Tempest
Author: Victoria Aveyard
Date: 2026-09-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Fantasy; Romance; Pirates; Historical Fiction; Adventure
Description: Tempest From #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Aveyard comes an epic adventure of love and betrayal, amid a brutal war for the high seas. May the sea always sing for you Cat Rose knows what it is to live in two worlds, in two times. Before—as Lady Catrine Rose of the Meridian Empire, chained to a loathsome lord with a dwindling fortune. And after—as the Widow Rose, queen of a pirate tavern in the Lyrian Sea, determined to be the master of her own fate. But tides turn and winds change. The Meridian Empire looms on the horizon, the full weight of her navy falling on the Lyrian, bent
Publisher: HarperCollins

Maps

Map illustrations by Francesca Baerald

Map illustrations by Francesca Baerald

Note to Readers

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Dedication

To J, my fixed point in the storm

Contents

Cover
Title Page
Maps
Note to Readers
Dedication

Contents
Chapter One: After
Chapter Two: Before
Chapter Three: After
Chapter Four: Before
Chapter Five: After
Chapter Six: Before
Chapter Seven: After
Chapter Eight: Before
Chapter Nine: After
Chapter Ten: Before
Chapter Eleven: After
Chapter Twelve: Before
Chapter Thirteen: After
Chapter Fourteen: Before
Chapter Fifteen: After
Chapter Sixteen: Before
Chapter Seventeen: After
Chapter Eighteen: Before
Chapter Nineteen: After
Chapter Twenty: Before
Chapter Twenty-One: After
Chapter Twenty-Two: Before
Chapter Twenty-Three: After
Chapter Twenty-Four: Before
Chapter Twenty-Five: After
Chapter Twenty-Six: Before
Chapter Twenty-Seven: After
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Before
Chapter Twenty-Nine: After
Chapter Thirty: Before
Chapter Thirty-One: After
Chapter Thirty-Two: Before
Chapter Thirty-Three: After
Epilogue: After
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
Also by Victoria Aveyard
Copyright
About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter One: After

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Chapter One After

SHIPS APPEARED ON the endless horizon.

It was hardly an unusual sight in the islands of the Lyrian Sea, where trade winds and swift currents brought countless vessels. Ships of war, ships of trade, ships of passage, ships with no direction at all.

Ships of every flag—and none.

Catrine Rose watched in silence from the shore, staring out at the Archenport harbor as it woke up. She looked past the small boats and grander ships, her eyes fixed on the stone arch rising out of the water beyond the docks. Wind and waves and time carved it thus, the white rocks worn smooth, older than living memory. Once the arch had held the black flag, but the Meridian navy burned it upon landing. Now the nooses hung in its stead, the bodies flag enough. Her gaze snagged on the last salt-eaten rope in the line, its loop undone, leaving no trace of the man it once held.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Cat whispered, so low the gentle waves swallowed up her words.

But the old farewell echoed in her head, achingly familiar. She supposed the sea was a better fate for a pirate, to finally slip beneath the surface and escape the blistering cycle of sun and rot. It was where their bones belonged.

Shadows flitted in the water beneath the bodies, dark shapes twisting in the waves. Cat knew better than to suspect ghosts, mermaids, or anything beyond the harsh, hard reality of the world.

A fin broke the surface, black and slick. The sharks circled lazily, waiting for more corpses to drop like over-ripened fruit.

You will not have to wait long, Cat thought, eyeing the five bodies still dangling from the arch. All limped through the languid stages of decay. They were unrecognizable, but Cat saw their faces anyway. They felt burned in her mind, scarring deeper than a brand.

Somehow the corpses seemed to stare back at her, glaring without eyes.

Cat lingered, letting the ghosts watch.

There were worse things in the world than corpses.

Slowly, she raised her gaze, looking past the many ships at anchor, over the curved harbor of Archenport, beyond the rocky peninsula and lighthouse marking the western end of Beacon Island. Cat shaded her eyes, squinting as if she could see past the horizon itself, through turquoise shallows fading to sapphire deep.

The Lyrian Sea had felt vast once, the unfathomable waters ringed by islands like jewels in a necklace. Now the sea grew small, the necklace drawn tight around her throat, threatening to hang her with all the rest.

Cat looked to the arch again.

The white stones held firm, older than everything else on the island. The curve used to sing when the wind was right, as if the Lyrian itself called out with a distant voice. But the arch did not sing anymore, no matter how hard the wind blew.

What a past it had seen. What a future it might still behold, Cat could not say. One thing alone was certain.

The horizon, once endless, had been conquered.

The sun reached her face, its touch hot and golden. At least some things never changed. While the bodies wasted and the ships flew different flags, the sun and wind and tide remained constant. For that, Cat was grateful. She liked predictable things, and little was predictable anymore.

With quick motions, she flicked her hand, lifting the gold pocket watch attached to her belt. The face was cracked but the mechanism ticked, black hands counting out the minutes as they slid by. The clock was off, more and more every day, if the bells of the church and the harbor guns were to be trusted. But it was not the time Cat cared about, not truly. She lingered on the painted image of a rose, intricate in miniature. And fading away, the red bloom washing to pale pink.

Cat felt the same, a flower faded by the long march of time.

She snapped the watch shut and spun on her heel, putting the corpses and the harbor to her back with sharp efficiency. She did not bother to say goodbye to the bodies. Those men and women were not her friends, not truly.

It was just business, she told herself as she left the water’s edge. Survival.

My head or theirs.

Above the harbor, the city of Archenport unfurled. White sand and the dockside gave way to cobblestone streets arranged in neat lines. The reclaimed capital was small compared to the grand cities of the Continent, but still the jewel of the Meridian colonies.

Fort Morden frowned over it all, perched at the top of the hill. Low and squat like its namesake, the first toadish lord sent to command the colonies, its limestone walls glowed above the verdant green palm trees. Cannons ran its length, the gun battery a crown of iron against the rising sun. The guns were silent now, but Cat remembered Morden’s wrath. Cannon fire like thunder. The smell of gunpowder and blood.

Archenport was nothing if not steeped in memory. Every step felt like walking through time itself, the days marked by old stone and new brick, worn iron and fresh wood. Year after year stacked on top of each other like matchsticks. And even more liable to burn.

Fifty years ago, there was no city at all on Beacon Island. Not even a stretch of tents on the sand or a boat in the shallows. Just a crescent beach, the swaying palms, and the stone arch alone to watch the dawn.

Or so the history books say, Cat thought, her lips twisting.

She had believed them once but knew better now. Certainly, the first Meridian explorers found more than empty sand; she imagined them burning villages and plundering temples, their ships leaving disease and death in their wake. It was the same across the rest of the Lyrian Sea, where the flags of foreign crowns sprang up across conquered shores. On every island, save one.

Whatever the first invaders found—whatever they removed—left no testament but the stone arch in the water and a whisper in the trees.

So the flag was planted. The Meridian Empire built the fort, the prim little church, and the lighthouse. Merchants, sailors, wayfarers, and all those seeking their fortunes built the rest.

Since then, the island city had stood through hurricane and siege. Treaties and war. Pirates and kings. And now, with the return of the navy, too many sailors to count, from gallant officers to ruddy enlisted to scrappy cabin boys.

Some slept on their ships at the new docks or anchored in the bay, the towering men-o’-war too big for the close shallows. A few in the barracks at the fort. But most were left to sailcloth tents on the beach, and all were constantly underfoot. Cat despaired of the shanty town of navy men, polishing their new buttons as they slept in the sand. The new lads sported the worst sunburns and sweat stains, fresh to life in the Lyrian Sea. Others were glass-eyed with the heat, or quarantined on the other side of the beach, already succumbing to island sickness. Some still wore dress uniforms, stubbornly sweating in their stiff wool coats. Cat knew they would soon learn to fear heat stroke more than wounded pride.

She scanned them as she passed, eyeing the few officers and men of rank. None looked promising, both useless and uninteresting. Poor customers at best. No money, no prospects, all simple and desperate to make their fortunes in the Lyrian Sea.

That is a tale I know all too well.

There were even more sailors in the city, alongside all manner of merchants and indentured servants and craftsmen going about their busy mornings. Like Cat, they had to adjust to the new balance in Archenport, trading pirates for the navy. A precarious transition, if not deadly, but gold was gold at the end of all things. So long as goods were bought and bills paid, life went on. So it was under the pirates, and so it would be again beneath the Empire.

Albeit with quite a few more gallows, she thought.

The new colonists were wide-eyed and sunburned as the sailors on the beach. Cat paid them little attention. Most would go screaming back to the Continent after their first storm season.

She scattered crumbs from a hard biscuit as she walked, and bright green parrots chirped in her wake, skittering along the cobblestones. The crows did not bother. They had more than their fill, gorging on the bodies adorning the streets.

The city was worse than the harbor, with less wind to carry away the smell, and more corpses left to rot. Dozens hung through the city, strung up like drying tobacco. Many were tarred and caged in gibbets to preserve the bodies as long as possible. It made for a ghoulish sight, impossible to ignore.

Cat named the dead as she walked. So many names, they ran together. So many faces, she could hardly distinguish one skull from another.

It didn’t matter; they always blended into one, the single face she could never forget. A man who did not hang with the rest. A man with eyes the color of a tempest and hands familiar as Cat’s own name.

And a snarl like a lightning bolt across a hurricane sky.

It was my head or theirs, she thought again, the words like a shield, like an explanation to the man who did not hang and would hardly care to hear her excuses anymore.

My head or theirs.

She passed noose after noose, body after body, face after face, each one a harsh reminder of the days she lived in now. And the days that would never come again.

It was always going to end this way.

The pirate republic had fallen, and none could escape the new governor’s justice or king’s law. The Meridian Empire had returned, its islands reclaimed.

A new age had begun.

And Cat could only weather it, as she had every other storm.

*

WHILE HER LITTLE house was on the edge of town, the tavern sat at the center, well located on Hargrove Square. Though most called it Crow Square now, thanks to the mass of black birds perched across rooftops, fence posts, and even the hats of sailors standing too still.

Cat took a well-practiced breath as she stepped onto Hargrove, trapping a gasp of air large enough to carry her across. Even so, the smell grew worse every day, and her eyes watered as she hurried.

As she did every morning, Cat told herself not to look.

And like every other morning, she raised her eyes. It felt like the least she could do, a punishment she deserved and would always endure.

Familiar as the sight had become, Cat could not help but gasp against her handkerchief, her stomach turning with revulsion.

The corpse watched her cross the square, staring without eyes: Harry Morovant, captain of the Seadragon, the last and only old lord of the Lyrian Sea. For such a man, Governor Osprin demanded a different ending, one befitting the conquered.

Cat remembered Captain Morovant’s final moments plainly. The edges of that day still bled in her mind, like a wound that would not close.

Osprin had kept him alive for months after his grand defeat. Long enough to watch his men be executed, his ships burned, his fellow captains hunted down and killed.

Long enough to see the ruin of the pirate republic and all he had tried to build.

The entire city came to the execution, to look upon the dying king of a dead kingdom. Cat saw the shock of fear in his coal-dark eyes, the flush beneath his sun-worn cheeks, the new streaks of gray in his once-black beard. Without his plumed hat and green velvet coat, he seemed small, unremarkable. And lost. Nothing like the great captain Cat once knew.

But his pride remained, still holding on. Morovant did not break when so many crews and captains were hanged, one neck after the next, day after day. He did not break when the governor’s men put him to the screws for information on the scattered pirate armada. He did not break when Meridian bluecoats marched him through the city at gunpoint. He did not break when they tied his arms and legs, lashing each limb to a horse.

But he had broken when the beasts pulled him apart.

If only that was the end of it, Cat thought, passing the corpse.

It was a cruel way to die, but an even crueler way to rot.

Governor Osprin had the pirate lord nailed to a post in the square, his limbs sewn back into place. Now Morovant seemed a child’s broken doll, hastily mended by a neglectful mother, and growing more gruesome by the day.

A thin boy with mad eyes sat by the body, forever perched on his little stool. He kept a knobbly stick in hand to chase off the birds.

That was Governor Osprin’s order too.

Morovant was not even worthy of the crows.

Cat certainly wished he was, if only to hasten the decay, and earn Morovant some release at last. She wished for the sharks in the harbor, for a cruel wave to rise up and claim Morovant’s body so he might rest in the sea he loved so much. He deserved that, at least. They all did.

She fought back the usual nausea, both from the smell and the guilt. One was far easier to bear. She hurried past, leaving her usual biscuit for the boy. He gave her a rueful look, the best thanks he could muster, before returning to his cursed work.

Cat felt the same. Cursed.

At the post, Morovant slumped. His jaw had detached and lay abandoned in his lap. It was an odd sight, a patchwork of empty gums—his gold and ivory teeth already stolen. Cat figured they were in the pocket of some navy officer, their wives, or one of the few prostitutes left on the island.

It was his head or mine, she thought once more, reaching her tavern.

But Cat hesitated on the step, forcing a glance over her shoulder.

Captain Morovant still glared from his post, the accusing kind of stare that only a corpse could muster. As always, she faced his accusation, unable to look away. She took the punishment she so rightly deserved.

Overhead, a wooden sign swayed, painted with the image of a blood-red rose.

*

THE SUN SET scarlet through the rippled glass windows, sending a spray of light across the dim interior of the tavern. It gave a red haze to the plank floor and paneled walls, making the pine glow from within. A clock ticked in the corner, the only thing to mark the passage of time besides the growing shadows. The Widow Rose lay silent, with only two patrons huddled in their usual place.

Mr. Pine and Mr. Dorian slumped at the long bar, the rest of the stools and tables empty. Both were sailors, though they had not set foot on a ship in years. Poor men, but good customers. They blinked stupidly back and forth, communicating with eyes alone.

Behind the bar, Ms. Moseley leaned against the cabinets. Like the men, the old barmaid looked half asleep, her eyes heavy-lidded, her gray hair frizzing in the humidity. The usual sheen of sweat gleamed on her brow, the same crown everyone wore on a tropical island. She dabbed at her forehead, the white handkerchief fluttering like a bird’s wing.

In the back corner, Cat startled at the movement, woken from her haze of heat and despair. The pocket watch lay open at her side, ticking kindly, the faded rose keeping her company. A single candle burned on the tabletop in front of her, casting barely enough light to drink by, let alone take stock of her accounts. She squinted to examine her open ledger, running a quill down a column of sharply decreasing numbers.

The inky truth was difficult to stomach. But the empty seats around the tavern were even worse.

Once there had been no empty seats at all, every chair filled, the floor rowdy with customers night and day, all the bedrooms occupied, and Cat’s ledger bursting with lines of credit. All manner of folk looking for rum or good company. Sailors, merchants, craftsmen, travelers. Knobbled old men and cabin boys. Fishwives taking their glasses of sherry. Eager new colonists with bright eyes and brighter sunburns. Smugglers, wreckers. And pirates, of course—though most people were pirates in their own way, on the sea or off it.

Cat and Ms. Moseley worked hard nights, barely able to sit, let alone think. Now thoughts were all Cat had, each one worse than the last, pounding across her mind like a mad horse tearing a man apart.

Gritting her teeth, she scratched out one last figure and set down her quill.

“I think we’re done for the evening,” she muttered, shutting her ledger with a thud to break the silence.

Moseley raised an eyebrow but did not argue. The barmaid knew better than to question her mistress, even if it meant shuttering a tavern before the sun was below the sea.

“Soon enough Morovant will be dust, and sailors will come stomping in again,” Moseley answered. It was easier to blame the corpse than the man who put him there, and the navy who chased her best customers away.

“From your lips to the gods’ ears,” Cat muttered, rolling her eyes as she stood.

Moseley gave a laugh, her long gray braid swaying as she retrieved the empty tankards from their lone patrons. Neither Dorian nor Pine seemed to notice.

“Let me put some distance between us,” the barmaid said. She tapped across her collarbone, making a holy sign to ward off bad luck. “Lest the gods strike through the nonbeliever.”

A smirk tugged at Cat’s lips. “Perhaps I’ve chosen to have a little faith these days.”

“Ha!” Moseley barked. “The only thing you have faith in is good coin.”

“Some might say gold is a god all its own,” Cat answered, smiling.

With quick strides, she approached the two old sailors. Neither moved.

“As always, thank you for your patronage, Mr. Pine, Mr. Dorian,” she said loudly, rousing them from their stupor.

They jumped in unison, both weak with age and alcoholism. At least Mr. Pine had enough sense to nod his thanks, leaving one last penny.

“May the sea always sing for you,” he rasped.

The sea does not sing anymore, Mr. Pine, she wanted to reply, but said nothing as they shuffled out.

When the door slammed, stirring the air, Cat slid the penny over the wooden bar.

“From my god to yours,” Cat said.

Moseley grinned and slipped the coin up her sleeve, exposing the prayer beads woven around her freckled arm.

Cat knew their symbols well enough but cared little for the Meridian Church anymore. There were no gods that she knew in the Lyrian Sea. At least not any greater than the hurricane wind, the blistering sun, or a punishing tide.

As for her prayer beads, those were lost long ago. Shattered or taken, she thought, remembering a turquoise stone and a callused hand in her pocket. That same stone on a chain of gold, looped around a long neck, bright blue against bronze skin and a black tattoo.

Cat winced at the sting of memory, turning to avoid the pain.

Behind the bar, a tarnished mirror reflected the few candles and the dying sun. And Cat herself, fading like the light.

The last months had grayed her complexion. Her skin, once pale, then bronzed by years in the Lyrian, had taken on a dull look. Her eyes were shadowed, the brilliant amber muted and heavy. Even her hair, chestnut gold that used to gleam like a new coin, had lost its shine.

It is only the light, she told herself before facing the room. “Moseley, let me help . . .” But her words trailed off. There was nothing to help with.

“Already finished,” the barmaid answered, forcing a false smile as she set the tankards away. “Like I said, things will change soon enough.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then you’ll change things yourself.” The old woman’s smile took on a sharper edge. “You always find a way to shift the wind.”

“Indeed,” Cat murmured, for much had shifted in her life, and more was shifting still.

Moseley came out from behind the bar. She was taller than Cat, broad in the shoulders, ox-strong despite her age. Cat felt small next to her, breakable, though many things had failed to break her.

“I suppose if you must, you will say goodbye to the Widow Rose,” Moseley said, herding her mistress to the door. “That was always your plan, my lady. Wasn’t it?”

Cat did not bother to lie. Her heartbeat thumped, giving her pause. She eyed the barmaid, reading the years on her as she read the city or the tavern. Remembering the day they met, on another island, in another life entirely.

My lady. The title felt like an old coat, too tight and long discarded.

“You haven’t called me that in years,” Cat finally said, her words careful.

Moseley dipped her head, a glint in her eye.

“You haven’t been a lady in years,” she replied, smirking.

A laugh rose in Cat’s throat, and for a second she forgot the empty tavern, the bodies outside, and the last six months entirely.

“On that, we can agree.”

Chapter Two Before

MUCH AS SHE hated it, Lady Catrine Rose found herself grateful to the perilous ocean.

The waves were terrifying but they kept her husband sick at all hours, too distracted with emptying his guts to bother with his young wife. Lord Rose had not touched her since their last night on the Continent, giving her several long weeks of peace. Despite all the discomforts of their voyage, she feared the day they reached the calmer tides of the Lyrian Sea.

Nineteen and naïve, Cat had not imagined marriage would be this way. But it was a crueler cage than the life she left, bound to a negligent husband instead of a negligent mother.

He was Lord Rose, master of the estate across the lake, with soft hands and a softer smile. So many girls to choose from, and he chose me, she thought, the memory bitter in her mouth. How she wished she could reach back in time to grab the young bride by the throat and drag her screaming from the altar.

But how could I have known?

A silk jacket mended instead of replaced. Dusty rooms in Rose Manor, shut up well before the season. Fewer servants with every day. Creditors on the lord’s doorstep. No family members at the wedding ceremony. And letters, so many letters, all of them dismissed with those soft, white hands.

Until Lord Ryman Rose could not dismiss them anymore. Until the carriages were brought, the cases packed, the estate sold mere weeks after Catrine became lady of the house. By then, the ink was dry on the marriage license, and the deed of sale. By then, she had traded her veil for shackles, and the rolling green hills of the Meridian countryside for the heaving blue waves of the ocean.

By grace of the Meridian gods, Lord Rose kept a separate cabin onboard, and she was spared the worst of his sea sickness, both above and below deck. Wife though she was, it was not her place to attend to an ill husband. They still had servants for such things, and each one earned their pay twice over helping Lord Rose retch into a bucket or over the side of the ship.

And when he is not retching, he is ranting, Cat knew, remembering his voice as it shook the walls of Rose Manor. She tried not to picture it, both her husband, red-faced as his namesake, nor the fine home in the Meridian countryside, its windows shuttered and its contents packed away. She barely knew the place—but still, it felt like a loss.

But there was no use in thinking about all the things that lay behind, more distant by the day. It was better to pass the time preparing for what was to come. Or so she told herself, picking up her book on the Lyrian Sea, holding it close in the dim light of her little cabin.

Her finger held the mottled page, marking her spot in the wall of black text. Even so, the words blurred. Esperese cities, Meridian colonies, traders of Itzima far to the south, farm islands ruled by planter kings. The continental powers seemed to have swallowed the Lyrian Sea whole—save for one island.

Arcayo.

The unfamiliar name stood out sharply, solid against the wavering sea of ink.

A sovereign nation, unbound to any continental power. The Arcayans do not worship the true Church, or gods of any kind, but the Lyrian Sea itself, under a belief called the Song—

The deck rolled beneath her, more gently than it had all day, and Cat snapped her book shut. Her heartbeat skittered. She knew what calmer seas meant, and for whom.

Quickly, she slid off her narrow bunk, planting her feet against the rhythm of the ship, and donned a heavy shawl on her way out. It was spring, but the wind was still cold across the ocean, the air chill and damp.

