Thirty-Four

THIRTY-FOUR

When I woke that morning in West’s quarters, he was gone.

The shutters of the window had come open, tapping softly against the wall in the wind, and the memory of that morning in Dern flashed before my eyes. The gray sky and the cool breeze. The cast of light through the hazy cabin. But it was the Unnamed Sea out the window this time.

I sat up, sliding my hand beneath the quilt where West had been. It was cold. His boots, too, were missing from where they usually sat beside the door.

Out on the deck, Auster and Paj were eating their breakfasts in the breezeway.

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice still hoarse with sleep.

“He and Hamish went to see the shipwright.” Paj motioned toward the harbor.

Auster stood from the crate he was sitting on. “Hungry?”

“No.” I shook my head. My stomach had been turning since I’d come up from the water at Fable’s Skerry.

I walked to the railing, watching the deck of the Sea- dragon. Holland’s crew was already up and working, and the melodic brush of holystoning echoed over the water. I used to sit cradled in the jib on my father’s ship, watching the deckhands scrape the white bricks over the deck, grinding the wood pale and smooth. Back and forth, back and forth. My father liked his decks sparkling clean, like any good helmsman, and it was the job dreaded by everyone onboard.

White as bone. Not until it’s white as bone.

My father’s voice snaked through my mind, like the hum that rattled the hull of a ship in a storm.

Not until it’s white as bone.

The grind of sand on the wood was as warm under my skin as every memory I had of those days. When Saint would lean into the railing with his elbows, watching the crystal blue water for my mother to surface from a dive.

I hoped that was how my memories of the Marigold would stay, there within reach when I needed them for the next two years.

Willa came up the steps from below, her boots in her hands. Her twisted locks were tied away from her face, falling down her back like cords of bronze. The scar on her cheek was flushed pink in the cold.

“Where are you going?” I asked, watching her button her jacket.

“Into the village to see the smith. Can’t get back to Ceros without an anchor.”

I looked over the rooftops in the distance. Something inside of me was holding its breath, and I realized it was not being able to lay eyes on West that was bothering me. I’d been thinking about that cool look in his eye since the night before. The quiet that had come over him when I said I was going to sign Holland’s contract.

“I’ll come with you.” I went back to West’s cabin and fetched my boots and jacket, raking my hair up into a knot on top of my head.

A few minutes later we were climbing the steps out of the harbor, the sun on our faces.

Willa walked the streets in a grid, looking for the smith’s shop, and every time someone caught sight of her scar, their steps faltered a little. She was a fearsome thing to behold, her small frame corded with muscle under her tawny skin. Glinting blue eyes were rimmed in dark lashes, making them almost ethereal.

She was beautiful. And that morning, she looked free.

“This is it.” She stopped beneath a red painted sign that read IRON SMITH.

The door jingled as she pushed inside, and I watched her through the glass as she went to the wall, where baskets of nails and rivets were hanging from hooks.

A few seabirds were drifting and turning on the wind blowing up from the harbor in the distance and I sighed as I watched them, feeling heavy there in the alley. It was as if every inch of sky were pressing down on top of me, driving me into the earth.

It was still morning, but by the time the sun went down I’d be signing Holland’s contract.

A twist of brilliant blue flared in the shadow darkening the corner of the building, and I studied the street around me. The people walked leisurely from shop to shop, but I could feel the shift in the air. The trailing scent of spiced mullein smoke.

I watched the corner, where the alley narrowed into a small lane that disappeared between the buildings. Over my shoulder, I could see Willa through the window, waiting at the counter.

My mouth twisted, my hands curling into fists inside my pockets as I stepped toward the alley and took the turn. The flash of blue disappeared around the next corner, leaving the alley empty. Silent.

I walked with heavy, echoing steps, glancing back to the street to be sure no one was following me. When I made the next turn, I stopped short, my chest caving in with the weight of lost breath. There, leaning against the soot-stained brick, my father stood with his pipe clenched in his teeth, his cap pulled low over his eyes.

“Saint.” My lips moved around the word, but I couldn’t hear it.

The sting behind my eyes instantly betrayed me, treacherous tears gathering so quickly that I had to blink them away. It took every ounce of my will to keep from throwing my arms around him, and I didn’t know what to do with that feeling. I wanted to press my face into his coat and cry. I wanted to let the weight of my legs give out and let him hold me.

I’d thought over and over that maybe I’d never see him again. That maybe I didn’t want to. And here I was, swallowing down the cry trapped in my throat.

He was beautiful and terrifying and stoically cold. He was Saint.

