I was not meant for the sea. That much is clear. I can’t seem to find my sea legs, and I have a hard time keeping my meals down. Going below deck is worse. Which is unfortunate, because that’s the only place I’m allowed. I’m too recognizable, and you never know when we might meet another ship on the open sea. I have my own cabin, but I get sick even in the process of falling asleep.
After that first night, Beck has made himself scarce. It hurts to know he’s avoiding me. And it’s confusing. He kissed me. That really happened. When I think of the feel of his lips on mine, the way he tasted like salt and bitter orange and something distinctly Beck, I feel something ignite inside my belly. I slept in his arms that first night on board, and it was the only night I haven’t felt ill. He was still there, holding me when I woke up, asking if I slept okay.
And now, it’s been two days, and I haven’t seen more than a passing glance of him.
Shaz took over managing his stitches, which he’s told me are excellent. He asked for tips and was kind when I didn’t want to explain where I picked up my technique. Maybe one day, I can talk about it. Not now. Not today.
On the third day, Kern tells me we’re pulling into port for supplies. Beck and I are to stay below deck. But it only means that he stays in his quarters, and I stay in mine.
At least when we’re docked, we’re not rocking. The gentle sway is a welcome respite from the more violent roll of the open sea, and I find it easy to drift off, my body desperate for sleep.
The sound that wakes me is a lot like the scrape of a chair on a wooden floor. For a moment, when I first wake, I think I’m back in Beck’s cabin, tucked away in the woods near the estate.
Beck sits backwards on a chair, facing me, two pieces of paper in his hand. He’s wearing what must be his captain’s jacket. It’s a green-black canvas thing with leather accents and a slew of strange buttons sewn in nonsensical places along the chest. He wears the pants he favors, tied at the ankles above his work boots. He’s unshaven, with salt in his wavy hair, and is chewing on an orange peel. He no longer looks like a guy playing a part. He is the captain of this ship, and an experienced one at that.
His face looks both better and worse. His stitches form a thin black line down the right side of his face, and the left side of his chin and jaw are a mess of yellowish purple, partially concealed by the patchy beard he hasn’t trimmed.
His posture is relaxed, but the way he straddles the chair, using the back as a barrier, feels painfully intentional.
“Where have you been?” I ask, not bothering to sit up.
“Somebody’s got to captain this thing, and while Slick is a master with a cross stitch, he’s no long-haul driver, if you catch my drift.” I’m too tired to laugh. Given the way he’s neglected me to be sick by myself, I don’t find his humor that funny. I want to tell him this. But one look at his shuttered eyes, and I know there’s something else at hand.
“What is it?” I sit up, staring at the papers in his hand. One is grayish and thin. The other is an envelope.
“There’s good news, and there’s even better news. Which do you want first?” He holds up the papers, and I squint.
“Really?”
“No, of course not.” His lips curl in a little smirk, and for a second, it feels like things are back to normal. But as I reach for the newsprint, my fingers brush his, and he pulls away. It’s subtle, but it still twists a horrible, lurching ache deep in my stomach.
I fix my eyes on the paper, unfolding it to its front-page glory.
I swallow hard around Neve’s traitorous words, reminding myself that CJ never touched her, and she was not only left behind, but betrayed by my selection.
I stop reading. The rest of it is just details about how I came to the institute and how I’ve performed there. I fold it again and hand it back to Beck. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he grips the envelope tightly enough that it bows slightly in his hand.
“That journalist is missing,” he says. I look at the article in my hand.
“Missing?”
“Hasn’t written anything since. Nobody’s seen her. And, of course, nobody’s written about it.”
“Then how—”
“You don’t make it as the most ferocious pirate on the Mittlesee without sharing whispers with sharp ears in select ports.” I nod and place the carefully creased newspaper in my lap.
“Hiltington? Was he . . . ?”
“Article doesn’t say so, but he had a candidate in the institute this year.”
“Zerah?” I ask. But I already know the answer. I wonder about the three girls who were placed elsewhere, where they were placed, who they are. Zerah talked about someone special to her, but she never said if it was another beneficiary.
“It’s one thing to report that these things are being investigated. It’s another to splash the ugly details with anonymous sources on the front page,” Beck says, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his right leg.
“So, this is the good news, right?” He quirks a strange, wry smile and hands me the envelope. It’s a nice envelope, made from a heavy linen paper. I swallow as I unseal it. It hasn’t been read. Or at least Beck wants me to think it hasn’t. I try not to think too hard about why that thought occurs to me in the first place.
I pull out a heavy piece of paper and find neat, if masculine, handwriting. Beck launches from his chair and moves to the opposite corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares out the porthole.
I flip the paper over, looking for whatever the postscript referenced, and then shake the envelope. Something scrapes against the textured inside, and I tip the envelope, catching a long, thin brass chain. I bite the side of my tongue as I run my thumb along it.
“So?” Beck asks.
“So, what?”
“Time for me to take you back to Prince Dipthong?” His shoulders are stiff, his legs crossed as he leans against the wall. The causal tension of his stance breaks my heart, just a little, knowing he won’t say whatever it is he’s really thinking. He might never say.
“No.”
He presses his lips together and meets my eyes, as if accepting a dare.
“Did you see him?”
“You think he’d schlep all the way out here just to deliver a letter? Of course not.”
“And you’re not going to tell me how you got this letter to me?”
“That wouldn’t be very fun, now would it?”
“Liars and thieves?” I say, watching him.
“Of course.” A wry smile curls across his face, and his shoulders relax slightly. “You know what you’re going to do?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? The thing is, I don’t know. I thought I did, but then I got caught in a dark closet with a handsome pirate. I killed a man who has and will probably continue to haunt my dreams. I marked my body with ink to reclaim something wretched. I’m not the same person I was even three days ago, and I’m not sure who this person is, let alone what she wants.
But the man who taught me to fight back; who told me that what I want matters more than anything; who kissed me like if he didn’t, he would run out of oxygen; who stands in front of me with such indifference—that man can’t meet my eyes. That man won’t tell me anything true.
“Well?” he asks as the ship lurches.
“I don’t know.” The words come out before I can think too hard on them. He shrugs and lets himself out, leaving me alone as the ship starts to rock, obviously entering deeper waters.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve Declan’s compass. I open it and watch the arrow spin until it settles on north. Then I thread the chain Declan sent through it. He’s right, it’s not fancy, but it suits the compass perfectly. And it matches my bracelet. A bracelet I can’t bring myself to remove. I wonder if Zerah still wears hers, too? I clasp the chain behind my neck and let the compass hang against my clavicle, feeling the cool brass warm as it adjusts to my skin.
Change comes slow, in fits and bursts, droughts and landslides. It comes in the replacement of teenage girls in safe homes. It grows in sparring sessions tucked among the trees. It stagnates in classrooms overseen by old-fashioned bureaucrats. And it blossoms in pretty words on fine linen paper. But it is constant, guided by the stars, hidden or revealed, and even if I don’t know where I’m headed, I do have a guide.
I push off the bed and out into the galley, up to the lower deck. I stand in the shadows of a port I don’t recognize, taking in spicy smells of a land I’ve never scented. As the ship rocks into the waves, I inhale deeply, coating my lungs in salty air. I grip the railing with one hand, and with the other, I hold the compass against my chest. I watch as the world I know disappears into the spindrift. I don’t have to check the compass to know we’re heading north.
So long as I can find north, I know I’ll find my way.