As expected, Lord Ryman Rose was already oozing his way down the stairs from the deck. He braced one hand against the wall, his red-rimmed eyes finding her in the low light. Without his powdered wigs and brocade coats, Lord Rose looked boyish, though he was twenty years her senior. His dirty blond hair lay stringy about his face, having come loose from its knot. He could not grow a beard, and no amount of powder could hide the sallow tone of his skin, yellowed by weeks of nausea.

Mr. Greer, one of their remaining servants, followed, a bucket in his hand.

“And where are you going?” Ryman demanded, his spittle flecking the air.

Cat pressed back against the wall, trying to make herself small in the narrow passage. She lowered her eyes and curtsied as best she could against the roll of the ship.

“My lord,” she said, her gentle voice well practiced. A thousand miles away, her governess would have been proud. “I meant to take some air on the deck. Will you not join me above?”

Ryman gave a shudder, disgusted at the prospect. But then his eyes flicked between his cabin door and her own, clearly weighing the options. Cat’s fists clenched, hidden in her skirts, prayer beads worming between her fingers. Silently, she hoped her husband would elect to sleep and not summon her to perform her wifely duties.

“My lord, the captain did say we would only have an hour or so of calm waters,” Mr. Greer offered. He shot Cat a meaningful look behind her husband’s back.

Ryman’s lip twisted, and Cat braced. Perhaps she had miscalculated, and his appetite for her body finally outweighed his need for sleep. Perhaps she should have feigned unconsciousness behind a locked door, though that would have done little if His Lordship was of a certain mind.

He took another stumbling step. Despite the long weeks since they had last stood on land, Lord Rose never seemed to develop sea legs.

“Quite right, I must rest and gather my strength,” he blustered, as if he were not fighting to stay upright.

Cat exhaled slowly in relief, shooting Greer a quick glance in gratitude.

“There is much to do when we reach Rosby Island. It is no small thing, building an empire!” Ryman barked out, fighting his cabin door open. “I take this great endeavor upon myself, for all of us. I will bear this burden.”

Cat wished for a fan to hide her face in. Instead, she bit her lip to keep from laughing. Her husband was emperor of little more than a few chests of clothing and an old title with no worth, heir to a defunct spice empire, king of an island no one else wanted. There was nothing he built that did not immediately burn down.

“We are grateful, my lord,” she forced out.

The festering lord gave her a deep nod—the patronizing kind that made Cat cringe—then dismissed her with a wave, his palm white and soft as snow.

“Be mindful,” he called after her. “These merchant sailors are barely better than pirates. They do not act in ways that befit a lady of your station.”

My station.

This time a laugh did escape Cat’s mouth. Luckily the slamming of his cabin door drowned her out.

My station, she thought again, climbing the stairs into the waning daylight. What station? Is there a name for how low I’ve fallen?

Not that I had very far to fall, she thought, considering the short years she had enjoyed between girlhood and the wifely cage. She had been one of six children, all daughters of a failing house, all looking for a path to survival.

She reached the main deck, and the tang of salt water and brine hit her nose.

Despite her husband’s misgivings, no one on the Credence bothered with Lady Rose, too focused on their work. Overhead, trade winds filled the sails, pushing the galleon across the Aviter Ocean. Even with the rough seas, the Credence was making good time. They were late enough to avoid winter storms from the north and would arrive too early for hurricane season in the Lyrian Sea. Or so Captain Meedy said. But Cat knew better now than to trust a man’s word.

She crossed to the rail, inhaling deeply to force the stale cabin air from her lungs.

The horizon seemed endless beneath the late afternoon sun, and Cat stared into it, as if she could see beyond the edge of the world.

There was nothing but cold blue in every direction, no hint of the islands they sailed towards. But Cat’s books were clear enough, every map detailing the same—the Lyrian Sea was ahead, a line of turquoise between the Aviter Ocean and the Southern Continent. The islands were a natural way station for all ships passing between north and south, where flags of the Meridian Empire, the Esperese, Itzima, and every other power collided in pursuit of trade or war or glory. In service of a crown or greed or both.

Cat knew which her husband sought, having found his ruin back home.

She lifted her face into the wind, her prayer beads clutched in her fist. They had miles to go still, but less every day. Alone by the rail, she prayed. But not for guidance or patience or luck. Now she asked for the wind to die, for the currents beneath the ship to lose their strength, for the sun to halt its descent.

For time itself to stand still.

But the wind blew, and the waves rolled.

No gods answered, silent as their many statues in their many churches. Cat tightened her grip on her prayer beads, wishing they would break. Wishing she could throw them into the water, and maybe herself too.

Instead, she watched the sun dip lower and lower, its golden face turning red as it slipped below the waves. Only when the last inch of light bled green, filtering through the blue sea, did she turn away.

Another day lost, another minute gone.

The Credence was a cage, but worse prisons waited.

*

SHE HEARD THE gulls before she opened her eyes.

Cat had not heard birds since they left the Meridian coast two months ago. Her heart clenched and a cold bolt of despair ran down her spine. Part of her wanted to slip into the gap between her bunk and the cabin wall, to disappear into the dark with the dust and rot.

Perhaps I can disguise myself as a particularly tall cabin boy, and His Lordship will forget I ever existed.

It was only a passing fancy, and a useless one besides. She had no desire to be a cabin boy, no matter the circumstances.

Instead, she forced herself up and into her last clean dress, the stiff ivory cotton patterned with amber flowers. Cat knew it matched her eyes, though she had not seen her own face in weeks. Probably for the best, she thought, feeling the grime on her skin and the knots in her hair. Despite her best efforts, the sea took its toll on Lady Rose.

And Lord Rose did too.

The Credence had reached the outer bounds of the Lyrian Sea some days ago, and rough ocean gave way to calmer waters. With it came her husband’s return to her cabin and all that entailed.

She kicked away his breeches, still crumpled on the floor from his nightly visit. For a second, she debated dumping them overboard, but that would only get the servants in trouble. Instead, she folded the clothing neatly over one arm and delivered them to Lord Rose’s empty cabin. He was up on deck with the rest of the ship, crew and passenger alike.

As Cat left his breeches on his narrow bunk, she thought about changing herself again, in more impossible ways. Not into a cabin boy, but a mermaid or a siren. A giant squid. A water horse. A spirit upon the waves, a storm with a human face. Something terrible and otherworldly, beyond the grasp of men. Something that could jump over the rail and be gone with the tide, to whatever corner of the world she desired.

And where might that be? Cat asked herself.

She had no answer, for there was nowhere else to go.

Sighing, Cat forced herself out of the cabin.

Dawn broke soft and pink over the Credence, gilding every weathered and weary face on deck. Cat slipped amongst the crew and passengers, edging past His Lordship and their household. The Roses were not the only Meridian colonists to make the crossing, though the rest slept in hammocks in the crew quarters. Her husband’s title and dwindling coin bought cabins, at least.

Cat kept her distance, finding a spot on the rail as far from Ryman as she could. She ended up at the forecastle, nearly level with the carved maiden that decorated the prow of the ship. A mermaid, Cat noted, envying the fluid lines of the maiden’s piscine tail. The lovely figure held aloft a real lantern, guiding their way forwards. Cat wanted to smash it and send them off course.

Islands took shape on the horizon, appearing out of the haze where sea met sky. Her grip on the rail tightened, nails digging into freshly swabbed wood. Even at a distance, she could see the jagged peaks forming the green spine of the islands, like a dragon rising out of the waves. Clouds clung to the heights, dark and heavy with rain.

Again, Cat thought of leaping from the ship and taking whatever form her spirit could, to go wherever the wind carried.

A voice yelled from the crow’s nest, bellowing over the crowd.

“Land ho!” the sailor called, pointing at the horizon. “There be Goldcoast!”

Goldcoast Island, one of the Meridian colonies. But not our destination.

A sailor nearby threw a weighted line overboard with a splash. Rope unspooled at great speed as the line plunged through the waves.

“Ten fathoms!” he shouted after a moment, singing out the depth.

It was the first time the line had touched seabed since they left the Meridian coast, and Cat’s heart sank like the weight. It would not be long now until they reached their destination.

And her future.

She glanced northeast to the jagged silhouette of another island, far larger and more mountainous. Prospera, she thought, trying to remember her books, and the maps within. Bound to the Kingdom of Esperin.

“We should not be so close to enemy waters.”

Cat looked over her shoulder to see her lady’s maid, Sara, glaring at the islands. She had a severe face made even worse by a tightly wound bun of black hair.

“Captain Meedy knows his business,” Cat muttered, hoping to ease her maid’s mind. “Not to worry.”

But privately, Cat worried too. Somehow the maps in her books made the Lyrian islands seem farther apart. In reality, Goldcoast and Prospera looked within striking distance of each other; all the more concerning given the state of war between their crowns.

“I will be grateful to be back on land again.” Sara shook her head. “Even in these godsforsaken islands.”

Before Cat could answer, a voice called across the deck. She shuddered at the sound of her husband.

“My lady wife, join us, won’t you?” Lord Rose said, gesturing for her.

Ever the dutiful spouse, Cat obeyed, leaving the prow to meet Lord Rose at the starboard rail. He stood with his hand on a bewildered sailor’s shoulder.

Cat curtsied to them both.

Lord Rose grinned, showing a mouth of mismatched teeth. “Mr. Bridger here tells me of our island and what a prosperous future we might enjoy here in the colonies.”

Mr. Bridger gave a perplexed look. “My lady, I simply said if ye work hard and put yer salt in the Lyrian, she’ll give it back tenfold.”

“Salt?” Lord Rose raised an eyebrow.

“He means sweat, my lord,” Cat offered politely, wondering how a man like her husband even put his shoes on. But she held her smile for the bewildered sailor. “We will certainly endeavor to prosper here, Mr. Bridger. I am eager to see Rosby Island for myself.”

Her husband puffed up his chest beneath his coat, his pink face proud.

“Rich farmland, a country estate to rival the great houses back on the Continent. The King himself gave Rosby to my lord uncle for his services in the Anticlean Wars, and with his death it passed to me.” He gave a little salute, and Cat hid a scoff in her sleeve. Her husband had never served a day in the navy, the army, or any group more organized than a hunting party. “It will be nothing to flourish here, nothing at all. I do not know why I did not pursue this years ago.”

Because you were not destitute years ago, Cat thought, holding her tongue. She dearly wished he had left for the colonies then, so he might have been gone from Meridia long before she came of age. Instead, I fell neatly into his trap.

It was painful enough to watch Ryman spew his nonsense and spend money with abandon. But to know how tied she was to his demise . . .

Ryman Rose was an anchor, dragging her forever down.

He continued his mutterings about farming and trade, two things Lord Rose had little understanding of. The sailor stood by, nodding dutifully, his face pulled into a polite grimace. Cat ventured he’d heard such things before from other starry-eyed lords with lofty ambitions and shallow pockets.

“Pity there’s no slaving. I could turn quite the profit with a few bought backs,” Ryman added.

Even Cat could not school her features against such unsavory words; she winced, recoiling. Mr. Bridger’s face went sour too, and he twisted out of the lord’s grasp. He even dared to wag a finger in the lord’s direction.

“Slavin’ is for the devil, sir,” he said sharply, cheeks red. “Certainly, a good Meridian man like you knows that.”

Ryman’s face flushed in reply, and Cat delighted to watch him squirm. The Meridian Empire had outlawed slavery nearly half a century ago, as had the Esperese. The trade of human flesh was expressly forbidden, frowned upon in most corners of polite society. Or at least, they pretended to frown at it; greedy men like Ryman lamented the wealth lost, no matter how many souls were saved.

“Of course, of course, I’m only saying—from a profit standpoint, nothing more,” the lord mumbled. “I shall have to look into indentureds instead.”

As if you could afford them, Cat thought to herself. Indentured servants still had to be paid and given a set term of employment.

Mr. Bridger only sneered and stalked off, leaving Ryman blushing in his wake.

“Quite sensitive for a sailor,” he grumbled. “And foolish. There’s money to be had here, and not enough labor to make it.”

Cat bit the inside of her cheek. “Slavery has been outlawed, by Church and Crown, my lord. He is merely faithful to both.”

At that, Ryman’s flush deepened, his cheeks the same scarlet as his namesake.

“And I’m not?” he growled, his voice dropping in a dangerous way.

“I did not mean—” Cat began, but was cut off by a shout from the topsails.

“Sail ho!” the spotter called, his tone harsh. He waved out at the sea, not towards the islands but away, past the Credence’s stern. Every face turned in the same direction, squinting out into the horizon.

Indeed, a sail appeared to the northwest, a white cloud quickly gaining in speed and size.

What it could be, Cat had no idea. But the crew moved as one, well trained in their business. To her surprise, half a dozen disappeared below. Her throat tightened.

The cannons are below.

Cat’s eyes snapped through the sailors around her, seeking a tricorne hat and round physique.

Lord Rose found him first, bustling across the deck.

“Captain Meedy, what is the meaning of this?” he said, reaching for the man’s arm.

But the captain brushed Lord Rose off as if he were a fly. Instead, he raised a spyglass, training the instrument on the approaching ship.

“What flag, sir?” the first mate called, his hands on the wheel at the helm.

Behind Cat, Sara whimpered, raising her hands to her face. “I knew it, we sailed too close to the Esperese island. It’ll be the green cross on their flag,” she said. “We’re done for.”

Dimly, Cat wondered what it would be like to be taken captive by Esperese sailors. Esperin was at war with the Meridian Empire, her gunships renowned for their brutal force—but Cat was a lady. Certainly, she could be ransomed back to her own family for a small amount of money, even if it meant leaving Lord Rose behind in chains. Or hanged.

She clutched her prayer beads and dared to hope.

“That is no ship of Esperin,” the spotter above them shouted, his spyglass raised. “I see the black flag.”

Meedy swore, and a current of fear shuddered down the deck.

“Pirates,” he barked.

“Pirates,” Cat echoed, her voice near a whisper.

All fantasies of imprisonment shattered. Instead, Cat saw herself drowned at the bottom of the sea, but not before being subject to a ship of brigands first. Her hands went numb, her body shaking.

Lord Rose sputtered in disbelief. “Surely they would not attack a ship of the Meridian Empire and face the navy’s wrath?”

“The navy is largely preoccupied with defending the waters of the Continent, my lord,” Meedy answered, scoffing. “The pirates of the Lyrian fear little, least of all your empire.”

“Oh,” Lord Rose said in a strangled voice, his yellow face going white. Then he bolted, shoving Cat aside to take shelter below.

She caught herself before colliding with the ship rail, unsurprised by her husband’s cowardice. Mr. Bridger was good enough to take her elbow, his ruddy face crinkled with concern.

“You should do the same, ma’am,” he said. “Barricade yourself below.”

While Sara wasted no time in disappearing, Cat hesitated at the rail. She glared past Mr. Bridger to Captain Meedy a few feet away. His crew darted across the deck and swarmed up the rigging, following orders Meedy did not have to give.

But instead of running out oars, they busied themselves with the sails and wheel.

Cat’s heart plummeted as she understood: they were turning into the wind, effectively bringing the ship to a standstill.

The Credence did not intend to flee.

“Captain?” she all but shouted. “Can we not make for shore?”

Meedy gave her a pitying look, as if she were a stupid cow in a pen. Cat wondered if it was not so far from the truth.

“That there’s Goldcoast,” he said, pointing at the smaller island.

Cat felt a flush of indignance. “I am aware, sir. Certainly, a colony of the Crown would give us shelter—”

“The Crown abandoned the colony six months ago, Lady Rose,” Meedy snapped, his patience fraying like rope. “She’s too close to Prospera and not worth defending. If we even make it to shore, we’ll find nothing but jungle or smuggler camps, and the pirates will hunt us into the mountains. If brigands onshore don’t do it first.” His finger moved, tracing the green peaks of the larger island. “If we sail to Prospera, I might as well sink this ship myself, lest I lose her to the Esperese.”

Her anger melted, red cheeks going white. “Oh, I see.”

The pirate ship grew closer on a prevailing wind, chasing them as a hound would a rabbit. Cat half expected a bugle to trill out over the waves, calling out the hunt. Then its cursed flag unfurled into view. It snapped in the air, a night-black field marked with a white skull, its mouth a grinning abyss with a red arrow in its teeth.

Cat stared at it, a chill tripping down her spine.

“Can we not run?” she offered, though she knew little of ships and their capabilities.

“We could try,” Meedy answered, shrugging. Behind him, a few of his crew smirked openly.

An odd feeling swept over Cat, somehow overwhelming her fear—curiosity. Without thought, she took measured steps across the deck. Towards the captain, not the stairs below to safety.

“You do not seem perturbed by the possibility of pirates attacking your ship,” Cat said sharply, almost nose to nose with him.

Meedy smiled crookedly beneath his beard. “It would hardly be the first time, my lady.”

Cat narrowed her eyes in disbelief. Even she could see the pirate ship was far bigger than their own vessel, with at least two gun decks.

“You’re going to shoot them off?” she asked, incredulous.

Before he could answer, the sailors returned from below carrying not pistols or shot, but cargo. Barrels, crates, bound chests, and leather bags. Familiar ones, some stamped with the crest of a blooming rose.

Meedy followed her gaze. “I’m going to buy them off, Lady Rose,” he said, before barking another order. “Strike our flags!”

High above them, atop the main mast, the flag of the Meridian lowered. The larger ensign, flying from the stern of the ship, disappeared too. Cat wanted to scream, watching the Lion of the Empire fold away.

It was a clear signal of surrender.

Taking her elbow, Meedy tried to direct Cat off the deck. “If you’ll kindly step below—”

She flinched off the captain’s guiding hand, surprising them both. But Cat was too infuriated to care for laws of etiquette, or her station, little as it mattered.

“Buy them off with our property?” she snapped, her voice a whipcrack. What little we have left, scraped together from attics and corners. Barely enough for a life, even here. “Lord Rose would not consent to this!”

“Is there something else you’d like to trade?” Meedy fired back at her.

Cat did not miss the way his stare lingered, roving over her bare collarbone. It was not meant to frighten her, but to make her understand. Grimly, she raised her chin, her silence enough.

Meedy gave a shallow nod and waved his hand, dismissing her as so many others had.

“Welcome to the Lyrian Sea, Lady Rose.”

Chapter Three After

THE AFTERNOON RAIN had long passed, leaving only a few puddles to dodge on her walk back down the hill. Cat did her best to avoid the carts rumbling through the streets, kicking up dirty water wherever they went. She arrived home quickly, having taken the direct route to the pink brick townhouse instead of looping along the beach. Just as well. It was too late for sunset, too late to run to the lighthouse and try to spot a flash of green on the horizon. The stars gleamed instead, brilliant between the palm trees.

Cat’s street was mercifully bare of gallows and crows. Only the neat townhouses with their brick walls and freshly painted shutters, their garden hedges bursting green. It was the loveliest street in all Archenport, home to merchants, a few officers, and newly returned government officials. But for the parrots amongst the palms, Keystone Street could be a fine corner of Brycam City, the sprawling capital of the Meridian Empire.

She did not bother to knock on her own door, climbing the stone steps to push her way inside. Her arrival caught Derry unawares, the young maid scurrying out of the kitchen and into the small but well-appointed entrance hall. Cat waved off her apologies. She was early home, and Derry had no way of predicting her once-predictable mistress anymore.

“Is something wrong at the Widow?” the maid asked, her watery blue eyes wide. Derry had the look of a porcelain doll, fragile and pale even after years in the Lyrian sunshine. “Have you taken ill?”

Cat gave her the most reassuring look she could muster. “All is well, just a slow night.”

The maid gave a trembling nod before her eyes darted to the dining room off the entrance hall.

Cat hardened, her body tense. One hand closed into a fist, and she thought of her pistol upstairs, or the rifle in the hall closet. But before she could open her mouth to speak, another voice cut her off entirely.

“A slow night?” a man drawled from the dining room. “Must be dire straits at the Widow Rose.”

Cat’s fist unclenched and she drew a fortifying breath, her eyes shutting in annoyance. Would it kill him to give me some warning, she thought, gathering her wits.

“How long has he been here?” Cat said, handing Derry her ledger and shawl. She did not bother to lower her voice.

In the next room, the man huffed a laugh.

Derry gave a small curtsy, an apology in her eyes. “He arrived only a few minutes before you, madam. By carriage.”

“Of course.” Cat rolled her eyes.

Indeed, there had been a rare carriage outside in the street, but she’d been too deep in her thoughts to notice exactly whose. Grimacing, she dismissed the maid with a curt nod. Derry turned tail, eager to be out of the line of fire.

Cat walked into it headfirst.

Warm candlelight filled the dining room, turning the floral wallpaper to gold. The mahogany table reflected the candles, the wood polished to a high shine. Catrine Rose had a taste for fine things—painted porcelain from the Rijkstad factories, gleaming Esperese silver cutlery, Anticlean lace to edge her curtains. Oil paintings, shell goblets. The ticking clock, rare in its gears and gleaming face. Her home was like stepping across a bridge, leaping from the wild edges of the Lyrian Sea to the gilded staterooms of Brycam City. Until one looked closer to notice the chip in an opalescent cup, a crack through crystal, a missing set of saucers, or a scratch across painted canvas. Damage that spoke of ship holds, not showrooms, finery bought with a saber instead of coin.

At first glance, all was in place in the dining room. Then her eyes fell on a tricorne hat alongside her silver tea set. And a Meridian officer seated at his leisure, his black leather boots propped up on the table.

Captain Jasper Fell remained unmoving as Cat entered the room. Only his lips curled, betraying a wicked smile.