A puff of smoke trailed up from his lips before he looked at me, and I thought I might have seen something there in his steely blue eyes that mirrored the roaring feeling inside of me. But when his eyes shifted, it was gone.

He took hold of the opening of his coat with both hands and sauntered toward me. “Got your message.”

“Didn’t think you’d come yourself,” I said. It was true. I’d been expecting Clove. But I was so happy to see my father that I was almost ashamed of myself. I stared at the toes of his shined black boots in front of mine. “Do you have it?” I asked.

An amused smirk played at his lips before he reached into his pocket and pulled a small brown paper package from inside. He held it between us, but when I reached for it, he lifted it up, out of my reach.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” His voice grated.

I glared at him, snatching the package from his fingers. It was the same question West had asked me. The same one I didn’t know if I had the answer to. “I know what I’m doing,” I lied.

He took a long drag on the pipe, his eyes squinting as I tore at the edge of the package, pulling back the thick parchment until I could see the corner of a box. When it was free, I lifted the tiny brass latch and opened it. Inside, the golden tiger’s eye of a gem merchant’s ring stared up at me. I let out a long, relieved breath.

“You look all right.”

I glanced up to see his gaze moving over me head to toe. It was his feeble attempt at asking if I was okay. “You could have told me. About Holland.”

He considered me for a moment before he answered. “I could have.”

“You may have gotten rid of Zola, but I know you wanted to get me off the Marigold. It didn’t work.”

His eyes narrowed. “I figured your grandmother would offer you a place with her.”

“She did. I didn’t want it.”

He reached up, combing through his mustache with his fingers. I could have sworn I saw a smile buried on his lips. He looked almost … proud. “Clove says this ring’s for Henrik,” he said, changing the subject.

“It is.”

Saint let another puff of smoke spill from his mouth. “Not the most reliable of criminals.”

“Are you saying you don’t think he’ll keep his word?”

“I’m saying I think you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot.”

Those weren’t good odds. I leaned into the wall beside him, watching the opening of the alley where people filled the street. “I need to ask you something.”

His eyebrows lifted. He looked curious. “Go ahead.”

“Did she ever tell you?”

He frowned as soon as he realized I was talking about my mother. “Tell me what?”

“Isolde.” I said her name, knowing he didn’t like it. An uneasiness rippled through him. “Did she ever tell you where she found the midnight?”

He took the pipe from his mouth. “She never told me.”

“What?” My voice rose. “In all those years? How could she never have told you?”

He looked away from me, perhaps to hide whatever his face would give away. The shadow of it looked a lot like frailty. “I never asked,” he said, but the words were taut.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, incredulous.

“I—” He stopped. He looked like he was unsure of what to say. Or how to say it. And that wasn’t Saint at all. He steeled himself before he turned back to face me, his eyes holding an entirely different truth. “I made her swear to never tell me.”

I leaned into the wall, letting it hold me up. She had told him about the midnight. But I wasn’t the only one who knew the fabric making up the man I called father. He’d known himself well enough to protect Isolde.

From himself.

The thought was so heartbreaking I had to look away from him, afraid of what I might see if I met his eyes. He was the only one who’d loved her more than I had. And the pain of losing her was fresh and sharp, knife-edged between us.

He cleared his throat before taking another puff on the pipe. “Are you going to tell me what your plan is?”

“Don’t trust me?” I found a smile on my lips, but it was still wavering with the threat of tears.

“I trust you.” His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it. “Are you going to tell me why?”

I could see that he wanted to know. That he was struggling to understand. He’d been surprised when Clove showed up in Bastian with my message and he wanted to know why I’d do it. Why I’d risk anything for him, after everything he’d done.

I looked up, and the shape of him bent in the light. I gave him the real answer. The whole, naked truth of it. “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

There was no more to it, and no less. I hadn’t known it until that moment in the solarium, when Holland said his name. That I’d loved him with the same fire that I’d hated him. That if anything happened to Saint, a part of me would be taken with him.

His mouth twisted to one side before he gave a sharp nod, looking to the street. “You’ll be at the Trade Council meeting?”

I nodded, unable to get another word out.

The edge of his coat brushed against mine as he moved past me, and I watched him take the next turn, leaving me standing in the alley alone. The sea wind whipped around me and the lump in my throat ached as I took the narrow passage back the way I’d come.

Willa was waiting in front of the smith’s window when I came back out onto the street, a wrapped package in her arms. When she saw me, she sighed with relief. “Where were you?”

I waited for a man to pass us, lowering my voice. “Saint.”

“He’s here? Did he…?” she whispered.

I pulled the box from my pocket just enough to show her.

She gasped. “He did it?”

“He did it,” I said. “I don’t want to know how, but that bastard did it.”