressive outlook of both the public harbor, packed with trade ships of every size, and the naval docks. There in the dusky, lavender light, the tall masts of Reliance were shadowed by the sprawling fortress that housed the Admiralty, barracks, and the academy where both Benedict and I had begun our careers.

Benedict squinted over the vista, any talk of burning apparently forgotten. I took off my coat, hanging it on a rack in the corner— the pocket with the letters towards the wall—and went back to my desk. There were other missives and correspondences there, neatly organized by sender. The landlady was discreet, but the thought of her stacking Alice's letters in this way, sniffing them, pondering what love-affair I had gotten myself entangled in…

I rubbed at tight muscles in my neck with one hand and picked up a letter from an old shipmate with the other.

"Is she pretty?"

I twisted to see Benedict at the coat rack. I had not heard him leave the window, but I was used to his power and manipulations, and it failed to shock me.

The sight of Alice's letters in his hands, however, did. I bolted for him, nearly tripping over the desk chair. "Put those down! Ben. Ben!"

"My God." Benedict danced away, holding the letter out of my reach, broken seal dangling from his hand. "Who is she? When did you meet? Again, is she pretty? Never mind, your taste has always been a bit off. Perhaps I should just read—"

I lunged. My fingers caught paper and in the tussle the letter tore, the others fluttering to the floor like damning feathers.

Benedict immediately snatched another up and darted across the room, leaping onto the bed and crowding into the corner. Torn between gathering the fallen letters and pursuing him, I let out a frustrated growl.

A maid passed by the open door to the hallway and stared in at us, wide-eyed, before scuttling away.

I kicked the door shut with a distracted apology and advanced on my brother.

"‘ Samuel '," Benedict began to read, raising his voice to imitate female tones. "‘ I have thought to write to you a dozen times, yet still I struggle to put my feelings into words. Though we have met but twice now, your kindness, your dignity, and your gentle words have awoken an affection in me that I cannot deny. ' Damn, you do make an impression with women. How do you do it?"

"I listen to them," I snapped, trying to snatch the letter away again.

Benedict snorted and twisted to face the wall, presenting me his back as I scrabbled. "‘ Given the delicacy of my situation, I fear that, upon reading these words, your good opinion of me and my virtues will, rightly, waver. But —'"

I grabbed Benedict by the legs and jerked. He hit the bed with a squawk and a thunk , but still managed to kick me in the chest. Winded and sprawled on the floor, I clasped my chest and reached for a chair. Benedict, already on his feet, moved the chair neatly out of reach and kept reading as he backed away.

"‘ My husband is …' Husband?" Benedict's voice faded, and his eyes dropped to the bottom of the letter, just as I finally tore it from his grasp. "Alice I.? Irving?"

"I have done nothing," I snapped. I tried to fold the letter, then realized the ridiculousness of that and crumpled it instead. "I was kind to her. That is all. She became infatuated."

"With you?" Benedict gaped at me, stuck half-way between delight and mortification. "Samuel, Charles Irving was our captain. He secured your posting to Reliance ."

"Which is why," I grated out, "I have not returned a single message or gone anywhere near her since these began." I held up the letter, crushing it further and blocking out an insidious tug of regret. Or was it pity? The two blended where Alice was concerned.

"How long?" Benedict sounded suddenly sober, but there was still a light behind his eyes I did not trust, a keenness I had learned to be wary of long ago.

"A year. I opened the first one." I put the back of one hand to my forehead, letter still crumpled between my fingers. "The rest… I told the landlady to burn them, but she has got it into her head that I need to marry and move out. So she keeps delivering them."

"Then burn them yourself," Benedict said.

I hesitated.

Benedict's eyes lit with realization. "You have not decided whether to reject her."

The truth of his accusation made my cheeks burn. I stormed across the room to the fireplace, passing a long mirror as I did. My flushed face—our face—flashed back at me.

Without hesitation, I threw the crumpled letter into the flames and stooped to snatch up another, forgotten on the now-skewed rugs. They both began to blacken and crisp, fine lines of flame racing up the expensive paper. White wax melted, dripping into the coals.

I turned back to Benedict to find he had retrieved another fallen letter and opened it.

"Give me that."

"Sam." Benedict sidled sideways, fingering the paper. "I have never met Ms. Irving, but by all accounts she is beautiful. Very beautiful. And according to these letters, very willing. Are you—"

"Give that to me." I stalked after him.

"What if you just—"

"Give it to me!"

"Easy there, easy." Benedict finally handed over the letter.

I returned to the fire to burn it, gathering others as I went, and did not look at Ben again until he opened the door.

"Well, brother," he said, slapping the frame on his way out. "Do make wise choices and make Uncle proud. Saint knows I will not."