Like the sailors all over the city, Fell wore the color of the fleet, his coat a deep, dark cobalt. The white shirt beneath was crisp, laced tight up his throat, a glowing contrast to the tan across his cheeks and his black hair tied neatly into a tail at the nape of his neck. Cat did not miss the way his new buttons gleamed, the telltale bright of real gold. Nor did she miss the ornate brocade that edged his coat, along with the badges and honors on his chest.

Fell let her scrutinize him, as always. He looked back at his teacup, focused on stirring in a spoonful of sugar.

Sugar with a side of tea, Cat thought, as she had a dozen times before. His appetite for social standing is dwarfed only by his appetite for sweets.

In the corner, the longcase clock ticked softly, the carved wood taller than a man’s height, its pendulum swinging evenly. Long seconds passed.

Her eyes dropped, but the table obscured the floor. If Fell had brought what he promised, what he owed, Cat could not tell.

“I wonder, Fell, how do you climb the steps of the fort if you refuse to walk anywhere anymore?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her body. “I fear your legs might atrophy if you keep this up.”

It was no use to lecture him again on the idiocy of a carriage in a city so small as Archenport. But she could still needle him about it all the same.

Fell’s wicked smile widened, and his silver eyes narrowed.

“It is a privilege afforded to all captains of the Meridian navy,” he said, finally satisfied with his tea. He raised the cup and winked in such a way that Cat wanted to slap it from his hand. “I am simply behaving like a man of my rank, to better carry out my duties for Crown and Empire.”

“For Crown and Empire,” Cat echoed, repeating the motto of the Meridian. She heard it every day amongst the sailors, shouted out from the arriving ships. “Do you say that when you wipe your ass every morning, or is it reserved for special occasions?”

Fell laughed into his cup, well accustomed to Cat’s sharp tongue.

“Special occasions, I’m afraid.”

“So I’m special, then?” Cat shook her head. “Go on, Fell. Hand it over and be done with it. We are far past the boundaries of our agreement, and there are limits to my patience.”

The teacup made a soft sound as Fell placed it back on the table. His eyes flashed to hers.

“You speak as if you have some leverage here, Lady Rose,” he said evenly.

His words were a small cut, but the stinging kind. Part of Cat knew they were only meant to rile her. The rest hated that he could.

She took one step forwards and leaned, lowering herself to his eye level. Upon closer inspection, she realized Fell had recently shaved. It made him look younger—the way he had ten years ago, when he was little more than a lieutenant with a new sunburn and a ruthless ambition. The latter, at least, had not changed. It made him predictable and easy to use.

“If you think I have no leverage where you are concerned,” Cat replied, “then you are welcome to go.”

Catrine Rose was no cutthroat, but she was not without her own dangers. Her own secrets, carefully kept but ready to be laid out like a deck of cards in a gambler’s hand.

Some color rose in Fell’s face, the only indication of his discomfort.

“I will not insult you further by repeating myself,” she said, her voice dropping. “The price was long agreed upon.”

In her mind, she saw it already. A chest of good Meridian coin, stamped with the crown on one side, the King’s silhouette on the other. Gold and silver, shimmering together like the scales of a beautiful fish. More than enough to finally go, to leave this infernal island behind, and start anew.

Again.

The prospect seemed enormous. She wanted it and feared it in the same measure.

There was nothing so exciting or terrifying as a new beginning.

A muscle ticked in Fell’s cheek.

“The price,” he echoed, a hollow sound.

An odd look crossed the captain’s face, the worst kind of look. The kind Cat could not read.

She searched him again, hunting for what lay beneath the surface of Jasper Fell. She understood him better than anyone outside his own crew, knew his scheming smirks and judgmental stares. Even his carefully guarded and rarely exposed heart. But this detachment, this emptiness, she could not decipher. Her pulse quickened, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. Cat felt her hands go cold on the tabletop and she recoiled, drawing straight again. Putting some distance between them.

What have you done, Jasper? she wanted to scream.

When Fell stood with her, Cat’s heart dropped to her stomach. A new saber hung at his side, decorated with gold filigree. And a flintlock pistol was holstered next to it. The gun was far more familiar, painfully so, its curves of silver and polished wood ornate and unmistakable.

For a second, she wondered if this was just another nightmare. She half expected Fell to fade in front of her eyes, to wake in her bed upstairs, all this just a passing terror.

Her fingers shook, but her voice did not.

“I see,” she said brusquely, taking another step back from the table. “I assume the final payment is on a ship, to make sure I disappear. Fine, that is my aim anyway. To leave this godsforsaken rock behind, and you with it.”

Hopeful words. Desperate words.

Silent, Fell matched her steps from across the room, prowling after her like a jaguar stalking its prey.

“Perhaps all this will sink into the Lyrian when I go, swallowed up by the wind and tide,” Cat continued, her mind already on the layout of her townhome.

The stairs were behind her, her keys in her pocket along with her knife. She would have to beat Fell to the front door, then hope the shadows provided cover enough to steal away into the harbor. Onto a ship, any ship. Off island, leaving Archenport behind as she should have done weeks ago.

She strained her ears, listening for Derry—or someone else.

“Perhaps I will return home to Meridia,” she forced out, trying to buy some time. “Back to the Empire after all these years.”

It was a terrible lie, one they both recognized.

Fell rounded the table, his boots thudding on the floor. The empty look deepened, his bright eyes gone to shadow.

“Cat.”

She fought the urge to slap him—or claw his face. Instead, Cat took another step backwards, a shaking hand raised. As if she could really stop Fell when it came to it. He was a captain, yes, proper and polished and pampered by the new governor. But she knew the sailor beneath the medals, the man under the ridiculous coat. She remembered too much of Jasper Fell not to fear him and what might become of her should their alliance collapse.

He will do everything he can to rise, even if others must fall.

Her body went cold, the taste of bile rising in her throat.

Including me.

“I did everything you asked,” she said, her words finally shaking, but not with fear. It was rage that ate her through. “I made you, Fell.”

Something creaked in the adjoining kitchen, a footstep or a shifting weight. It’s only Derry, Cat told herself, knowing it was another lie.

Fell tipped his head, one hand on the hilt of his saber.

“I like to think my skill had something to do with it,” he said, brandishing his half smile again. One by one, he tapped at his medals, the ribbons and metals in all colors. “You only pointed me in the right direction.”

Cat flicked her eyes over his honors and raised her chin.

Only pointed in the right direction.

Masts cracked in half, hulls blown apart by cannon fire. Countless men swallowed by the waves, the rest in chains. A black flag sinking to the bottom of the sea while the golden lion of the Meridian flew high. A new fleet on the horizon, sailing into a conquered port.

Only pointed in the right direction.

“How dare you,” Cat said, a familiar feeling washing over her. It was the sense of being overlooked, misjudged, underestimated, and undervalued. “A dozen ships are at the bottom of the ocean thanks to what I told you. Half the men hanging in this city—”

The captain cut her off with a sharp look.

“You know it’s a miracle they haven’t hung you yet? The crown laws are so clear and rigid, aren’t they?” Fell bit back, towering over her. “All who partake in piracy, on the sea or off it. I’m quite certain that includes provisioning their ships, offering quarter to their sailors—not to mention fraternization.”

He said the last word with a hateful smirk, though his throat flushed red over his collar.

In spite of her dread, Cat laughed, tossing her golden-brown curls. She did not miss the way Fell’s eyes followed the movement, tracing the whorls of her hair and the long line of her neck.

He was always predictable about this too.

“Jealousy does not become you, Fell.” She offered a challenging grin, baring her teeth. “Have you already arrested every shopkeeper and whore in the Lyrian? Or are you merely starting with me?”

To her relief, Fell laughed as she did, and some tightness unwound between them. But then the captain shook his head, his eyes lowered as he stared at the floor. Again, the shadow crossed his face, and Cat wanted to run.

He reached into his coat slowly, reluctantly even. On his hand, the single piece of jewelry he wore caught the candlelight. A signet ring of good silver, engraved with the emblem of a swan. Cat glared at it, hating the idiotic ring as she had for years.

Terror swallowed her disdain as Fell pulled a piece of parchment from his inner pocket, the governor’s seal clearly visible. The order trembled in his hand, betraying his own emotions buried beneath a captain’s coat.

“He signed it this morning,” he said in a low voice.

Her knees buckled, and the wall felt cold as she slumped against it. She glared at the parchment, at the familiar curves of ink blurring but undeniable. There was no one in Archenport, living or dead, who did not know what Governor Osprin’s orders contained.

Arrest or execution, what the paper said did not really matter. Either way it was a death sentence—in a cell or at the end of a rope.

Footsteps thumped in the next room, too heavy to be Derry. The world spun and Cat pressed harder against the wall, using it to anchor herself.

“We had a deal,” she hissed.

A muscle feathered in Fell’s cheek. “I thought you would have been smart enough to leave when you could. There’s quite a lot of money with your name on it in Itzima, isn’t there?”

Cat flinched, her mind flying across the Lyrian Sea to the Southern Continent, and a bank in a foreign city.

“But I should have known better,” Fell continued, rolling up the death sentence. “You like getting what you are owed, and there was enough still due to keep you anchored. You were always a greedy woman, Cat, even from the beginning.”

Cat wanted to seize her precious silver teapot and smash it over his head. Because he was right. It was greed alone that had kept her here long after she should have left, no matter how difficult it was to admit. Greed and pride.

And fear.

“It is not greed to know what this world is.” Cat flung the words at him. “Wealth is the only weapon I have left.”

“And how’s that weapon working for you now?” Fell replied, his lips twisting as the first bluecoat entered, a musket over his shoulder, a pair of shackles in one hand.

Three more trailed behind the first, all men of the fleet. Men of the Meridian, following orders of the governor.

For Crown and Empire.

Cat barely felt it when the irons slipped into place, locked around her wrists. She was too numb to notice the metal, worn smooth by a hundred other prisoners.

Fell watched as his men did their work.

“I will say I tried, Cat,” he said as they pulled her back into the hall.

She stumbled, almost colliding with her own staircase. An arm curled around her waist to keep her upright, the unfamiliar touch like a bolt of lightning. With a snarl, she shoved the soldier off, whirling to Fell in the doorway.

“Can’t even bother to arrest me yourself,” she snapped, stretching her bound hands towards him. “I suppose the captain’s carriage doesn’t haul prisoners.”

Fell didn’t flinch, even when she spit at his boots.

“No, it does not, Lady Rose,” he answered, signaling to his men.

Cat felt her feet leave the ground entirely.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a small voice called from the direction of the kitchen.

Held aloft between two soldiers of the crown, Cat craned her neck, trying to glimpse the maid one last time.

“Only one person here owes an apology, Derry,” she called. “Send for Ms. Moseley, she knows what must be done.”

The march of booted feet drowned out the maid’s response, her soft voice swallowed up as Fell’s men pulled Cat out the door and down the steps of the townhome. Indeed, the captain’s carriage was there, waiting for Fell. Behind it idled something brutish and ugly, barely more than a wooden box on wheels, hitched to a pair of stinking mules. It had not been there minutes ago, hidden until Fell could spring his trap.

Another bluecoat jumped to attention, throwing open the door to the fetid coffin. To her relief, the prisoner transport was empty. Dire as the circumstances were, Cat hoped to preserve a little dignity.

At least, what dignity she had left before she was strangled to death in front of a crowd.

As the bluecoats shoved her in, Cat glimpsed Fell one last time, the captain silhouetted against the flickering lamplight of her little street. Behind him, the townhome stared down, its windows like glowing eyes in a warm face. Cat wondered if she would ever see it again.

“I made you, Fell,” she said again. Her heart pounded in her chest.

The captain gave no answer, his face dark as he slammed the door shut.

Chapter Four Before

WHAT WILL YOU do about the pirates?

It was the first question anyone asked when they learned Lord and Lady Rose planned to make the crossing to the Lyrian Sea. In her quiet country town, Cat gave such things little thought. Pirates were the navy’s problem, not theirs. And there was no force in the world like the Meridian navy.

How foolish we were, Cat thought, her face pressed against the window in her cramped cabin.

She blinked out at the pirate ship, drawn up alongside the Credence, the sea sloshing between them. Barnacles striped the waterline of the opposite hull.

“That is a third-rate ship of the line,” Lord Rose muttered, his face centimeters from her own. His breath fogged the glass, and Cat wrinkled her nose. Indeed, she counted two gundecks on the pirate ship, one more than the Credence. And so many cannons, aimed and ready, staring across the narrow stretch with abyssal black eyes.

“Sixty guns at least, crew of two hundred men or more,” her husband continued to marvel. “How the hell did they commandeer a ship of the line?”

At the opposite wall, Sara gave another whimper, sandwiched next to Mr. Greer. Cat almost whimpered too. She knew little of ships, but the thought of so many guns was terrifying enough. Foolish as her husband was, she believed his assessment. Now instead of lamenting their possessions carried up on deck, she only prayed they were enough to slake a pirate’s appetite.

When the cabin door shuddered, she knew such prayers fell on deaf ears.

Sara screamed and attempted to burrow under the bunk, with Lord Rose not far behind her. Mr. Greer was smart enough to barricade the door with his body, bracing his arms against it. The cramped space left Cat with nowhere to go, the window against her back, blocking out most of the daylight. She held her breath, expecting to hear a volley of gunfire or clashing sabers.

Instead, the cabin door flew open, and the manservant fell backwards, sending up a violent cloud of dust. Beneath the bed, Lord Rose whimpered like a kicked dog.

Only Cat remained standing, her body to the wall, her face to the open door and the passage beyond. Dust motes swirled and the scarce beams of light traced her silhouette on the floor.

Another shadow lingered, framed in the doorway.

His green-blue eyes caught the light, flaring through the dimness. They seemed a storm, a tempest, the warring color of wind and sea. For a moment, the eyes pinned her in place and Cat felt frozen, bound, even her heart refusing to beat.

The eyes did not move, but another pirate shoved around him into the cabin, burly and sun battered, a barnacle in a dirty shirt. He hauled Mr. Greer out, then Sara, pulling her from under the bed like a rotten tooth from a reluctant gum. Lord Rose went next, sputtering every protestation he knew, though his body fell limp, his fists resolutely at his sides. His yellow face was a shocking shade of white.

The gnarled pirate reached for Cat last.

She expected to go limp, to turn in on herself. It was her usual way, to shrink and become small in the face of horrible things. Cat barely felt the prayer beads in her hand, round pieces of polished marble and precious stones wound against her knuckles. But she felt them as they split her skin, her fist hitting flesh, catching the invading pirate’s face. He went sprawling, howling as he struck the cabin wall.

Pain lashed up her arm as the shattered beads rolled along the cabin floor.

She dropped, clutching her wounded hand, blood welling up between her knuckles, scarlet red against freckled white.

The offending pirate moaned on the ground.

Above him, beyond the door, the tempest eyes widened.

Cat froze, unable to do anything but stare, the pain in her hand disappearing in an instant. The light of the window illuminated him fully, and the tempest became a man. Her eyes widened, trying to commit him to what would be a short-lived memory.

If I am going to die here in this filthy cabin, I might as well know who did it.

The storm-painted eyes looked out from a carved face, nose and cheekbones sharp enough to be hewn from stone. But he was certainly not cold like a sculpture would be, worked in unfeeling alabaster or smooth marble. His warmth filled the cabin, all but radiating from the door. His skin was bronzed and freckled, the testament of a lifelong sailor. All of him, from his burnished face to his scar-striped knuckles, looked rough and coarse, a raw jewel in need of a good polish.

Stubble bloomed across his cheeks, a shade darker than the golden hair curling to his shoulder. The ends of his hair were near white, bleached by sun and salt water. He had to bend to enter, too tall and broad-shouldered for the cramped space below deck. At first glance, he could have passed for one of Meedy’s crew, clad in boots, leather breeches, and a simple shirt open to the sternum. But the similarities ended there. He wore two belts crisscrossing his hips, a brace of knives on one, a long flintlock pistol fixed to the other. The gun caught her eye, near long as her forearm, the wood stock oiled to a red shine, inlaid with sculpted curves of silver and brass. It would have looked more at home on a lord’s hip, so fine was its make. Cat trembled, venturing it was stripped from a dead or dying officer.

His hand balanced on the grip of the pistol, his fingers a mess of scars from rope burn or gunpowder flash. His forearms were the same, striped with old injuries and sun damage, with a single gold chain wrapped thrice around his corded wrist.

Another scar ran below his collarbone, white against exposed skin before disappearing into the curly, golden hair across the planes of his chest. This scar was more deliberate, given with purpose: mangling the script of a no-longer-legible tattoo. But the ink next to it was unbroken, black lines, three of them, woven into a braided circle. Cat did not know the symbol, but it felt familiar, like a dream forgotten.

She dragged her eyes up from his chest, back to the tempest eyes. Every bit of him looked burned and remade, a true son of the Lyrian Sea.

The man stared right back, studying Cat in the same transfixed way. His eyebrow curved, his gaze roving. She flinched as it rose to her face, meeting her own wide-eyed stare.

Neither spoke, the near silence stretching, broken only by the distant thumps and shouts of a ship steadily being overrun. And the low grunts of the other pirate currently writhing on the floor, clutching at his nose as blood gushed between his fingers.

Suddenly Cat flushed, remembering herself and her predicament, with no options left but one: to wait, still as a terrified lamb.

The pirate in the doorway opened his mouth, and she winced, expecting him to shout. Or shoot her. But he only glared at his crewmate still on the ground.

“Can you manage?” the taller man drawled, a curl of amusement on his lips.

The injured pirate spat red in reply, staining the sheets of her narrow bunk.

“Oy, she’s a tiger, this one,” he mumbled through his fingers, before extending a hand upwards.

The other pirate took it with a grin and hauled his mate to his feet. While the injured one wobbled out the door, Cat scuttled back, trying to press herself into nothing. Something sharp bit beneath her palms and she hissed in pain, looking down on the shattered remnants of her prayer beads. Without thinking, she curled a fist, saving one cracked stone.

When the pirate whirled back around, she braced for a blow.

“Can you walk?” he said.

Cat blinked. His voice was coarse as his appearance, the timbre deep enough to make her shudder again. But the question was oddly benign.

His amused look twisted into a sneer.

“Can. You. Walk?” he barked, slower this time, as if she might not speak Meridian at all.

In spite of the circumstances, Cat glanced at her bleeding hand, then back to the pirate standing over her. He looked at her as Lord Rose had, as Meedy had, in the patronizing way that assumed weakness, if not outright stupidity.

It burned worse than her knuckles.

“I do not walk on my hands,” she said as primly as she could. And forced herself to stand on shaking limbs.

To her shock, the golden-haired pirate drew back from the doorway and gestured with an open palm. His other hand remained in place, curved to his pistol in grim reminder.

“Then walk,” he said, the sneer shifting like light on water, curling back into a wicked smile.

Whatever fire Cat had felt moments ago guttered and died, leaving her cold with fear. She did as commanded, slipping out of the cabin into the narrow space.

He stayed too close for liking, using his bulk to herd her forwards as if she were only livestock. Cat quickened her steps, trying to keep ahead of him, but the man only matched her pace, his chest mere inches from her shoulder blades, his boots near to catching on her heels. Cat swallowed the indignity of it as best she could, though her face still burned.

His hand brushed her shoulder. It sent a coil of heat down her arm, enough to make Cat falter, almost tripping on her skirts. Then the hand moved again, catching her at the elbow, fingers tight around the curve of her upper arm. A storm exploded beneath her skin, little shocks of lightning spiderwebbing from his warm palm.

She flinched, spinning around in his grasp, only for the pirate to unfurl his wicked smile again.

“I thought you said you could walk,” he said.

Cat opened her mouth to reply, wavering between another ill-advised snap and the shrinking apologies of a good Meridian lady. Neither won out, her senses too overwhelmed by the man in front of her. Another pearl flash of teeth curled, his blue-green eyes catching the rare bend of light belowdecks. He threw off heat like a lit fire, and she could not help but wonder how such a man could bear the boiling temperatures of the Lyrian Sea. Worse still, he smelled of tobacco and gunpowder, and salt water, of course. Cat expected the nauseating scent of blood from a fight, but his scarred hands were clean, whatever wounds he carried far older than today.

If there was blood to be spilled, it had not spilled yet.

She settled for twisting away from his hand and scurrying ahead, intent on getting to the main deck as quickly as possible.

Other pirates roved through the ship, passing amongst the hammocks of the crew quarters. Cat did not stop, clambering up on deck for a gasp of fresh air before she choked on the pirate.

But he dogged her heels, dutiful in his efforts to herd her out with the rest of the Credence. Captain Meedy, his crew, and the passengers stood assembled to one side of the main deck, with their cargo strewn down the center.

Pirate rabble picked through the crates and cases, sorting what valuables they could find. All were armed with knives, pistols, swords, or all three. Unlike the Meridian navy, they wore no uniforms, but there was no mistaking which men were pirates and which were simple sailors. The former had the look of honed blades, their edges raw and sharp. They smiled more than sailors too, jeering amongst each other, joking even as they pillaged. If not for her own terror, Cat might have thought them a happy sort, like jovial dockworkers or merchants in the market. As if raiding a ship were simply another day of work.

It probably is, Cat thought, her mouth dry.

The pirate escorting her seemed sharpest of all, his eyes even more startling in broad daylight. Cat fought the urge to study him in the sun. She felt his hand once more. He was not gentle this time, shoving her forwards. The lightning of his touch bled again, crackling a line across her collarbone, so sharp and insistent Cat wondered if it might leave a scar.

Then cold, clammy hands closed around her, holding her steady, and the lightning disappeared, a slate wiped clean.

Lord Rose looked down on her, his pale face white with fear, his grip limp as a deboned fish. Cat broke his hold with an easy twist, whirling to face her pirate.

But the nameless man was already moving through his crew, the smile gone from his tanned face. She didn’t miss the way the other pirates gave way to him, a school of fish parting to let a shark pass. He took his place at the right hand of a shorter but just as intimidating man with a violent black beard, a plumed hat, and a fine, green coat. Cat guessed it to be velvet, judging by the shine. It looked shockingly out of place among the dirty, sweating crew.

“Captain Morovant,” Meedy said, inclining his head to the man in the green coat. They shared a familiar, almost teasing, look.

“Captain Meedy.” Morovant removed his hat with a hand, showing off a lacy cuff and a fine bracelet of raw emeralds. After so long at sea, Cat could barely comprehend the spring-green jewels. Then he grinned, a tooth gleaming silver to match the rings in his ears. “I expected to find you off Great Edrin.”

A central island of the Lyrian, between the Furies and the Stills, Cat thought reflexively. It was easier to consider a map of the sea than their looming fate.

Captain Meedy pulled a face and scratched his patchy beard. “I aimed to avoid your hunting grounds.”

“And how did that work for you?” Morovant answered, smirking.

“As well as can be expected.” Meedy sighed like a man defeated. “Well, take your fill.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” the pirate captain replied, bending at the waist to give a mocking bow.

Indeed, the pirates continued their pillaging. Cat could not help but flinch when one of her own trunks burst open. Her clothes spewed out, everything from traveling garments to her few remaining gowns. One pirate grinned, burying his face in pink silk. Another held out a length of white Anticlean lace, and Cat gasped, her face going hot.

At her side, Lord Rose stared resolutely at the deck, their servants huddled next to him at the rail. Cat glared at him sidelong, willing her husband to stop these men from pawing through her underclothes. Do something, she thought, her fury bubbling beneath her skin.

“Ryman,” she could not help but mutter, her voice hissing through gritted teeth.

“Silence,” he shot back, refusing to meet her eye.

A gunfire laugh cracked across the deck.

To Cat’s dismay, it was the pirate captain who crowed, her thin undergarments dangling from his hand. Morovant gave another spin of his jeweled wrist and shook the white lace like a flag.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, and a chortle went through his crew. “I suppose fashions have changed on the Continent.”

With a few quick strides, Captain Morovant stood nose to nose with the sniveling Lord Rose. Across the deck, the pirates howled their amusement. All but the one with tempest eyes. His focus was on the cargo, inspecting a crate of books.

Chuckling, Morovant draped the undergarments across her husband’s shoulders like a frilly cape.

“It is not often we meet a noble lord of the Meridian Empire, is it, mates?” Morovant said, throwing an arm around Ryman in an all-too-familiar manner. He took a step, forcing His Lordship to stumble along with him.

Then Morovant’s smile dropped, his grip tightening.

“Search him,” he clipped, shoving Lord Rose to the deck.

Ryman immediately turned out his pockets, shuddering under the white lace. It was a pitiful sight, and the pirates took to him half-heartedly, patting him all over. Even they could not stand the sight of the whimpering lord, pathetic as he was.

Cat watched it all with an impassive face, one hand in her skirts. She palmed the broken prayer bead, pouring what little faith she had into the last stone, asking for what no god would give.

Kill him. Let them kill him.

Then a pirate grabbed for Sara, taking the servant roughly by the arm, and her prayers fell away.

“She is a maid. She carries nothing,” Cat said, firmly planting herself between them without a second thought.

Only to find the burly pirate from her cabin leering back at her with angry eyes and a bruising nose. Whatever burst of bravery she felt sputtered, a candle in rain.

“And what do you carry, Tiger?” he hissed, a sweaty hand reaching for her neck.

Cat shuddered, bracing herself for a blow.

“Easy, Horace. You only have one nose,” said a low voice, a tall figure stepping between pirate and lady. It was enough to make the former recoil instantly, hands raised as he stepped away.

Navy or not, the pirates obeyed orders as well as any man of the fleet. Cat could not help but be impressed, if not utterly shocked.

“Aye, Kane,” Horace replied, returning to the material spoils without so much as a backwards glance.

Kane.

Cat glanced up to study the pirate standing over her, an amused look on his face, the storm still in his gaze. In the sunlight, his eyes looked lighter, closer to the color of the waves around the ship. And just as unfathomable, hiding untold depths.

“Your father seems to have wet himself,” he said, angling his chin at Lord Rose now drawn up in ball. Indeed, there was a telltale dark stain at the front of his breeches.

Cat frowned, her voice dull.

“He is not my father.”

At that, Kane’s face darkened, and he shook his head. A ring of gold flashed in one ear, matching the chain around his wrist.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “My apologies indeed.”

Cat blushed as she eyed her husband, his shirt now hanging open to show a pale, soft belly. His was the only male body she had ever known. It cut a sickly contrast against the hardened pirates, especially Kane, who was still standing too close for comfort. Cat could not help but drift between the two, her eyes tracing the white swell of her husband’s gut just to dart back to the tanned and muscled forearms of the pirate. And the swath of bare chest on full display between the folds of his half-buttoned shirt.

Her jaw tightened and she looked back at Ryman, forcing herself to watch his misery.

He still groveled, silver pocket watch dangled from another pirate’s hand, the gleaming face cracked in the scuffle. It swung like a pendulum, in time with the gentle waves buffeting the ship.

She could feel Kane’s eyes as she stared, the storm of him trained on her face. It was not hard to guess what he thought. She assumed the rest of the deck felt similarly, sympathetic to the useless wife of an even more useless man.

Her teeth clenched.

“I do not want the pity of a pirate,” she bit out.

Her boldness seemed to both shock and delight him. He blinked once, the corner of his mouth rising.

“The only one I pity is Horace, who now has to explain how a fine Meridian lady battered his face,” he shot back, eyeing her sidelong. Before Cat could feel some sort of pride, his gaze turned harsh. “I don’t pity the likes of you.”

Heat flooded down her face and neck, until even the tops of her breasts felt warm. Cat fought the urge to scream, or worse, cry. Even so, hot tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. She glared across the deck of the ship, towards the islands in the distance. A long stretch of sea separated the Credence from Goldcoast, the waves whitecapping in the rising wind.

It did not look so far.

“I would not recommend that course of action.”

Kane’s voice ground out, so close to her ear Cat felt the vibrations of it. She flinched away as if burned, squaring to face him.

“What course of action?”

“Jumping overboard. Swimming to shore.” He matched her stance, forearms crossing over his broad chest and open shirt. “You’re still miles from Goldcoast, and you don’t look like you have much practice. Not to mention the sharks.”

“If given the choice between jumping myself or being thrown,” she murmured, “I choose to jump.”

He bared a line of teeth, and Cat realized that one of his incisors was not bone, but polished gold, sharpened to a glinting point, flashing as it caught the sun.

If sharks could smile, Cat thought, they would smile like Kane.

“No one’s throwing you off a ship,” he said, his gaze lingering. “I suppose you’re Lady Rose.”

Cat’s eyes went wide. Her name on his lips made something in her tremble, though she could not place it.

“How do you know my name?”

He shrugged, running his eyes over the deck. His men looked to be satisfied, having pawed through every bit of cargo the Credence held. They piled rum, a gilded mirror, stores of gunpowder, and most of the Rose valuables together, including Cat’s pink silk.

“I expected more of you, Lord Rose,” Morovant said, patting the impotent lord on the shoulder.

“How do you know our names?” Cat demanded again, fighting the urge to grab Kane’s arm. Certainly, his skin would feel like old iron, worn hard and callused by years on the sea.

“The Lyrian Sea is smaller thank you think,” Kane finally answered. “People talk, and some talk has value.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation, but even Cat could follow the threads he wove. Ryman sent correspondence to the governor ahead of our arrival. Either it was waylaid, or there are spies in the Meridian colonies.

“You’ve been waiting for us?” she said, her head spinning.

His shark smile gleamed. “Call it a warm welcome.”

“Then I’d hate to see a cold one,” Cat said, her voice taking on a hard edge.

She crossed her arms, bitterly content to watch the pirates plunder the rest of the ship. Strangely, their manservant stepped forwards, breaking away from the group at the rail. Cat raised an eyebrow, confused. Mr. Greer was good help, always eager to please—or so she thought.

When he approached Morovant, Cat felt herself move, only for Kane’s hand to close on her arm, holding her back. Again, he held her above her elbow, palm perfectly curved to the small swell of muscle beneath her sleeve. Cat went rigid under his touch, even as the little bolts returned, prickling until she feared her arm might go numb.

She was no stranger to the touch of a man, at least not the touch of Ryman Rose. Her skin would crawl under his hands, every inch of her screaming until he relented. But this was different.

Kane was different.

And why, she had no idea. All she knew was his touch was not so disagreeable, and when he removed his hand, she felt its absence, like the cold ashes of fire burned out.

“Not who I expected,” the pirate muttered under his breath, stepping back.

“For what?”

Cat was swiftly cut off by Morovant’s laughter, jovial and kind. The dangerous captain he had been a moment ago seemed to have disappeared, his eyes twinkling as he clapped Mr. Greer on the shoulder.

“Wanting to choose the black, my lad?” Morovant said, his smile wide and white.

A little gasp left Cat’s lips, but her servant never bothered to look back. He was already done with Lord and Lady Rose.

“I do,” he said, his voice filled with yearning.

On the ground, Ryman shot the servant a pitiful look, but even he knew to hold his tongue. Like Cat, he could only watch as Mr. Greer gladly joined a pirate crew, leaving them all without so much as a word of goodbye.

In her heart, Cat could not blame him. And Mr. Greer was not the only person to do so.

Her stomach twisted at the strange display, a half dozen men pledging fealty to the black flag—truly no flag at all. She tore her gaze away to survey the pirate ship once more. Two gun decks, endless cannons. Formidable as any vessel in the Meridian navy. This is not what I expected, she thought, the world shifting and reforming before her very eyes.

Hand over hand, the wealth of the Credence passed from one ship to the other. Meedy watched the exchange with a hard eye, while Morovant still smiled, a hand resting plainly on the sword at his side.

“Your captain did the sensible thing. To run is to die. To pay is to live,” Kane offered bluntly. He cast a meaningful glance down the deck, not at the spoils of their raid, but at the crew and passengers.

Alive and unharmed, Cat thought with sudden realization. She looked through the crew, reading the shame on their faces. But there was relief too.

“Keep that in mind, Lady Rose,” Kane rumbled, meeting her gaze once more. Despite the bright sun overhead, his eyes darkened, black as the belly of a thunderhead.

“I will,” she replied evenly, some thunder of her own crackling.

Across the deck, Morovant gave one last bow, the dark green velvet of his coat rippling. Kane nodded, seeing the signal for what it was, and made to turn.

“My name is Catrine.”

He froze mid-step, looking back to her in naked confusion. It smoothed the sun-worn lines on his face, erasing years on the sea. With a jolt, Cat realized he was closer to her age, no more than twenty-five, still clinging to the last pieces of youth, buried as they were.

She felt just as shocked as he looked, her mouth still open. Her formal name, her true name, tasted wrong, unsuited to the new world unfolding around her.

“Cat, I mean,” she added hastily, almost curtsying out of reflex. As if that would make things any less strange.

A lady introducing herself to a pirate. Has the sun gone to your head entirely?

“Valerian.”

His whisper was low and rough as the hand snaking past her wrist into her pocket. Before Cat could yell or scream, his fingers retreated, his grin returning as he held up his hand. A single prayer bead, cracked down the middle, gleamed turquoise between his first and second finger, the precious stone spotted with drying flecks of blood.

Her own.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Valerian said, his voice near a growl. But he lingered, his gaze like a challenge.

Cat met it, holding on to the tempest eyes, another storm brewing in their depths. It seemed to pull, a spiral with ragged edges, but the center between them stood deathly still.

And then he was gone, away to his own ship without so much as another glance.

May the sea always sing for you.

Cat watched as the pirate ship caught the tide. She heard none of Sara’s weeping, or her husband’s furious rants that began only once the pirates were beyond earshot. All was quiet, the only sound the beating of Cat’s heart.

She watched the horizon until Morovant’s green coat faded and the black flag disappeared. Overhead, the white sails of the Credence billowed, filled with a fresh wind. Cat felt the same, the storm between them pushing her into a new horizon.

Valerian Kane.

Chapter Five After

CAT DID NOT need a window to guess where the cart was headed. She knew Archenport well enough after nearly a decade. The wheels creaked and shuddered over familiar streets, climbing steadily up the hill. Fort Morden loomed at the top, an ugly, exposed bone thrust up through the crown of the city. And beneath the glowing limestone walls was a place she had never seen before, not in all her years of life in the Lyrian Sea.

The jail cells, dark and endless.

Torchlight glowed through the gaps in the wood, and Cat shivered as she passed through the jaws of Morden’s gates. But when the cart stopped, she arranged herself as best she could, smoothing her skirts and setting her face. The ride had given her time to collect herself, to calm her harried mind and think. She was not imprisoned yet. There was opportunity enough, space to maneuver and weasel her way to freedom. She needed only one moment of weakness from Fell.

But when the cart door swung open, Captain Fell was nowhere to be seen.

Cat looked out to find herself in the middle of the fortress, with nothing but white walls, black cannons, and stone-faced soldiers to greet her.

Coward, she cursed, wishing all manner of terrible things on Captain Fell.

A sunburned bluecoat held the door expectantly, waiting for her. He looked barely old enough to shave, let alone hold a gun. When he offered her a hand, as if Cat were a lady disembarking her carriage on the way to a ball, she quelled the urge to break his wrist. It was not a maneuver she had used recently, but she remembered well enough.

Worse still, she remembered the man who had taught it to her.

The thought made her blood run hot, and her steps faltered as she alighted from the coach. The escort made to help her, but she speared him with a dark look, and he leapt back to let her pass unaided.

A shackled woman was not so unique a sight, not after the Meridian reclamation. Men and women alike had been hung for committing or aiding piracy. No one bothered to jeer her, the soldiers too preoccupied with their patrols or, more likely, their daily ration of rum.

Cat did not know the fort well, having mostly avoided it no matter who held control of the island. Now she cursed herself for never learning in anticipation of darker days, and stumbled along after her new jailers, her eyes raised for one last glimpse of the sky.

No, not the last, she realized. You can say goodbye when they walk you to the gallows.

She tried in vain to track the winding path from entrance to jail cell, but she was quickly swallowed by the stone abyss, the air turning damp, the torchlight oddly green and waxy. The corridor closed in, the ceiling low, a long line of cells appearing behind yet another locked door. The jailer waved them through, and Cat found herself wishing for Fell, if only to have some distraction from the endless steps that carried her towards doom.

She eyed the soldiers from beneath her lashes, taking their measure. The men escorting her were young, hard-eyed, eager to prove themselves. Their allegiance was to the Empire, to the Meridian above all. To another world an ocean away.

They knew nothing of Archenport or what the Lyrian Sea once was.

Her throat went tight, feeling the noose.

“Finally came for you, did they, Cat?” someone called from the long line of cells.

Cat chewed the inside of her cheek. “Simply here to keep you company, Mr. Dalton,” she answered, eyeing the ruddy old man as they passed.

“Been a long time since I could afford company such as yours.” He grinned with rotten teeth, waving a hand in return. Once Dalton had run a printshop, and his fingers were permanently stained black from the ink.

“Any word from my Tam?” the old man added, the glint of hope in his eye brighter even than the torches.

“None,” Cat replied honestly, offering the smallest smile.

Mr. Dalton mirrored it. His son, barely nineteen, had managed to get off the island before the Meridian landing.

“Good,” he muttered, settling back against the wall.

“Quiet, traitor,” one of the soldiers barked, kicking dust at the bars of Dalton’s cell.

Traitor. Cat almost snorted at the thought. Ned Dalton was no such thing, his only crime survival, his only fault printing a pamphlet with scraps of news whenever he could get it. Just like the rest of us, only trying to keep our heads above the waves, lest we drown.

He laughed back at the guard, a deep, guttural bark that hinted at a lung affliction. For his sake, Cat hoped that were true. Mr. Dalton was sentenced to imprisonment over execution, his crime of aiding piracy less severe than treason.

Illness would be a mercy, Cat thought, more for herself than the old man.

His rattling laughter chased after them, the echoes dying as her escort marched her into the adjoining chamber. It was at least empty, and the air was not so stale, but there were no windows and the ceiling pressed down in a way that made Cat’s skin crawl. When a jailer opened a cell door and waved her in, Cat felt like livestock being herded into a slaughter pen.

“Your women’s quarters leave much to be desired,” she said, watching as the cell door locked.

On the other side of the iron bars, the jailer grinned a gummy smile. The bluecoats remained rigid, as if made of steel and not flesh beneath their uniforms.

“Is this what you pictured when you joined up, boys?” Cat eyed each soldier in turn.

The one who had offered his hand stared back at her, his pale blue eyes round. Cat did not miss the way they ticked over her body. Not with lust, but pity. She ventured the ink was still drying on his enlistment papers.

Softhearted, Cat noted. And inexperienced with women.

“Locking up tavern maids and old men?” She raised her chin and crossed her arms over her dress. The weak torchlight gleamed over the patterned black silk, picking out the image of onyx vines and raven blooms. “I suppose that’s all you’re good for now, what with the war over. My condolences, sirs.”

The bluecoat frowned unhappily. Beneath his tricorne hat, Cat noted a shock of red hair braided into a neat tail. He lowered his gaze, a flush spreading beneath his sunburn, darkening an already scarlet face.

Cat shifted closer and lowered her eyes, looking at him through long lashes.

“What’s your name, sailor?” she murmured.

In reply, the jailer jangled his keys in her face, destroying any hope she had of finding an ally.

“You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid,” the jailer barked before ushering the bluecoats away. Even the blushing soldier followed, choosing duty over a woman’s charm.

An old woman, Cat cursed, eyeing her hands, freckled to match her face. Hardly a prize to tempt a young soldier. Or anyone else.

She flinched as the door at the end of the hall slammed, leaving her with nothing but echoes and the drip of water somewhere. Thankfully the torches still burned on the wall.

At least I will not rot in darkness, she thought, eyeing the boundaries of her cell. The floor was packed earth, the walls carved stone with the ceiling arcing overhead. There was a bench the length of the cell, big enough for three people to sleep on from end to end. Cat made sure to give the bucket in the corner a wide berth as she settled on the bench. Her fingers ran over grooves in the wood, tracing a few etched lines. Their meaning was clear.

Days counted.

Cat fought a wave of nausea and slid away. Most of the bodies still hanging in the streets were men. But a few women hung among them, pirates and otherwise. Cat knew their names too. She eyed the carving again, imagining who counted out her final hours down here in the cells.

For a moment, her head spun and she almost went to the loathsome bucket. Instead her fingers curled in her lap and a chill settled over her. It was an odd feeling in the Lyrian Sea, where even the months that should have been winter burned.

Captain Fell’s voice echoed in her head, his words haunting.

All who partake in piracy, on the sea or off it.

It was a hazy definition, casting as wide a net as Governor Osprin liked. In the first days, civilians and sailors alike went to the gallows, especially the poorest who could not pay for favors or secret passage off the island. Cat had not feared for herself. She had Captain Fell’s protection. She had given enough to save herself from the governor’s wrath. Or so she thought.

Cat traced the carved lines again. They burned as if cut into her own skin, and she leaned into the pain, chasing the punishment she deserved.

*

SHE WOKE TO a dry mouth and a sore back, her face pressed against something rough. Her curls spilled over one side of her face, tangled from a night of tossing and turning. For a moment, she wondered if she had fallen out of bed and onto the pine floor of her bedchamber. Then her eyes opened and the world sharpened. Instead of her room with its fresh-cut flowers and heavy curtains, she faced a jail cell.

And a bemused navy captain.

Cat sat up too quickly, her bones cracking. But anger burned away her aches, leaving only fury behind.

“I suppose you simply had to arrest me in the night and steal one last comfort from me before I hang,” she snapped.

Captain Fell eyed her through the bars.

He looked the same as he had in her dining room, his uniform pressed and perfect, his hat under one arm. In spite of herself, Cat took some comfort in his presence.

“I couldn’t risk you learning of the Lord Governor’s order and fleeing the city,” he said.

It sounded like an apology, somehow.

Cat curled her lip. “Of course. I suppose I was foolish to think you would uphold your end of the bargain and square the debt between us.”

A flush crossed Fell’s face, his voice dropping to a hiss.

“We settled that score long ago, Cat.”

“Not even close,” she shot back, jumping up to approach the bars.

Fell didn’t move. “You’ve been named a traitor—”

“I don’t recall swearing allegiance to anyone, least of all some boy king on a throne three thousand miles away,” Cat snapped, gesturing vaguely to the northwest. Or what she thought was northwest. It was impossible to tell underground.

He was undeterred, his tone clipped and severe. “A traitor to Crown and Empire. A danger to the Meridian colonies of the Lyrian Sea. An accomplice to piracy. Guilty of—”

“Survival?” Cat scoffed and turned, her skirts swirling around her feet. “Of staying alive in these godsforsaken waters while the Meridian Empire fled back across the ocean? I survived here with no one and nothing but my own wits.”

Beyond the bars, Fell chuckled low in his throat.

“No one and nothing,” he repeated, throwing the words back in her face. “Part of me wishes you could have a trial so I might see this performance fully played out. Catrine Rose, a destitute widow by the age of twenty, left behind in the Lyrian Sea with nothing more than a few coins and a crumbling estate. What kind of Meridian lady could continue on amongst pirates and whores?”

He leaned in, inches away from the bars and her face.

“No lady at all.” He smirked, glancing not at her neck or exposed collarbone, but to her left arm. At a spot above her elbow, well hidden by her sleeve.

Instinctively Cat shrunk away, as if Fell might see right through her dress to the marked flesh beneath. Her skin flamed, the tattoo itching even now.

“Oh, Cat, don’t turn modest on me. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said, winking.

It was enough to make her see red.

“And what of your performance?” she snarled back at him. “Does it exhaust you, acting with every breath you take?”

She jabbed between the bars, shoving the captain’s chest. He gave no quarter and his medals bit into the flesh of her palm.

“Jasper Fell, the storied captain, a pirate hunter, another pet of the governor.” Cat spat out the words like poison. “Laughing at bad jokes with worse company, holding on to his new commission with grasping fingers. Hoping it might earn him something a little more permanent, a little more real. A plot of land in Meridia, maybe even a title, something to pass on. Something he never had at all.”

Every sentence landed as she intended it to, cutting deep despite Fell’s best efforts to mask such weakness. His gaze dropped, his jaw clenched.

She twisted the knife with ease.

“An orphan of no name, press-ganged into the Meridian navy, shipped across the ocean as little more than cannon fodder.” She paused, pretending to think. “But I cannot recall—your father was in debtor’s prison, yes? And your mother, she ran off as soon as you could walk?”

A violent flush burned across Fell’s face. His hand twitched, his thumb worrying at the silver swan.

“That is more than enough, Widow Rose,” he said softly.

Cat raised her chin, looking down her nose at him. As if she were still a lady, and Captain Fell bound to obey.

“Wearing that ridiculous ring,” she said, her gaze dropping to his smallest finger. The silver signet gleamed even in the low light. “Stamped with the crest of no one and nothing.”

“Enough!”

His fist hit the bar closest to her head, the ring clanging on the iron. Cat held her ground, enjoying the victory, small as it was.

“My apologies, I am not myself this morning,” she said in a demure voice, as if she were apologizing for a spilled glass of wine. “I wonder why that is.”

His breath came ragged, his gray eyes boring into her own. Fell was not known for his temper, but it existed when provoked. Cat knew better than anyone where to push him. And when to retreat.

“You did not gloat over the others,” she muttered, looking back to the bench and the days clawed into the wood. “You could barely watch the other hangings. But you come to gloat over me?”

“I am not here to gloat,” Fell replied. He raised his fist, examining his swiftly bruising knuckles with a scowl.

Cat arched an eyebrow. “Then this is a very strange goodbye.”

“You are guilty of many crimes over many years,” he said, his voice tight and annoyed. “There’s no denying them all.”

Fell touched the inside of his coat where the execution order must have been. Cat wanted to rip it out of his pocket and tear it apart.

“Which is precisely why we made our deal,” she said, pressing her face to the bars. “You promised me a clean slate and a new start. You owe me that at least, Jasper.”

He glared back at her, only the bars between them.

“I owe you nothing.”

Since earning his commission, Fell smelled like expensive sandalwood oil. Yet another trapping of a man raised high. Even so, it was a welcome reprieve to the smell of the prison and the infernal bucket. Cat inhaled, catching the scent of sweat beneath the perfume. The man beneath the captain.

“You owe me your life, and I don’t mean your rank or your ship,” she said. “I mean the breath in your body. Or have you forgotten?”

“Have you forgotten?” Fell answered, taking her off guard. Then he touched the pistol at his hip, the only thing about his appearance that had not changed in nearly ten years.

His meaning was clear. For a second, the ground beneath Cat’s feet rolled like the deck of a ship, and not the floor of a cell. Her fingers curled, remembering the weight of the same pistol in her own hand, the kick of the recoil, the smell of gunpowder.

And blood, so much blood.

“What’s done is done. We’re square, Cat.” Fell’s voice sharpened, snapping her from the memories. “But there is another bargain to be made.”

Another bargain.

Cat swallowed against a ragged burst of hope. She searched Fell’s face, looking for the lie, for any hint of falsehood. Fell was many things, but not a sadist. He had no reason to dangle freedom in front of a woman set to die.

Or so she used to think.

“For some reason,” she muttered, pointedly examining the cell. “I don’t trust you.”

He did not blink, eyes on her face as one hand slipped into his coat, retrieving the parchment again, crisply folded.

Fell carefully unfurled the heavy paper, peeling it open to display an ornate signature and a familiar seal. The Meridian lion, stamped in golden wax. He held the page out between two fingers, his mouth twitching into his usual crooked smile.

With a jolt, Cat realized this was not the same document as before.

“What is this?” she breathed, her gaze trailing from the governor’s signature to the words above it. Impossible words, scrawled in lazy handwriting, not so formal as she expected an execution order to be.

Because it isn’t one, she realized, reading what she could.

I hereby order a stay of execution for Lady Catrine Rose of Archenport, in exchange for services rendered to Crown and Empire. At the discretion of His Lordship, Jon Osprin, Governor of the Meridian Colonies in the Lyrian Sea.

Cat swiped for the order, but Fell was faster, his hand darting just out of reach.

“So eager, Cat,” he said, tsking her. “Unbecoming of a lady.”

She bared her teeth.

“I’ll act more ladylike outside this jail cell,” Cat replied, her chest tight with anticipation. “What does the governor want from me?”

Fell’s crooked smile spread, some gleam coming back into his eyes. With a flourish, he tucked the stay of execution away.

“Three ships of the Meridian fleet left Eastermount three weeks ago, bound for Great Edrin. Hardly a long or difficult journey.” He crossed his arms behind his back, standing as if he addressed his crew and not a woman imprisoned. “They ran headfirst into a storm off Favor Island and never reached port.”

Cat could picture the path, tracing the western route along the island chain known as the Furies, named for their volcanic mountains and cruel winds.

“Hurricane season comes early, it seems.” Cat shrugged. She understood trade ports and shipping lanes, not wind patterns and sea currents. But even she knew the seasons in the Lyrian Sea, and they were still weeks from the violent months known only as storm. “If the governor wants to control the weather, he should try an Arcayan song priest. What does he want with me?”

Fell gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Two sailors washed up on Favor not long after. They had bullets in their heads,” he said, pointing to the space between his eyes. “I’ve seen many strange things in the Lyrian Sea, but I’ve never seen a storm shoot someone.”

The Furies were dangerous ground, physically and politically. Cat bit her lip, weighing the possibilities.

“Perhaps Esperin—”

“The Empire made peace with the Kingdom of Esperin, and there have been no conflicts with Anticles or Itzima. The Rijkstad keeps well away from these waters.” Fell waved off the idea. “No crown will risk another war, and certainly not here.”

“Not over people like us,” Cat muttered, and the captain nodded.

Meridian or not, they were castoffs in the colonies, far from the Empire, small in their backwater lives. Against the great peoples of the world, they meant nothing at all.

“You have done a great service to Crown and Empire, helping save the King’s colonies from the plague of piracy.” Fell turned to stride along the bars, forcing Cat to follow. “But the task is not finished.”

“It is finished enough,” she scoffed. “The last of the pirates are in hiding, dead, or fleeing. The navy will have no issue mopping them up. The reclamation is complete and the pirate republic is in ashes. Harry Morovant is nailed to a post in Hargrove Square, the rest of his captains strung up throughout the city.” She gestured to her own bars and the many cells, filled and filled again. “Is this not victory?”

Fell tipped his head, his eyes shining.

“Not every captain.”

His words echoed too heavily, surrounding Cat like another set of bars. She felt like a struck bell, and blood rushed in her ears, her pulse the harried beat of a desperate drum. The room spun and she halted mid-step, letting Fell carry on a few paces without her. Her face relaxed into a cold mask, but her hand fell against the bars of her cell, holding on to keep steady. As if she could stand against the impossible wave of memory, ferocious and crashing over her head.

The face she saw everywhere loomed again. Not at the gallows or rotting in a noose but alive and smiling at the helm of a warship, the black flag billowing behind his head.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she finally said, doing all she could to bury the pain welling up in her throat.

Fell clicked his tongue. “You absolutely do.”

I have not seen him since that day, Cat wanted to reply, but no words came.

She refused to think his name, lest it leave her lips. But he still loomed, the familiar silhouette like a shadow over her. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair more golden than any coin. Suddenly Cat smelled seawater and gunpowder, heard music and laughter, the harsh thud of boots on a ship’s deck. The feel of callused hands on her body, tobacco smoke weaving with quiet words for no one else to hear. He made her skin itch, until Cat wanted to tear off her dress and all things beneath, to scrub herself clean of what she once craved. But even that would be no good, Cat knew. No amount of soap or acid or flame could burn away what he left, deeper than skin, muscle, or bone.

He was braided in her, and there was no undoing the knot.

My head or theirs, Cat thought, wincing at the true meaning.

His head or theirs.

The lock on her cell door clanged open.

Fell waited, a hand outstretched, his palm extended to her, freedom in his grasp.

Cat wondered if this was what the others felt, up on the gallows, rope around their necks, the wood beneath their feet pulled away. In the split second before gravity took hold, and all the world broke apart.

Slowly, she extended her hand and almost stumbled when he pulled her close.

Fell’s lips brushed her ear, his whisper louder than a scream.

“Valerian Kane is alive. And you’re going to find him for me.”

Chapter Six Before

THE CHURCH PREACHED of hell, a place of eternal damnation, of torture, a red place filled with burning flames. By now, Cat knew those preachings were false. Hell was not red. It was verdant green and tropical blue.

But it certainly still burned.

The air shimmered with heat, though dawn had only just broken over Rosby. Storm season waned but would linger for a month still. Such were the seasons here—not winter, spring, summer, and fall, but storm and sun, with seam season between. Cat eyed the horizon as she stalked away from the main house, heading for the barn. But there was no telltale line of black thunderheads against the blue. Furious as they were, the storms were the only reprieve from the sweltering heat and humidity, the air so thick she felt as if she were swimming.

The sun cupped her face, still relentless, but no longer a shock. Gone was the pale skin of a fine Meridian lady, replaced by freckles and a bronze flush across the high points of her face.

Rosby was a small island, smaller than a country estate back home in Meridia. She could cross the greatest length of it in less than an hour at a steady walk. Despite the climbing temperature she began to run, bypassing palm trees and beautiful, if unwieldy, flowers. They had no gardener, though Lord Rose assured her he would hire one at first opportunity. Cat doubted it, as she doubted every word out of her husband’s mouth. He had not even replaced Mr. Greer, who chose piracy over this life.

After six months on the island, Cat could hardly blame their former servant for his decision.

The dirt under her feet shifted, revealing the sand beneath the topsoil. Lord Rose would never be able to plant here, no matter how much money he threw at the prospect. Not sugar, not cotton, not tobacco, not even roses for his namesake. Cat gritted her teeth, listing the dead ends as she reached the ramshackle stable and their single horse. Sweat dripped down her neck, her legs trying to outstrip her mind, as if she might simply run fast enough to escape the wretched island and the life around her.

The graying horse was faster still, and yet, never fast enough.

Only on Sparrow’s back did Cat’s mind fall silent, with the wind in her face and salt in her teeth.

Six months since we came, she thought.

I am twenty years old today.

Her vision blurred, the sea and sky washing together until she did not know where one began and the other ended. Until the shade of them swirled into a haunting color.

The color of a tempest and sharp, unyielding eyes.

As she had on the Credence, she thought of jumping into the sea to swim or drown. To disappear into a storm and be swept away.

She hated the pirate for stopping her.

Valerian Kane, she thought, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She cursed him as she cursed her husband, as she cursed Rosby, as she cursed every moment since she had agreed to marry.

I don’t pity the likes of you, the pirate had said on the ship, glaring down on her with those tempest eyes.

Cat’s grip tightened until the reins began to cut off the circulation in her fingers, numbness a more welcome sensation than shame. Only when Sparrow’s flank went slick with sweat, her jaw foaming, did Cat reluctantly slow the horse, her own forehead hot, her hands striped by the bite of the leather.

It did not feel like a birthday, but still she wished. For her sisters, silly and sheltered as they were. Or even her mother.

But then Cat was already long separated from that life, and them. If anything, she had been separated from them before she set sail for the Lyrian. The distance began long before, in a crumbling country house, in the shadows, growing up in the ruin of lives unlived. With her books and her cards and her infinite sisters all scrounging for smaller pieces of the world. And her mother, shut up in her study, one hand on letters from the bank, the other curled around a glass of wine.

How like her I am now, though I did everything to put as much distance between us as there could be in this world.

Sparrow slowed to a walk, turning her head to blink one eye at Cat slowly. As if the horse could feel her pain.

Grow wings, she thought, imploring the mare beneath her. Grow wings and take us both away. Run us across the sea and carry us home.

The foolish wish of a more foolish woman.

I have no home to return to, not truly, Cat thought, returning Sparrow to the stable and setting her tack aside. There is nothing for me in Meridia, or any corner of the Empire. Ryman sold almost everything and brought the rest to this island. My own family would never take me in, and certainly not as a runaway wife.

I would be no better there than I am here.

She retreated to the veranda with a sour expression, eager to sponge herself off and spend the hotter parts of the day reading in whatever cool corner she could find. She was careful not to lean on the chipped white railing lest it crumble beneath her weight. Such was the way of it on Rosby Island. Most things were breaking or broken, from the doorknobs in her bedchamber to the cracked wineglasses, the half-flooded cellar, the rusty hinges, the rotted wood, the overgrown garden, the stained bed linens, the flea-bitten cats, the endless stinging flies, the food that was more salt than meat, Ryman despondent or raging—

“Husband,” Cat clipped, coming face to face with the devil himself. Already she resigned herself to thoughts of the bedchamber, and a scalding bath to follow. At least he was quick about it. Many women were not so lucky.

Even on their birthdays.

“Wife,” Ryman replied, his tone dry as her own. She did not expect him to acknowledge what day it was, if he even knew it.

Somehow, the months on the island lay worse on him than the months at sea. Lord Rose was no longer a sick shade of yellow, but cherry red, his sunburned skin curiously never fading into a tan. He did not bother with a wig in the heat, his dusty blond hair looking grayer with every passing morning. Even his clothes, the once-fine white shirts and buckled shoes, were stained with sweat and salt. Ryman seemed to be rotting from the inside out.

His appearance matches his heart, Cat thought with detachment.

And yet, he was not so unkempt as usual. Despite his general stink and sweating face, his collar was laced up his throat instead of open, his greasy hair brushed back into a little tail. He even wore a neat vest, breeches, and boots.

“Are you going somewhere?” Cat asked, not bothering to mask her eagerness.

Ryman’s thin lips twitched. “Lady Rose, attend to yourself. You should not greet our guests in such a state.”

Then he shifted, indicating to the rest of the veranda.

Shock prickled down Cat’s spine, the sweat drying on her skin.

Over his shoulder, at the corner of the veranda, two figures came into focus, both in uniform, their coats a familiar cobalt blue.

Officers of the Meridian navy.

They sat around a low table, a tray of drinks in front of them, with Sara standing nearby to attend to any requests. She glared at the ground, her severe black bun somehow even tighter today.

“Guests,” Cat echoed, forcing herself to speak in a flat tone. It was better to seem unsurprised or at least bored by the prospect of guests, rather than terribly unprepared. “Of course. Welcome to Rosby, gentlemen.”

She dropped into a quick curtsy, feeling every bit of grime on her skin. Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck, the rest frizzing from a messy braid.

“If I could beg your pardon for a moment,” she added, straightening back up. “I am just returned from my morning ride—”

But one of the navy officers took a step forwards, his hands clasped behind his back.

Cat clenched her teeth, surveying him as she did everything else. Looking for the cracks, the rot, the decay. Strangely, she found none.

He was fair skinned for a sailor, his black hair combed neatly back from his face. Long, dark lashes rimmed his eyes, making the silver of them striking. If the heat bothered him, Cat could not tell. He seemed quite comfortable, at ease even. She guessed him twenty-five at most, only a year or two beyond the Royal Naval College. And his uniform was impeccable, the blue of his coat freshly dyed, without any dust or errant thread. He wore the simple insignia of a lower ranked officer, just a plain white band at the cuffs of his sleeves and lapels of his coat. Cat did not know all the varying degrees of rank within the navy but could tell he was the most junior, his compatriot’s coat edged in gold alongside the white.

“Yours is a fine horse, my lady,” the young officer said, throwing her a lopsided smile.

For a moment, Cat thought herself back in Meridia, in a country hall or a vast ballroom, watching navy officers circle a dance floor in search of wide-eyed prey. Once it thrilled her. Now she saw the charm—and the lie—for what it was.

“You are kind to say so,” Cat replied, looking back to the stables across the lawn. “If incorrect.”

The officer blinked, his smile freezing on his face. Next to him, Ryman took on a bewildered look.

Cat raised her chin. “My horse is a left-behind, like everything else on this island.”

Like me.

Next to her, Ryman turned even redder and made a noise like a rooster readying himself to crow.

“Attend to yourself,” he sputtered, waving her towards the interior of the house. Over his shoulder, the raven-haired officer continued to stare, his eyes taking an odd glint.

Cat returned the look with disdain before stepping into the dark front hall. She loosed a breath through her teeth, exhaling her frustrations as her eyes adjusted to the shadows of the house.

“How about a bath, my lady?” Ms. Moseley said as she joined Cat in the hall.

The older maid was green-eyed and brassy-haired, though streaks had given over to gray. She had the look of a farmhand, not a lady’s maid, and the manner of one too. She came with the island, so to speak, having tended to Rosby before Ryman ever inherited. Blunt and practical, Moseley was a little too honest for her own good. Cat loved her at first sight. She was not like Sara, or the servants Cat knew back in the Empire. All silent as mice, trailing after their mistresses with downcast eyes.

“A bath sounds wonderful,” Cat said, feeling the sweat on her skin. “I probably smell of horse.”

“At least you don’t look like one,” Moseley replied with a grin, her teeth a flash against the dark house. All the windows were shuttered to keep out the daily heat and hold on to some cool shade. She gestured for Cat to move, shooing her down the central hall, past the creaking staircase.

“Come now, let the old left-behind work.”

Cat hesitated, worrying her lip in her teeth. “I didn’t mean you, Moseley.”

“Of course you did, and who am I to argue?” Moseley answered and clicked her tongue. She shuffled Cat along as if she were a sheep on a country lane. “I was left behind by the old master, same as Sparrow and anything else not nailed down.”

“Well, I don’t know what this place would be without you.”

“A ruin, probably.” The maid shrugged as they reached the kitchen at the back of the house.

Dust clung to the floors, the estate far too big for only the few servants to manage. Though Moseley certainly tried, ordering the others about like soldiers in a regiment.

They crossed the kitchen together, the ceiling lower here, the floor made of solid brick instead of planked wood. Coals glowed in the hearth and Cat caught the smell of bread baking. The door to the root cellar was open, and dried herbs dangled in the gloom. A half-plucked chicken sat on the stout table, as well as a pile of sad greens from the garden nearby, ready to be washed and cooked.

Part of Cat wanted to help, knowing Moseley and Sara would have their hands full preparing dinner for Ryman and his guests. The rest of her knew she would only be in the way, her skills in the kitchen more a hindrance than an aid.

“I suppose if I left the island, your husband would have to sell,” Moseley added, the pair of them stepping into the adjoining chamber.

What was once a storeroom for the kitchen had been converted to a room for washing. A tub sat in the corner, the tarnished metal gleaming in the low light.

“Do run off, then, won’t you?” Cat mumbled. She retrieved the small basket by the window that held a corner of soap and a tattered sponge.

At the door to the kitchen garden, Moseley grinned. “I’ll pack two bags, my lady.”

*

A BOOK DANGLED from her hand, the pages sliding in and out of focus. Cat could have stayed in the water for hours, suspended, floating, pretending the bath was her own ship on the sea, carrying her off to wherever she wished to go.

Even if she couldn’t think of a place to wish for.

She knew she would start sweating again as soon as she stepped out of the lukewarm water, and the great wheel of discomfort would turn once more. With guests to mind too. Already she felt exhausted by the prospect of their company. It would be another experiment in boredom or suffering. To sit silently and pretend to be enamored with their no-doubt embellished tales of war on the waves. They would boast and lie, as the black-haired officer had. And probably swindle her husband out of a few coins, if the cards or dice came out.

Not that Cat would be permitted to participate, though she suited cards far more than her husband ever could.

Or at least I did, she thought, remembering her old life. Before Ryman, before marriage. She used to win ribbons and buttons from her sisters, and even a few pennies from the servants, though she had never kept their money. Until her mother had scowled her usual scowl and taken the cards away.

Unbecoming of a lady, she used to say.

What a lady I am now, Mother, Cat thought bitterly.

Frowning, she turned back to the book she had been reading, the curling lines of ink blotting away memories of her mother.

ARCAYO remains the only Lyrian state independent of foreign control, maintaining its sovereignty. It is therefore known in most circles as Crownless Arcayo.

Unlike the surrounding islands of the Lyrian Sea, the indigenous Arcayans survived the devastating waves of plague that swept through the archipelago upon first contact with Esperese explorers. Meridian scholars hypothesize the Arcayans enjoyed a natural immunity unlike their neighbors. But how remains to be discovered. Researchers at the University of Oxmore suggest their trade links with Itzima, a native kingdom of the Southern Continent, gave Arcayans protection beyond their neighbors, introducing the Arcayan merchant class to foreign contact, mitigating disease.

A small few posit some connection to the Arcayan religion, the worship of the Lyrian Sea.

Crownless, Cat thought idly, closing her little history book and setting it aside. It seemed a peculiar thing, to live without a monarch or sovereign. Though she doubted such a place could last much longer, even in the wild Lyrian Sea.

Would the Empire send more ships to conquer what little free land remains? Does that benefit my lot in any way? Not likely. Unless Ryman is somehow caught in the crossfire, finding himself on the wrong end of a bayonet...

She cheered herself with the prospect of becoming a widow, letting it carry her through the regretful act of leaving the bath.

As expected, she began sweating almost as soon as the water rolled off her skin. At least her garments here were not nearly so oppressive as what she wore back in Meridia—the layers of petticoats, stiff bodices, lace sleeves, thick skirts. In the Lyrian, she made do with a thin shift and a cotton or linen dress. Most days she forwent stockings, but with the Meridian officers on the island, she bitterly pulled them on before donning her shoes.

She was far from polite society, but she was still Lady Rose. Some things she would not—or could not—leave behind.

The officers had gone back to their ship until dinner, giving Cat some respite. She clung to the cool shadows until the sun was only a few fingers above the horizon. From her bedroom window, she watched the sea become that strange tempest color, somewhere between blue and gray and green—the terrible shade that seemed to taunt her—and Cat wrenched herself away before she fell into the fleeting memories of a smirking pirate.

There was little cause for adornment anymore, so Cat could not give up the rare opportunity to sift through her jewelry. What little remained of it, at least, between her husband’s poor financial management and the pirates’ raid on the crossing.

She chose a pair of pearl earrings with a matching comb, and a pale-pink dress to set off the newly warm tones of her skin. The neckline swept low beneath her collarbone, exposing the tops of both shoulders. It was a far cry from a ballgown, but finer than anything she had worn since arriving on Rosby.

Even Ryman gave her a second glance, his fair eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as she joined him in the parlor.

Immediately, the two officers jumped up from their seats, both bending at the waist with their hats in hand. A third figure, their captain judging by his uniform and severe face, was already standing. He bowed stiffly and raised a glass of wine to her.

“Captain Quine, may I present my wife, Lady Catrine Rose,” Ryman said.

Her husband’s look was sharp, his jaw as tight as a fleshy jaw could be. It was clear he had not forgotten her quick tongue on the veranda and the way she had spoken to the lower officers.

Cat knew better than to do so again, in front of a captain, no less. Back in Meridia, no navy officer outmatched a lord, even one so destitute as Ryman Rose. But this was the Lyrian Sea, where noble lords were few and mostly useless. Not like captains with their fortress ships, piled high with cannons and gunpowder, and dozens of loyal sailors.

The equations of society were unbalanced here, if not completely flipped.

She crossed the parlor with what grace she still possessed, extending a hand to the captain.

“Captain Quine,” she echoed, feeling the brush of his lips on her knuckles. In Meridia, she would have worn gloves, even to a dinner party so small as this. She doubted she even had gloves anymore. “We are honored to host you and your officers, as well as your ship in our harbor.”

Harbor was a strong word to describe the small, shallow cove that housed Rosby’s dock, barely more than a spit of smooth white stone and crumbling timbers. But the captain did not argue.

“The Venerable and I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Rose,” he answered, casting an eye about the room.

The parlor of Rosby House was nothing compared to the mansions and townhomes across the ocean, but the maids did their best to make everything presentable. Cat noticed fresh flowers in vases and their hoarded beeswax candles burning around the room. The dusty curtains had even been cleaned, everything swept and organized. She glimpsed the same care in the adjoining dining room, the table set with the best porcelain and linens.

It made for a far more pleasant picture than Cat thought they could muster.

“I must apologize for my brusque manner this morning,” she added, giving another sweeping curtsy to the standing officers. “I was preoccupied with preparing the house and was unable to introduce myself properly.”

The higher ranked of the two gave her a sharp bow, his movements rigid as his starched collar. He had a plain sort of face and strawberry-blond hair.

“First Lieutenant Banniton,” he said. “And my second lieutenant—”

“Jasper Fell, my lady,” the other offered, his bow low and graceful.

His black hair was too dark for candlelight. When he straightened, Cat expected him to wield the same smile he had worn that morning. The clawing kind, searching for some hold in her. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, his silver gaze like a knife. Cat felt it run all over, and not in the usual way men look at women. He was sizing her up—but not for his own pleasure.

“Charmed,” she answered, turning back to Captain Quine. “We are glad to have you all.”

Her skirts swirled as she took the last open seat in the room, perching herself on the couch next to Ryman, careful to keep a comfortable distance between them. The others reclaimed their chairs, settling in for the usual hour of drinking and preening in the parlor, before drinking and preening over the dining table.

Cat swallowed her questions, knowing it was not her place to ask after Captain Quine’s ship or his journey. She was a woman, her purpose the same as a finely pressed curtain or oil painting. To be seen, and nothing else.

Thankfully, Moseley brought a glass of dark red wine. Cat took a sip, ignoring the bitter taste of a less-than-excellent vintage. As the men spoke, Cat examined a chip in the lip of the glass. Again, Moseley was careful to save the best pieces for their company, and Cat felt a rush of gratitude for her.

“You are an uncommon man in the Lyrian, Lord Rose,” Quine said from his chair.

As Lieutenant Fell had studied Cat, so did the navy captain examine Ryman. Cat watched his eyes tick over her husband, snagging on the discolored hem of his collar, long yellowed by sweat.

Ryman did not notice Quine’s curling lip. He grinned and sipped his wine. “It is kind of you to say so, Captain.”

Across the room, the lieutenants exchanged glances, their smirks barely hidden. Though Cat disdained her husband, she could not help but flush. She heard the insult plain as day, though her husband was too stupid to notice it.

Captain Quine was more reserved. He crossed his legs, his black leather boots gleaming like the gold filigree on his lapels.

“I mean to say—there are very few lords of the Meridian Empire who choose to make a life here in the Lyrian Sea,” he said, gesturing with glass in hand. His wine was plainly untouched. “Amongst wild islands and changing tides, with enemy ships behind every gust of wind.”

After a moment of bewilderment, Ryman gave a little shrug. “There are many lords who claim islands here. Lord Norton owns Tharrow, Lord Sildon is master of Eastermount and Peerless. The Marten family are mine own neighbors across the water,” he added, raising his hand to point towards Willemsport Island.

In the completely wrong direction, Cat noted, sipping her wine again. And the lords Sildon, Norton, and Marten have never set foot in the Lyrian Sea.

Quine smiled coldly. “Of course. But it is rare to see a man such as yourself, of noble blood, on this side of the ocean.”

“This island was given to my lord uncle for his services to Crown and Empire, and rightfully so,” Ryman sniffed. “He was a great hero of the Anticlean Wars thirty years ago, even lost a foot to their blasted grenadiers at Montarne.”

Ryman jabbed a thumb at an oil painting on the wall, the muddy image depicting a sallow man in uniform. It was so ugly, the pirates hadn’t bothered to plunder it from the Credence, though Cat often wished they had. The family resemblance was uncanny, the old Lord Rose as sluggish as his nephew.

Cat forced another sip of wine, if only to keep her mouth shut.

“This island has passed to me, and I mean to make it a triumph, as my family triumphed in the Spice Islands,” Ryman continued, stamping a foot on the ground for good measure. Everyone had the good sense not to mention the Spice Islands were lost to the Rijkstad, their wealth seized or spent. “For Crown and Empire!”

“For Crown and Empire,” the officers echoed, Cat’s voice barely a whisper with them.

A triumph, she thought, echoing Ryman. A triumph of what, she could not fathom. There were no fields, no gold mines, no great forests. There was not even a suitable harbor for a town, let alone a city of any repute. Rosby was nothing but the last corner for Ryman Rose to hide in, to avoid the truth of his pitiful existence, and perhaps some angry creditors too.

Cat’s grip tightened on her glass. Captain Quine had yet to say the purpose for their visit. Perhaps it was just that. To arrest her husband and drag him back to Meridia and debtor’s prison.

Where would that leave me? she wondered, both delighted and terrified at the prospect. Cast out amongst the islands, or chained to Ryman’s fate?

“I apologize for my ignorance, sirs,” Cat said demurely. “But what brings you to Rosby Island? Certainly, you have more than enough to handle with the Esperese navy, not to mention the pirates.”

Again, those wretched tempest eyes flashed across her mind, blue and green and something else, too deep to understand.

Lieutenant Banniton’s lips twisted in an unkind smile. “Ah, we explained as much to Lord Rose earlier in the day.”

“Of course,” Cat recovered. “I am sorry I have forgotten what my lord told me of your meeting. Such is the mind of a woman.”

Polite laughter rippled around the parlor, no man so loud as Ryman. Strangely, Lieutenant Fell did not laugh at all. He remained quiet and observing, his charming smile long gone. The presence of his captain seemed to subdue whatever roguish manner Cat had seen before—or perhaps he knew it would not serve him here.

Ryman took the opportunity to put a hand on Cat’s knee, his smile wet and toothy. Cat’s skin crawled, but she was long used to his unwanted touch and kept her composure.

“We have been summoned to meet with the new Lord Governor of the Lyrian Sea,” Ryman explained slowly, as if speaking to a child. Then he glanced back to Captain Quine, his tone turning smug. “Another uncommon man like myself, might I add.”

It would not serve anyone to point out the difference between a lord appointed to govern the Meridian colonies and a lord who fled to them, so Cat held her tongue. Instead, she forced another sip of wine and lowered her eyes, hoping to hide her sudden burst of excitement.

They had not stopped in Archenport, the capital of the colonies, on the crossing, and Cat was eager to see what passed for a proper city in these waters. Already her mind spun, imagining paved streets and little shops; perhaps even a real party at the governor’s mansion, filled with people other than Ryman.

“Captain Quine will kindly accompany us to Beacon Island, where we will meet with Lord Governor Baltross at his seat in Archenport.” Ryman did not try to contain his glee, grinning to show wine-stained teeth.

Lieutenant Fell raised a black eyebrow. “You seem cheered by the prospect, my lord.”

“Of course. We’ve been here six months without so much as a dinner invitation!” Ryman replied, spilling his wine a little. “A summons to the governor is quite the event indeed.”

Again, Cat watched the officers and thought of circling sharks. Her excitement ebbed away, fear taking its place. Of what, she did not know.

Suddenly Lieutenant Fell met her eye, and she felt seen through.

“I’m sure Lady Rose shares the sentiment,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting.

“Of course,” she answered too sharply, her head buzzing.

*

DINNER FOLLOWED DRINKS, and pipes followed dinner, with Ryman ushering the officers of the Venerable back into the parlor to enjoy their tobacco. Cat neatly excused herself, grateful that etiquette dictated ladies took no part in such things.

As she fell asleep, she thought of the distant city, its governor awaiting them, and whatever that entailed. Some part of her felt drawn to Archenport, eager to leave Rosby behind, if only for a few weeks. The rest was strangely hesitant, though she could not understand why.

She awoke to the same undercurrent of dread, woven beneath every movement as she packed her single trunk with Moseley and Sara. The maids chattered together, but Cat could not, too distracted by her torn emotions. She felt caught in a storm, battered by winds she could not fathom. But the morning sky outside was clear, the distant clouds white and cheerful, the air thick with heat.

She was already sweating by the time she reached the dock.

Ryman fussed on the bench of the little boat waiting in the shallows, his trunk beside him. He looked like a child ready for an outing with his nursemaid, not a lord with a naval escort. A pair of oarsmen were seated too, and an officer stood with his back turned, one boot braced on the side of the rowboat, the other firmly planted on the dock.

The Venerable was anchored further out to sea, with three masts and more sails than Cat could count. It was bigger than the Credence, bigger than any ship she had ever set foot on before. But still not so large as the pirate ship that waylaid us on the crossing. Cat shivered, remembering the sheer size of it, a monster on the water.

Though Cat would have preferred Moseley to accompany them, it was Sara who followed her onto the dock. She would be better suited to this kind of trip, where Cat would need a true lady’s maid to attend to her hair and clothing. Even so, she missed Moseley and her jokes already.

The naval officer turned, his silver eyes taking on a blue tinge from the turquoise sea.

“Lieutenant Fell,” Cat said, dipping her head in greeting.

“Lady Rose,” he replied, one foot still planted against the rowboat. She half expected him to push the boat off the dock and leave her stranded, rowing the rest of them out to sea.

Instead, Fell bent at the waist and offered a waiting arm. “If you would make haste, Captain Quine is eager to make use of this wind.”

Cat pursed her lips together, holding back a sharp retort. She was well on time, earlier than instructed, and did not care for the implication that she was holding up an entire warship. Instead, she ignored Fell’s hand and stepped into the rowboat herself, a bit clumsily. The vessel rocked beneath her, and she sat heavily at Ryman’s side, feeling like a sack of potatoes.

Still on the dock, Fell gave a shake of his head. A lock of hair came free from his tail, black strands slanting across his lupine face. They did not hide his flashing grin.

Once Sara and the rest of their effects were safely aboard, a sailor untied the boat. Fell was the last to embark, one foot safely in the vessel, the other pushing them off the dock and into the waves. His men pulled their oars, carrying the little boat into the shadow of the Venerable.

Cat expected to feel some weight lift from her shoulders. They were only crossing the shallows, but Rosby Island was firmly behind her, the house a fading white smudge. She glanced back, hoping to spot Moseley on the veranda. But nothing moved, not even Sparrow tucked away in her stall. It was as if the island was frozen in time.

Perhaps it is, she thought. The days blurred together so easily, as if they never existed at all.

The deck of the Venerable gleamed, every surface swabbed and polished, even as sailors crawled over seemingly every inch of the warship. They were in the rigging, on the masts, hastening above and below, into the forecastle at the bow and onto the quarterdeck at the stern. A cartographer squinted at the horizon, his charts across his knees, his fingers ink stained as he jotted notes on the distant islands. Another checked their position with the helmsman, referring to maps set with the Meridian seal and a compass. The officers looked like insects, blue beetles in their cobalt coats. The sailors of lower rank were less severe, in cream-colored shirts and breeches, donning hats or bandanas. All shouted orders back and forth, their voices a tangle, accents clipped by noble station or rough with humble beginnings.

Ryman delighted in the bustle, beaming and nodding at the passing sailors as if he were the King himself. Cat desired nothing more than to shut herself away in a cabin and burrow like a rabbit in her hole. As much as she wanted to watch Rosby shrink in the distance, after six months on a quiet island, the Meridian warship was an assault on the senses.

“If you would be so kind as to direct Sara and I to our cabin, Lieutenant?” she said, forcing herself to be heard over the din.

Cat was not a short woman, and Fell only a few inches taller than she. He bent slightly, standing eye to eye.

“I’m sure Captain Quine will oblige when he has a moment. Not to worry, you aren’t in the way on deck,” he said, though it was far from Cat’s concern. “More than a hundred men serve on this ship. You three will hardly be noticed.”

“Captain Quine is occupied with bringing the ship out of the cove,” she replied. “I would like to go to my cabin, sir.”

Fell did not move. Sails unfurled overhead and oars splashed into the water below. The ship rolled and Cat fought to keep her balance, lest she tumble forwards into Fell’s chest. He held his ground easily.

“Lieutenant,” she prodded through gritted teeth.

“Lady Rose, I apologize, I did not wish you a happy birthday.”

Something cold hooked in Cat’s belly, and she faltered, lost for words. Fell only stared, his scrutiny sharp and keen.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yesterday.” Fell gestured with his hat, back to shore. Rosby was already distant, soon to be swallowed by the sea. “It was your birthday, was it not?”

Cat blanched. She’d shared a long dinner with Captain Quine and his officers, longer than she’d cared to suffer, without a word from her husband. How Fell knew it was her birthday was beside the point. Ryman knew and cared not.

“I—yes,” she heard herself stammer. “Yes, it was.”

Fell gave a shallow nod, a knowing look in his eye. Cat did not need to puzzle after his thoughts now. She saw the pity in him plain as day.

She thought of another man, standing on the deck of a different ship, eyes flashing, gold in his mouth as he hissed down on her. I don’t pity the likes of you.

Somehow, she wished Fell shared the pirate’s sentiment.

“Well, I suppose I should give you a gift.” He sighed, donning his hat again.

Whatever shame Cat felt for her lot and her marriage gave way to annoyance.

“You can give me the gift of my cabin, sir,” she spat.

“I can give you the gift of advice, ma’am,” he answered with equal fire.

Cat could not help but reel back a step, almost colliding with her maid. To her shock, Fell matched her movements, closing the distance between them as if they were partners in a dance, and not near-strangers.

Despite the motion of the deck, the waves growing stronger as the Venerable raced out to sea, Cat set her feet. As Fell bore down on her, she clenched a fist and thought of her prayer beads, smashed against a pirate’s face. Or in another pirate’s pocket, stolen with swift hands and a smirk.

But there was no time to dwell on such things.

Lieutenant Fell stopped short, leaving a foot between them. He was careful, Cat noted, and deliberate.

His voice dropped, low enough to be lost in the bustle of the deck. For anyone but her.

“A sullen, sad, shadow of a woman will win no allies on this ship, or in Archenport,” he breathed, one eyebrow raised.

Cat’s face went hot. “Excuse me?”

“Governor Baltross’s wife is near your age, I think. She is in need of friends,” he pressed on, eyes flashing. “Or am I mistaken? Are you so eager to return to your—” His gaze flicked past her shoulder to Rosby in the distance. “Rock?”

No, I am not, she thought, wishing she could scream the sentiment aloud.

Suddenly she wanted the Venerable to catch a hurricane wind and sail faster than any ship had sailed before, carrying her away from her cage, perhaps forever. Life next to a governor’s wife could not be so horrible as this one. And she would be in a proper city, separated from her loathsome husband by a hundred miles of treacherous sea. The prison of the last six months seemed breakable, the key to her chains pressed firmly into her hands.

Catrine Rose would not waste it.

She set her jaw and raised her chin. Slowly, gracefully, she dipped into a curtsy, sweeping back her skirts.

“Thank you for the birthday gift, Lieutenant,” she said, her voice soft and demure. The kind of voice heard in ballrooms and salons, pleasant and engaging. Certainly not the sad, sullen voice of a shadow. “I am happy to wait for Captain Quine. Perhaps he can show us the entire ship. I should like to see it and hear more of what awaits us in the city.”

Fell nodded once more, silver eyes catching the sun.

“Very good,” he said, drawing backwards.

But Cat stopped him short, her hand darting out to brush the edge of his sleeve. Fell froze beneath her fleeting touch, and Cat delighted to see two spots of pink appear on his cheeks.

“What of you, Lieutenant?” Her voice changed, sharper than before. “You do not seem the type to give gifts without expecting something in return.”

Jasper Fell did not disappoint.

A corner of his mouth lifted, the rogue smirk returning for an instant.

“No, I am not.”

Chapter Seven After

VALERIAN KANE IS alive.

Cat had watched the hangings, all of them, searching for his face hour after hour, day after day. Until the sound of breaking necks and strangled throats grew dull in her ears. Then she feared he would meet Morovant’s fate, tortured and torn apart, then nailed to her front door. But he did not march with the captured. He did not swing with the dead. His bones were not at the bottom of the sea or feeding crows in the square.

And that alone was worth the cost. The diminishing numbers in the ledger. The corpses in the streets. Morovant’s body slumped at her door. The Meridian flag flying over the fort. And the gnawing shame in Cat’s gut, the one she woke to every morning and dreamed of every night.

She did not know what to call the sensation now burning in her chest. It was too many things at once—hope, relief, anger. Vindication. And desire too, all pulling her in opposite directions, overwhelming her until she could feel nothing at all.

Nothing except fear.

She told herself to try to memorize the path through the fort, to better know her prison should Fell throw her behind bars again. But the world blurred, her mind tossing like a ship in a storm.

Valerian Kane is alive.

She was a shadow next to Fell, following the navy captain back down the corridors of Fort Morden’s prison. The limestone walls glowed golden with torchlight, then blinding white as they stepped out into the sun.

The daylight shocked Cat back to her senses, and she raised a hand to shade her sensitive eyes as they crossed the courtyard. The officer’s carriage waited by the gate and Cat eagerly climbed in after Fell, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

Val is alive.

A whip cracked and the carriage rolled, catching Cat off guard. She lurched, almost falling off the padded seat and into Fell’s lap.

His lips twisted, betraying his amusement. “You seem unmoored.”

Cat bristled and settled back against her seat, painfully aware of her ragged state within and without.

“I slept on a bench last night,” she snapped back at him. To calm her shaking hands and distract her mind, she set to fixing her tangled hair, pulling apart the knots as best she could. “I beg your pardon if I am slow to return to my senses.”

“You best hope they return quickly,” Fell said. “You’ll need them to face the governor.”

His lips twitched.

Cat’s fingers froze, wound around a bronze lock of hair.

“Jasper,” she hissed.

He gave a tight-lipped smile and tapped his medals. While Cat felt sweaty and disheveled, Fell looked annoyingly put together. His infernal ring gleamed, the silver swan like a star on his smallest finger.

“You will call me Captain Fell.”

But for the circumstances, Cat might have laughed. Instead, her voice dropped to a growl.

“I am hardly fit to meet with Osprin,” she said, indicating her disheveled appearance.

Fell did not react, responding in the same prim manner. “You will call him Lord Governor or His Lordship.”

Cat’s cheeks burned. She had not set foot in Meridian high society since it abandoned the Lyrian Sea nearly nine years ago, but she was still a far cry above Jasper Fell. Cat had not forgotten how unmoored he once seemed at a grand party years ago. Even now, he would not know his way across a Meridian ballroom with a map and compass.

“I am hardly fit to meet with His Lordship,” she offered through clenched teeth. Now her fingers worked furiously, trying to untangle and braid her hair at the same time. “At least take me home, just for a moment. Derry will have me put to rights in—”

She almost fell over again as the carriage stopped short, the horses whinnying. Outside, the coachmen set to their work, jumping down to attend to their passengers.

Fell shrugged.

“Ah, my apologies,” he said. But his eyes told a different story. Steel gray, they flashed with his usual annoying amusement. “It seems we have already arrived.”

Through the window, Cat glimpsed the brick walls of the governor’s mansion. Worse still was the new seal on the wrought iron gates, the Meridian lion gleaming in gold leaf, its jaws wide. The beast split as the gates opened, allowing the carriage onto the grounds. Beyond lay a great house with shuttered windows, surrounded by lush, tropical landscape.

She swore furiously, pulling her hair back into the best braid she could manage. She wished for a basin and a cloth to wash her face, which felt grimy and dull. And there was nothing to do about her wrinkled black dress at all. If given the time, she would muster up whatever splendor she had left. Gold jewelry, fine lace, rouge, powder. A bucket of perfume to disguise the smell of sweat and desperation. Enough to charm Governor Osprin, or at least convince him that Catrine Rose, a noble lady of the Meridian, could not possibly have a thing to do with pirates.

“You could have given me some warning,” she bit out, pinching her cheeks for color.

“Nonsense, you look fine. You look yourself,” Fell answered with a serpentine arch of a black brow.

“And by that you mean what?” Cat snapped, scowling. “A tavern wench at best, a pirate whore at worst?”

He chuckled loudly as the carriage door swung open. “You said it, not me.”

“Have I told you how infinitely stupid it is to travel by carriage in a city smaller than a country estate?” Cat said, declining the help of the coachman. He too wore a navy uniform, his bluecoat faded with road dust.

Fell followed with another chuckle, his hat tucked under his arm. Though he attempted to give off the picture of calm, Cat didn’t miss the way he fussed with his hair, tucking the black strands behind his ears. Captain though he was, Jasper Fell was not so secure in his station as he liked to seem.

“Once or twice,” he answered, offering his free arm. Cat ignored it. “Come now, we walk from here, lest our legs atrophy.”

“How I wish they would,” Cat hissed.

She longed to release a torrent of gutter-learned curses on Fell’s head, but the parchment in his coat stayed her tongue. Paper and ink were the only difference between the governor’s mansion and a cell. Between freedom and death.

My head or theirs, Cat thought once more.

This time it did not sound like a lament but a battle cry.

*

THE GOVERNOR’S MANSION was only a few decades old, constructed when the King sent a lord to oversee His Majesty’s Colonies of the Lyrian Sea. By then, most of the islands had been claimed or conquered, torn between distant crowns. The Meridian took islands of the Stills, and a few in the Furies. Great Edrin, Goldcoast. Rosby.

The thought of her own island—her husband’s island—gave Cat pause as she mounted the mansion steps. Rosby was only a little place, barely more than a green hill amongst rough seas. Claimed by a crown and then abandoned. My empire, her husband used to call it. How wrong Lord Rose turned out to be, an emperor with no empire at all.

“Come,” Fell said, his hand on her back.

Cat recoiled at his touch but did as commanded. While she was free to bicker with Fell all she wanted in the privacy of a carriage or her own dining room, it would not do here, in the governor’s household, beneath the stern, slaughtering eye of His Lordship, Jon Osprin.

She gathered herself as best she could. She was a lady once and could be again, even in a stained dress. Her spine straightened and she raised her chin, shoulders squared to the task in front of her.

Survival.

Two uniformed manservants waited on the front landing of the mansion, along with two guards. They stood like statues, near to stone. The navy ranks had swollen in recent months, with so many ships arriving from the Continent. Sailors like Fell, who saw the Lyrian colonies rise and fall and rise again, had grown scarce. Some had gone home to Meridia or the wealthier colonies in New Merid with what fortunes they made. Some gave up their commissions when the war ended to live quiet lives in quieter lands.

And some—many—were dead.

Captain Fell landed somewhere between all three. Once, Cat thought he simply wanted his own ship and a captain’s command. Now, with both in his possession, she could not say what else he aimed for, what greater prize he sought.

And she did not care to find out.

Unlike the fort, the governor’s mansion was familiar ground, though she had not stepped foot in it since Osprin had landed in Archenport. She surveyed it with a keen eye. The black and white marble beneath her feet had been freshly polished, her reflection staring back at her; the gilding on the walls, once peeled off, had been replaced, the bits of gold catching the shine of afternoon sun. She noted new pieces of decoration around the hall—flawless marble statues, oil paintings, overstuffed armchairs, brightly woven rugs. The spoils of the Empire hung from every corner.

And yet old shadows remained, stubborn as a bloodstain. The long gilt mirror still had a crack in the corner, the product of an ill-placed brawl. And no one had replaced the crown molding over the second archway, where a bullet had shattered a relief of the Meridian lion.

Cat smirked at the reminders of what was, small as they were.

Again, Fell touched the small of her back, guiding her through the mansion. Cat pursed her lips, unable to do much more under the watchful eyes of navy bluecoats and the governor’s staff, who seemed to mill around every turn. Most looked at Cat with a dismissive detachment. She did the same, returning their haughty glances.

But Fell nodded to each of them. It gave him the look of a duck on a pond, bobbing for fish. Or a snake swaying its neck, waiting to strike.

“I believe you missed your calling,” Cat muttered under her breath. “You would’ve made a better politician than a sailor.”

“You are either complimenting my charm or insulting my seafaring skills,” he said. “Fortunately, with you, I know to assume the worst.”

“So you aren’t completely stupid,” Cat replied. “What a revelation.”

Fell only grinned. He broke stride, gesturing to an open door flanked by bluecoats. Cat glimpsed a large study on the other side, the walls lined with bookshelves, an intricate desk in the center. There was no one seated behind it, but she could rightly guess who would.

The governor.

Her heart thumped, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck and under her dress.

Cat told herself it was just the heat. After all, she was no stranger to powerful men and their appetites for gold or blood or glory. Osprin was just another one in a long line.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t true. No man had ever filled the streets of Archenport with so many corpses.

Cat refused to be one of them.

Her teeth clenched and she inhaled a sharp breath, steeling herself for the precipice. Then she leapt off it without so much as a backwards glance, stepping forwards into the study.

Fell shut the doors behind her, leaving Cat to face Governor Osprin alone.

Coward, she cursed, though she had little time for frustration. With another breath, she squared her shoulders and turned to face the ornate desk in the middle of the study.

It was aggressively organized, with sheafs of paper perfectly aligned. They reminded Cat of soldiers in battle formation, waiting to charge. Maps in one pile, letters and reports in another, again divided by some neat categorization. It made it too easy to spot the one paper out of place—what looked like a half-written letter, still waiting for a seal and signature.

The sturdy wooden chair was without an occupant. Instead, Osprin stood at the window, silhouetted by the greenery outside.

Cat had only glimpsed Osprin during the executions, and his appearance in the streets had not disappointed. An ornate coat, a bejeweled collar to mark his station, a powdered wig of gray and white curls. Jeweled buckles on his shoes, pristine white stockings. Jon Osprin was a duke’s son, raised in splendor across the sea. He was every inch a lord of the Meridian Empire, as far from the men he hanged as the stars were from the sand.

She expected to face that same preening lord today.

But the man at the window was someone else entirely.

He wore no wig, his hair ash brown shot with spindles of silver. It was pulled into a neat tail, the ends cut in a blunt, severe line. His hands clasped behind his back, fingers laced together. Cat eyed them sharply, noting scars and calluses not often seen on Meridian nobles. He still wore fine clothes, his velvet coat a deep, cobalt blue to match the fleet, with gold filigree at the shoulder. His breeches were ivory, and polished black boots replaced the jeweled shoes.

Cat thought of the checkered tile in the entrance hall, the black and white slabs beneath her feet. It looked like a game board, and Cat chose her next movements as carefully as a chess player.

But chess was never your game, Cat warned herself, even as she made her first move.

“Governor Osprin,” she said, dropping into the best curtsy she could muster. Her knee cracked, one of many testaments to the long years between herself and high society. And youth.

A corner of the governor’s cheek lifted, and he turned to face her with a smile, his eyes an unsettling black. His skin was pale but sun damaged across his cheeks, and the lines on his forehead were deeply carved. Too long frowning into the horizon, Cat thought, reading the years on the governor’s face. The sea aged everyone, and she ventured him to be nearing fifty, young for a ruling lord, but old for a sailor.

He made for an odd sight, a noble with callused hands. Like a commodore in command of a fleet, not a lord hiding behind his polished desk. The rumors said he was an admiral before being appointed—but there were many jumped-up lords in the navy, highly ranked without skill.

Osprin did not seem to be one of them, and it sent a chill down her spine.

“Lady Rose,” he answered, giving no bow in return.

Cat dipped her chin.

She was long years from a governess, but Lady Rose knew to remain standing until invited to sit. Holding her ground, she eyed the desk again, now close enough to recognize the nautical maps and charts. All were of the Furies, the islands south of the Stills, where harsher storms and other kingdoms ruled beside the Meridian. Esperin, Arcayo, empty keys and uncharted islands...

A gentleman would have waved her to a seat, but Osprin lingered by the window. He reached into his coat to retrieve an ornate porcelain snuffbox on a gleaming chain. Real sapphires and gold leaf winked in his hands as he flicked it open, absently sniffing a spoonful of black powder. He took his time, letting Cat watch. Making her wait.

She did so in silence, using the seconds to study. The box itself was worth more than most of the furniture in her house, judging by its intricacy and shine. The lid was shaped into blue waves studded with sapphires, with the Meridian lion roaring up out of the miniature sea, its teeth little cuts of diamond. Cat could not help coveting such a fine piece of craftwork, more valuable than any bauble in her collection. The sapphires alone would have made a fine set of earrings.

Then it disappeared, shoved away into a pocket with a wet huff.

Jon Osprin was not only a governor and a lord but a man of immense wealth to carry an object of such value with so little care. Cat chewed the inside of her cheek. Warships and noble blood were deadly weapons, but there was no force in their world more powerful than cold, hard coin.

And Governor Opsrin had all three.

He still did not take a seat, to her chagrin. Instead, he prowled to the far side of the study, gesturing for Cat to follow with a single crook of his finger. Gritting her teeth, she obeyed, even if she felt like a whipped dog.

The great lord halted at a low table, its face set with such an array of precious stones. It put the snuffbox to shame. Most of the surface was dark blue lapis, speckled with sapphire here and there, the chips catching the sunlight. There was onyx too, forming shapes Cat could not immediately recognize. The bright gold spots were more revealing.

It’s a map, she thought, seeing it again, the known world flattened across the tabletop.

The gold was the Meridian Empire, with Meridia at its center, the island nation bordered with brilliant rubies, and Brycam City marked by a flawless diamond. Osprin stared at it, silent, forcing her to stare with him and behold the full might of the Meridian.

Gold speckled the map. Colonies, crown holdings. Port cities, fortresses, trade outposts. They radiated out from the center like the rays of a blinding sun, spanning the width of the table. North, south, east, west, the Meridian reached in every direction, all-consuming. New Merid along northern shores, the conquered stretches of Imperial Harra far to the west. The Spice Islands were black and scratched, the gold chipped off, removed when the Empire lost the colony on the other side of the world.

And the Lyrian, the gold denoting the colonies a starry constellation against deepest blue.

Cat had seen maps of the greater world before, but not often and not recently. It was no use looking beyond the boundaries of the Lyrian Sea. She kept her eyes on what lay directly in front of her, ignoring the greater world and hoping it ignored them too.

How foolish I was.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Osprin muttered. His voice was gravel, worn out from shouting orders on some distant ship.

Cat nodded grimly, scanning the map again. This time she did not marvel at the jewels but trembled at the terrible picture they made.

The Lyrian Sea looked so small, and Archenport was not mapped at all, with no gem to mark its place. Her jaw clenched as one hand trailed along the chain of her pocket watch, trying to steady herself with the cold feel of golden links. It was little use.

To her relief, Osprin relented and turned his back to the map, retreating to his desk.

He took his seat, leveling his black-eyed stare at Cat’s face. He gestured once and she sank into the opposite chair, facing him over the desk. Meeting his gaze felt like staring into a hole.

“Your home is so beautiful,” she offered, looking up at the painted ceiling in a show of admiration. She widened her eyes, as if impressed by the room she had already seen countless times over. It was an easy mask to slip behind, the preening lady, even after so many years.

Osprin tipped his head.

“Do you remember what this place was, madam?”

Cat wanted to laugh but stilled her face. She guessed the governor would not like to know much about the recent history of his home. The Duchess commanded a brothel within your walls, and Abby All-Smiles used this very room for clients, she thought, remembering the long couch in the corner, and the many eager patrons lined up at the door. And your grand ballroom was a gambling hall, filled with tobacco smoke and spilled wine.

Instead she shrugged, giving a large sigh.

“No, my lord, I do not remember it well,” she said sadly. “I was a guest of Lady Baltross and the former Lord Governor, but near ten years ago, before he was recalled by the King.”

And Baltross was a pompous old lord who could barely hold his piss, let alone govern the Lyrian Sea, she thought, careful to keep her face blank. It was no wonder the King stripped him of his office and sent him scurrying back across the waves, a cowering shepherd leaving the Lyrian to the wolves.

Already she could tell Osprin was less shepherd, more wolf.

“I mean during the occupation, Lady Rose,” he said slowly. “When Archenport was overthrown, and the city answered to no king but Captain Morovant.”

Cat could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance. There is no such thing as a king amongst pirates, she wanted to say, but held her tongue, her demure mask fixed in place.

“No, my lord,” she said again, careful to keep her voice soft and measured. “I kept to myself during the occupation. And did what I could to survive such years, as did many citizens of Archenport.”

Osprin gave her a piercing look, almost accusatory in nature. “Ten years is quite a time for a proper lady to survive alone.”

Ten years. Some dark, some frustrating, some wonderful. But all my own.

“Unfortunately, my late husband did not leave me with many options.” The words came easily. They were the truth, after all. She sighed, lowering her eyes, making herself a thing to pity, a simple woman put upon by circumstance, innocent and useless to the great doings of the world. “I would have starved to death had I stayed on Rosby. I was lucky to make a home here in the city.”

The governor watched her as if she were a weight to be balanced. Cat let him look.

“I suppose Archenport does pass for a city here in the islands,” the governor mused, his disdain plain to see. “But why not return home? Why not make the crossing back to Meridia and the Empire? So many did, after the city fell to thugs and thieves.”

Cat bit her lip in a melancholy display. “My family is not . . . well fortuned. I would have been a burden to them.”

It was also the truth. She shuddered to think what her fate would have been, returning to the house in the Meridian countryside, far from anything of use or interest. With only her mother lamenting her lost family titles, and her foolhardy sisters squandering what money they had left. Or so it had been ten years ago. She doubted their prospects had changed for the better, if her mother was still alive at all.

“Well, I am glad you stayed,” Osprin offered, tapping a map on the desk. Despite his words, she heard no gratitude in his voice. Only a challenge. “Captain Fell tells me you were instrumental in our efforts against the pirate horde.”

Cat held his gaze, even as her grip tightened on the arm of her seat.

“I did what I thought was right,” she said, her head still high. “What was just.”

“Just?” Osprin echoed.

Again, Cat felt herself poised on the game board.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, choosing her move. “Just.”

Something gleamed in Osprin, his eyes like the business end of a sword. His smile widened, sharper than any smile she had ever seen.

“Lady Rose, there is no such thing as justice in this world,” he said. “Not here in this island backwater, nor in the marble halls of the Justiciary Court. And certainly not on the sea, where all that matters is the sail above you, the waves below, and the storm ahead.”

Cat moved again, watching his face.

“I pray to the gods such storms are behind us now,” she said, tapping at her collarbone. Right, middle, left. Heaven, earth, hell. A sign of the gods, to seal oaths or ward off danger.

Osprin rolled his eyes. “Save your prayers for the priests, they mean little to me.”

No love for the Church, Cat noted, the cut of the governor’s character coming into clearer and more terrible focus.

“My lord, I am flattered to have been summoned here . . .” she offered.

His dark brow furrowed. “Summoned from the depths of my prisons, a warrant for your execution dangling over your head.”

“Like I said. I am flattered by your attention,” Cat continued cooly, taking the threat for what it was. “Misplaced as it is.”

“Misplaced?” At that, he barked a coarse laugh, so rough, Cat assumed he did not laugh much at all. “You spoke of justice, Lady Rose. What justice should you face for your own crimes?”

She could not help but pull her lips into a thin smile. “You said yourself, there is no such thing as justice in this world.”

Osprin turned to one of his fastidious piles of parchment, raising a sheet. He squinted at it, betraying his failing eyes.

Such is the way with sailors, Cat knew. Too much time spent squinting into the distance or against the glare of sunlight on waves.

“Aiding and abetting piracy,” he read, as if summarizing a shopping order for the market. “Providing provisions, shelter, and intelligence to sailors of the so-called pirate republic. Fraternization of the highest and most demeaning order.”

Demeaning.

But for her rigidly held composure, Cat would have laughed in Osprin’s face. Judging by the stiff set of his posture, he could do with some demeaning himself.

“I will not bother to recite the names of your associates; there are simply too many.” He eyed her over the page, lip curled with disgust. “All great crimes against the Crown and Empire. And one cannot forget, of course, the charge of murder.” Osprin’s voice was steady and sure. “That is not a stain even you can wash away. No matter what deals you struck, or what promises Captain Fell made you.”

A thousand responses died in Cat’s mouth, each one more useless than the last. She wanted to deny the charges outright or revel in them. Both would end the same way—the gallows.

“Am I to be permitted a trial, at least?” Cat said, clinging to her air of detachment.

“Were this Brycam City, perhaps,” Osprin replied, shrugging broad shoulders. “But we are a long way from the Empire.”

His meaning was infinitely clear.

I am the law here.

In her head, Cat turned over her last card left to play. She hated that Jasper Fell gave it to her.

“Then ask what you must ask about Valerian Kane,” she said, forcing the name out, no matter the pain it brought her. “Or let me hang.”

For the first time since she entered the study, the governor startled, surprised by her response. Something flickered across his face, something like respect.

It felt like a point won in whatever game he was making her play. And it gave Cat a heading.

Which point on the compass to follow to her advantage, and her survival.

Osprin was not a man who wanted a subject.

He wanted an opponent.

“When I was an admiral in His Majesty’s navy, I served through the wars with Anticles and Esperin and the Rijkstad, year after year, decade after decade,” he continued. “There was blood. There was hardship. But there was order. Victory, surrender, treaties. Lands ceded or won.”

His fingers curled, his hand becoming a closed fist.

“It is not so here.”

Cat felt a wry smile spread across her face.

“Welcome to the Lyrian Sea,” she said, an echo of the same words Valerian had told her long ago.

The governor huffed.

“The Lyrian Sea. You speak of this place as if it were its own kingdom and not simply another land to conquer,” he added, grinning wide. His gums were bright red, unsettlingly so. “That is why I was sent here, after so many lords just like your husband. To tame this place. They were not conquerors, as much as they thought themselves masters of the world. But I am a conqueror, Lady Rose. So say the flag in my harbor and the corpse king in front of your door.”

Cat tried not to think of Morovant nailed to his post, and the little boy tasked with fighting off the hungry crows. She saw them both anyway, a pair of rotting ghosts.

“The pirate republic lies in ashes,” he pushed on, some frustration lacing his words. “Or at least it should. Their great leader, this Captain Morovant, lies dead in my city. His ship is at the bottom of the sea. Most of his fleet sank with it. Any kingdom would surrender under such circumstances, their king and their armies ripped apart.”

“And yet,” Cat muttered, trying not to remember the sound Morovant made when his limbs were torn from his body.

“And yet,” Osprin repeated, sliding a piece of paper forwards.

Not a map but a short letter scratched out in harried script. Written quickly, without any formal introduction, or the usual trappings of military communication. Written in desperation, Cat knew, scanning the page.

Her eyes lingered on a single line, and a name—not of a person, but a ship.

The Covenant, spotted off Silver Key.

“Valerian Kane is alive,” Osprin said. His voice hung in the air, echoing off the bookshelves in a way that made Cat’s skin crawl.

“Or someone has his ship,” she offered reflexively, her old instincts difficult to smother. To protect Valerian, even now. “Command of a pirate vessel can change with a tide.”

Cat felt the misstep as she spoke it. No simple Meridian lady would know such a thing.

“Or so I’ve heard,” she murmured, returning the letter.

The governor took the paper with a snap of his wrist. “That ship is captained by Kane. I know it, and so does the rest of the Lyrian. He lives, Lady Rose, and while he lives, so does the pirate republic. So do these rats and wolves, gnawing on the edges of the Empire.”

“Let them,” Cat said cooly, though her mind spun. The Covenant spotted off Silver Key. “How many did you hang? How many fled? There can’t be more than a dozen ships left, with skeleton crews at best. Let them die quietly.”

To her surprise, Osprin nodded.

“I thought the same, Lady Rose,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I am not a foolish man, and it is not in my nature to waste resources without need. I command a fleet like nothing the Lyrian Sea has ever seen. The Empire’s islands are patrolled, our harbors safe enough. You are correct, I could let these rabble disappear, to die off or kill each other as they see fit.”

“So why don’t you?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Valerian and his infernal ship. In her head, she saw familiar sails and a haunting black flag, embroidered with a white skull and red roses. But Val is still just one man against an empire, even with his crew, even with however many ships remain.

There can be no victory for him, not anymore.

“The King is sailing to the Lyrian Sea.”

For a harrowing second, the ground seemed to tip, and Cat feared she might fall out of her chair onto the parquet floor.

“The . . . the King?” she sputtered, her eyes going wide. “The King of—”

“The King of Meridia, yes. The Crown himself.”

Osprin looked as perturbed as she felt, his brows knitting together in a grim, dark line. He reached for a drawer behind the desk, wrenching it open to retrieve another piece of parchment. It was the most ornate combination of paper and ink Cat had ever seen, the script so filled with flourishes it was barely legible.

The seal at the bottom gleamed, the wax speckled with real gold, the imprint of the Meridian lion sharp and certain.

“Alexander III,” Osprin said, frowning at the letter. “The Crown has come of age, his regency has ended, and he is eager to see what I’ve accomplished.”

Despite her predicament, Cat almost laughed. What you’ve accomplished, she thought. A city filled with corpses, and little else.

Then, her eyebrow raised, her instincts taking over.

Learn what you must, learn all you can.

“How long do we have until he arrives?”

“Six months, after the hurricanes relent,” Osprin replied. He looked exhausted by the prospect, even with so much time to prepare. “The Crown descends, and there can be no mistakes, for any of us.”

Six months. Cat counted off the weeks in her head, the typical journey from the Meridian taking shape. It took over three months to sail from Brycam City to the Lyrian, and half that returning, depending on the winds.

Behind the desk, Osprin raised the King’s seal. It caught the sunlight, sparkling. His stern face turned to stone.

“There is total victory,” he muttered. “Or nothing.”

Cat watched him carefully, her words almost a purr. “It seems I am not the only person with a noose around my neck.”

The governor’s jaw tightened, and Cat wondered if she had miscalculated. Osprin was many things, but she did not think him so reckless as to execute her for a slight.

To her relief, she was right.

“Lady Rose, tell me of Valerian Kane,” he said.

She drew a shaky breath. Part of her hesitated to speak. The rest wanted to be out with it all. Cat weighed her options, horrible as they both were.

“I’m certain there is little you do not already know.”

Osprin’s red smile returned. Despite the heat, a chill ran down Cat’s spine.

“For your sake, I hope not,” he replied.

Chapter Eight Before

IT WOULD TAKE two weeks to sail to Beacon Island. Two weeks to Archenport, to a proper city, to other people.

To freedom, if Cat could only seize it.

She certainly did her best along the journey, laying whatever groundwork she could. Charming Captain Quine, ingratiating herself to his officers. Observing their card games, clapping with amusement whenever one man or another won a mediocre hand. Cat even made sure to save a biscuit for the cabin boy every night, giving it to him in plain view of the other sailors. If the low men talked of Lady Rose, they would talk of her gentle nature and generosity.

Lieutenant Fell looked on silently, watching her with his silver gaze. But his advice was still a steadying anchor.

A sullen, sad shadow will win no allies.

So Cat lit a candle within herself and let it shine upon any who passed. She tried to make herself the opposite of a sullen shadow indeed—all while Lord Rose sank deeper into his toad-like nature. Of Ryman, the crew said many things, none of them complimentary.

“I am a son of House Rose, a born lord of the Meridian. Quine may not be a gentleman, but he is not foolish. He should cede his cabin to us, at the very least,” he muttered over his breakfast porridge.

Her wretched husband refused to eat in the wardroom with the officers or, gods forbid, in with the greater crew. Instead, he insisted on taking their meals on deck, in full view of the laboring men.

It was no wonder Captain Quine had not invited them to dine in his cabin, let alone give them his quarters.

Ryman’s scowl deepened. “It is unbecoming of a lady such as yourself, sharing a bunk with your maid.”

Across the table, Cat scraped her bowl clean, humming a noncommittal answer around her spoon. Sara is a far better bedfellow than you, my lord.

Ryman huffed, the first steps towards another mortifying tantrum. Most days, Cat did her best to coach her husband into being less of an ass, if only to improve her own lot.

Most days she failed.

“At least I am not so ill as I was on the crossing,” he added, snapping at his bowl, indicating for more. Sara was quick to oblige, clearing the bowl to run back to the cook. “The Lyrian agrees with me now.”

“It does indeed,” Cat replied with an empty smile. She eyed his still-sunburned cheeks, his squinting eyes barely tolerant of the brightness, and his hands blistered from even the slightest hint of physical labor. “It does indeed.”

“Don’t repeat yourself, you sound like a parrot,” Ryman said, gulping at his ale.

Cat smiled even wider, a balm against the burn of his rudeness. “Thank you for pointing it out.”

“I will not let you shame us in front of Governor Baltross. You are to be every inch a Meridian lady, befitting of a lord.” He surveyed her with a roving eye, gaze snagging here and there. On frayed hems, on new freckles. “I know you were not raised well, Catrine, but gods willing, you can rise to this occasion.”

Not raised well.

Cat swallowed hard. He was not wrong. She was low country nobility at best, with a simple education, enough to read and write well, but little else. She did not speak Esperese or Anticlean, and could not play piano or violin, nor sing. Her embroidery was merely passable, her stitches forever crooked and mismatched.

But I am not so stupid as you, she thought, holding her smile. You, Lord Rose, who were given the best of everything and still manage to act like a pig.

“I hope I do,” she answered truthfully.

Sara put another bowl of porridge on the table, along with a rasher of heavily cured bacon. Lord Rose set to it like a wolf.

“Did you know the governor back home?” Cat prodded, gentle and strategic.

“On the Continent? I had little time for government business and politics,” Ryman spat.

As always, Cat saw between the threads her husband so poorly spun. Lord Rose was never appointed to governance, never invited to political gatherings, never consulted by anyone on matters of state or import.

“And what of his wife?” she continued, her tone light.

Ryman rolled his eyes. “Just another society woman,” he answered. “If you can call these islands society at all.”

Above them in the rigging, a few sailors climbed hand over hand along rope ladders. They cast roving shadows across the deck, like flocking birds. Cat wanted to join them and fly away. Her eyes followed their forms, the men in varying states of undress. Unlike the officers, the enlisted sailors were far less fastidious with their uniforms. Cat could not help but marvel at so much bare skin, tanned and toned by life onboard a navy ship. They were so unlike Ryman.

“Perhaps we can make a little society for ourselves,” she offered, thinking of streets and markets, of people beyond her quiet, crumbling island.

Ryman tipped his head, a bemused look crossing his face. He put his hand on his chin and stared, examining his wife. For a moment, he looked softer, kinder. Not a gentleman, but something close. Reminding Cat of the first time they met, the way he smiled and took her hand. How he had promised to give her a different life than the one she lived.

It gave her pause, Cat’s sharp edges wearing smooth.

“You say such stupid things,” he finally mused, smiling at her with empty eyes.

Her sharpness returned tenfold, air hissing through her teeth as she sucked in a steadying breath. Fire licked up her spine, the rage hot and burning, and Cat’s vision slanted, taking on a red sheen.

Before she could construct a response, Lord Rose laughed, a cruel sound. It was blissfully cut off by a shout from the rigging, one of the shadows pointing.

“Sail!” the spotter called, a hand stretched out, the other holding a spyglass.

Dread doused Cat’s rage like a veil of ice across a hearth.

She spun, peering across the water, trying to discern a sail between the Venerable and the distant islands dotting the horizon. After five days at sea, they were close enough to Pearl Key to see her white dunes, with the faded mountains of Goldcoast beyond.

As Cat’s eyes darted along the flash of cresting waves, a black flag unfurled in her mind’s eye, a smiling skull sewn on its face.

She stared and stared, willing a ship to appear, its flag bared for all to see so she might at least know her own fate.

The white skull or the green cross?

Pirates or the Esperese navy?

Neither would pass without a fight.

The Venerable was a warship before all else, as Captain Quine so often liked to remind them. He ferried the Roses under orders from the governor, but this was not a transport vessel. The war did not lie down and stop for anyone, least of all a minor lord of the Meridian.

If duty called, the Venerable would answer.

Her heart thumped. She remembered the Credence, what it felt like to cower belowdecks. To be marched back out like a spoil of war, her life shredded around her, her knuckles bleeding. Her hand was still scarred, a little cross of pearly white on the bump of her ring finger. She touched it now, running a thumb across the marked skin.

But her fist on a man’s nose was not the touch she remembered most from that day.

His name was Valerian, she reminded herself, as if she might ever forget the young man with tempest eyes. He stole a prayer bead from her pocket, whispered his name and something else.

May the sea always sing for you.

The sea filled her senses. Blue, green, white clouds above and white waves below. The sailors jumped to attention, their officers shouting orders, but Cat barely heard them above the wind in the sails and the slap of water against the hull.

Is the sea singing now? she thought, listening.

Searching.

Then a ship bloomed on the horizon, and the spotter cheered.

“The Lion!” he shouted, describing a distant flag. “She’s one of ours! Meridian navy!”

A joyous roar rippled across the deck, and Ryman gave a theatrical sigh, returning to his breakfast.

Cat sighed too. But in disappointment or relief, she could not say.

*

THE MERIDIAN WARSHIP wasted no time closing the distance, turning to catch the wind. In what felt like seconds, the imperial vessel the Paladin approached. The ship was smaller than their own, with fewer gun decks, but still a formidable ship of the line.

To Ryman’s dismay, sailors cleared away the breakfast table, leaving him befuddled with his half-full bowl of porridge in one hand. Cat tried to press herself against the rail, both to keep out of the way and hide herself. Certainly, the navy would not want a woman in the center of their military business.

She caught Lieutenant Fell’s eye in the fray. She wanted to ask what was happening but knew he would not answer. The officer was too busy jockeying for position next to his captain, far more concerned with his own prospects than Lady Rose’s. He managed to plant himself at Quine’s side, to receive the party from the Paladin in a place of great honor.

Cat shrank back even farther, safe in the shadow of the quarterdeck. Keeping her distance, but well within earshot.

“What news, sailor?” Quine said, facing the officer from the Paladin when he clambered on deck.

The man panted, still breathless from rowing between the ships and climbing up the sea ladder. But he bowed, holding out a piece of folded parchment.

“Captain Quine,” the officer said. “I bring word from Captain Kent.”

Shading his eyes, Quine glanced over the man’s shoulder and back to the Paladin bobbing some distance away.

“He is a long way from his posting in the Stills. Well, your captain is welcome to join me for tea if he likes,” Quine said as he took the parchment.

It was a polite, if useless, offer. This was the deck of a warship, not a Brycam City parlor. But Meridian etiquette dictated such things, Cat knew. Even here, in the middle of a hostile sea.

“Thank you, sir,” the officer replied. “But we have orders to sail for Longdawn with all haste.”

A shadow crossed Quine’s face and his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Longdawn?”

Cat tried to picture the map of the Lyrian, imagining Longdawn through the scattered archipelago. It was the southernmost colony in the Lyrian Sea, the farthest outpost for the Meridian navy. Home to a fleet of ships left to patrol the far reaches of the colonies.

Quine broke the seal of the folded page with a swift slice of his finger.

Even from a distance, Cat could see the letters were hastily scrawled, written by a shaking hand. Worse still was Quine’s paling face, and Lieutenant Fell frowning next to him.

Of course, it was Ryman who bullied his way in to face Quine head on.

“What is it, Captain?” he demanded, oblivious to the porridge at the corner of his mouth.

The captain stared back, his face a combination of fury and bewilderment. For a moment, Cat thought Quine might strike her husband for his impertinence. She suddenly wished he would. But the captain held his temper. Instead, he passed the parchment to Fell at his side. The lieutenant took it quickly, reading the letter for himself before looking up to face the assembled crew.

His steel eyes found Cat amongst the crowd.

“Captain Kent brings us word from the Continent,” he said, his voice echoing down the deck. “Allisport has been attacked by the Esperese navy. The city is in ruins.”

A gasp ran through the crew, from the highest officers to the cabin boy swabbing the rail. Ryman turned pale again, and Cat thought he might be sick over the side. For once, she could not blame him. Her stomach twisted, a wave of nausea washing over her. Even she knew what this meant.

Allisport was a naval stronghold on the Meridian coast, one of the great shipbuilding centers of the Empire, and a well-known anchorage for the fleet. The Royal Naval College was only a few miles down the coast and most officers aboard the Venerable passed through Allisport during one commission or another.

Some might have families there, she thought, searching their faces. Most were white like Quine, ghosts in uniform. This was a terrible blow to the Meridian navy, and the Empire herself.

“So you sail for Longdawn,” the captain said slowly. “And then the Continent. Back to Meridia.”

The Paladin officer bowed. “Those are our orders, sir. They may be yours soon.”

A chill ran through Cat despite the tropical heat.

“Any other news?” But Quine’s eyes swept out to the waves, his mind clearly across the ocean, in a burning city Cat had never seen.

The officer shook his head. “Little of note. We spotted a black flag two days ago, on the horizon, but heading south into the Furies.”

Cat saw it again in her head, a white skull with a red arrow in its teeth. The monstrous ship that waylaid the Credence, the captain with his green coat. And Valerian Kane, his eyes the same color as a storm.

“Pirates are hardly my concern now,” Quine muttered. “Give my regards to Kent. Good hunting to you all.”

“Sir,” the Paladin officer replied, bowing once more.

Quine replied with a stiff salute.

“For Crown and Empire,” he said.

The crew echoed Quine, a hushed roar from every mouth.

Even Cat’s.

“For Crown and Empire.”

*

THE OFFICER FROM the Paladin did not depart at once but idled, allowing the men of the Venerable time to gather their letters. Whatever correspondence they had bound for the Continent was collected and handed over to be sent to Meridia with the Paladin, instead of an Archenport mail ship in a week’s time. Some men emptied weeks’ worth of letters to their sweethearts and wives and children. A few dropped to the deck, scrawling out notes as fast as they could, sharing ink and parchment. One or two narrated to a hasty scribe, unable to write for themselves.

Cat watched the flurry, with Ryman clinging to her side like a blister.

He still had porridge on his face.

“What a desperate sight,” he muttered, disgusted. “We will be in Archenport in a week’s time; they can send their letters then. This is slowing us down.”

Cat let her husband’s callous comment pass without reply—only for another voice to answer.

“This is the Lyrian Sea, my lord,” Lieutenant Fell said, his hat shading his face. Still, his eyes gleamed. “We do not deny the men any opportunity they have to write home. It may be their last.”

His smirking look was gone, his jaw hard. Cat could see his concern for the ship and its men written plainly on his face, his entire demeanor sobered by the news from the Paladin.

Ryman was not so observant. He glared at Fell, a snide remark clear on his lips.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Cat said quickly, cutting her husband off before he could destroy what remained of his dignity. She took him by the hand, though she shivered at the brush of his clammy skin. “We would never begrudge your men such a comfort, and certainly not while they defend us in war.”

Lord Rose was less than pleased. He shrugged out of her grasp, frowning.

“You are as soft-hearted as my wife,” he sneered at Fell, stomping away.

His steps echoed, heavy against the deck. Cat waited until he was safely below before exhaling a long breath.

“My apologies,” she said, her voice too sharp for contrition. “My husband is—”

“A complete fool?” Fell offered.

Cat caged a laugh and turned into the sun to hide her smile. She leaned over the rail, bracing her elbows against the wood. Waves broke on the hull beneath her, sending up a cooling spray.

“I was going to say tired,” she murmured as Fell joined her.

“You are kinder than I am, Lady Rose.”

The lieutenant did not lean, standing straight as a saber. But he removed his hat, one hand smoothing back a few strands of black hair. Without the tricorne, his expression was easier to read. There was sternness to him, but anger too.

“Will this be the end of it?” Cat ventured. She could not help but think of the navy, the fleet, the many thousands of sailors and officers, countless ships. Either burned in Allisport harbor or pointed towards it, sailing back to home waters.

Fell raised an eyebrow. “The end of what?”

“The war,” she said. “Esperin has certainly crippled the navy.”

“That remains to be seen,” the lieutenant answered neatly. “Though I doubt it. The Empire may be wounded, but she is far from dead. A lion does not surrender at first injury.”

Hardly the first, Cat wanted to say but held her tongue. The war with Esperin had been dragging on for years, with blows struck on both sides. Before they came to the Lyrian, Ryman used to rant over sea battles in the Strait or infantry clashes on the Esperese plain. It sounded more like points scored back and forth in a game, the risk simply a few coins on the table, and not many thousands of lives.

But after six months in isolation on Rosby, she had nearly forgotten the Meridian was at war. And these men her warriors, so far away from home. She eyed the deck again and the many sailors with their desperate letters.

“I’m sorry about Allisport,” she said to Fell. “Do you have family there?”

Fell seemed to harden before her eyes, his brow furrowing as he donned his hat again. His face fell into shadow.

“No,” he answered curtly, stepping backwards. “Lady Rose.”

Cat wanted to slap herself for her impropriety. She wrung her hands together to keep herself from reaching out. After all, Lieutenant Fell was the nearest thing to a friend she had on the ship. And she seemed to have scared him off.

“I did not mean to pry—” she began, but he quieted her with a pointed glance.

“Lady Rose,” he said again, bowing his head.

Cat relented with a flush, dipping into a curtsy. “Lieutenant Fell.”

She expected him to be gone when she straightened, but the officer lingered a moment longer.

“Sleep early,” he said stiffly. “We are due storms before dawn.”

Cat could only nod, her stomach already rolling in anticipation.

“I will do my best.”

Chapter Nine After

CAT JUMPED IN her seat as two sharp knocks sounded at the door, then exhaled slowly, grateful for the interruption. Even if it was only a servant with the governor’s tea or a footman with the daily correspondence, she welcomed the opportunity to gather her wits.

The governor sat back. “Yes, come in.”

Polished doors swung silently on greased hinges and two officers entered, with Fell bringing up the rear.

He glanced at Cat, his gray gaze a rare and begrudging comfort in the lion’s den that was the governor’s mansion. But she kept her chin high, as if she were just another guest in the great house, not a prisoner.

Even in a rumpled dress with tangled hair, Catrine Rose could still cling to her pride.

“Lady Rose, this is Captain Carley and Lieutenant Groust, of the Revel,” Osprin said with a dismissive wave.

Both men fell in beside the governor’s desk and gave her short, shallow nods, their hats tucked under their arms. Their blue uniforms were identical but for the captain’s gold buttons. She knew their faces, though they were not patrons of the tavern.

The governor’s lip twisted. “And you are already well acquainted with Captain Fell of the Scorpion.”

Fell did not bother to incline his head or hide his smirk. Whatever respite Cat gained from his presence disappeared in an instant. He was not here to help her sway the governor but to lord over her interrogation.

“I’m familiar,” she ground out.

“Good,” Osprin shot back, the reprimand clear. His eyes passed over her, expectant. “You were going to share what you know of the pirate Valerian Kane?”

The name sounded like a curse on Osprin’s lips, and Cat tightened, willing herself to keep focused and steady. It was not just the governor watching her now, but also Fell and the two other officers.

“Of course, my lord,” she said smoothly. “I only wish to be helpful.”

Fell tried and failed to smother a laugh. Cat wanted to slap him. She resigned to biting the inside of her cheek instead.

Again, she wished for a clean dress and a comb, water to douse the smell of prison still clinging to her. Even if it would only delay the inevitable. Though she sat in an ornate chair in a beautiful room, it felt like the gallows, the cushion beneath her threatening to give way and drop her to her death.

“Kane is a true son of the Lyrian Sea,” she forced out.

Kane. She chose her words as carefully as she could to bury any hint of attachment. Not Valerian. Not Val. Not even Captain.

“He knows these waters better than any sailor, the reefs, the storm breaks, the tides and currents.” The words scattered like errant gunfire. The faster they came, the less she had to think of them. The less they hurt. “He was born in Meridia among the docks and the gutters. But he is no son of the Empire.”

Osprin’s black eyes narrowed. “Where do his loyalties lie?”

“With his crew. With his own flag,” she answered quickly. It was an easy question. “With Captain Morovant, before he was executed.”

Osprin pursed his lips. “Can he be bought?”

“Bought?” Cat balked, shaking her head in disbelief.

You bastards won’t even pay me what I am owed, she wanted to snap.

Fell seemed just as disturbed. “My lord, that is not a precedent we should set with these animals. What kind of message does that send to pirates still clinging to their old ways? Hold out long enough and the King’s treasury will open for you?”

Behind this desk, Osprin gave a dismissive shrug. “It sends the message that the pirate republic is gone, its king dead. To see their prince bought and paid for would shatter them, Captain Fell, and end this all for good,” he said neatly. “Lady Rose?”

Cat felt her heart in her throat.

If only.

“No, Kane cannot be bought,” she muttered, her eyes lowering. “Not with Morovant dead. He will want vengeance more than anything else,” she added, warmth creeping over her cheeks. She dared not raise her face, lest the governor and his officers see her shame.

But she felt Jasper Fell’s glare like a brand.

“Fine. Then what of Kane’s ship?” The governor pushed on. “The Covenant?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I do not know it well.”

Fell’s silver-gray eyes threatened to burn a hole through her. His lips parted, an accusation dancing on his tongue.

Cat cut him off, lest Fell speak for her, and remove whatever credibility she had left.

“But I remember it in the Archenport harbor,” she offered, hoping it was enough. “Perhaps a fourth-rate ship of the line, sleek. Smaller than Morovant’s vessel, the Seadragon.”

“You seem overly familiar with Captain Morovant’s vessel,” Carley sneered.

Cat held her ground. “Captain Morovant raided my ship on the crossing from Meridia ten years ago. What little my lord husband and I carried with us was plundered before our very eyes. It is a memory I will not soon forget.”

That seemed to shut Carley up, his white cheeks splotched red.

The governor was undeterred. “Who might Kane be sailing with?”

Too many names ran through her head, each one worse than the one before. The faces leered out of her memories.

Who will I send to the noose next?

“I do not know who lies at the bottom of the sea, or which ships escaped your fleet, my lord,” Cat said slowly. “But I know who hung, and who will never sail under the black flag, or any other, again.”

Behind his desk, Osprin’s face fell, his annoyance palpable. He raised one hand as if to dismiss her.

That, Cat could not allow. She could see it on the governor’s face, and Fell’s too. If she left this room now, she would return to a jail cell.

My head or theirs.

“Captain Rawls was still in the Furies, last I heard.” Her voice strengthened, cutting across the study. “Before Your Lordship arrived with the fleet. Jade Belloq would not have been with Morovant either, when the hammer fell. Nor was Captain Garedo. Perhaps Eddie Wells escaped too. He was far from Beacon Island when the Meridian fleet arrived—he could not have returned in time to fight. But again, I cannot be certain.”

“Rawls, Belloq, Garedo, Wells.”

Osprin repeated each name sharply. In the corner, Groust jotted them into a small notebook, his pen scratching the page. Carley only rolled his eyes.

“Jade? A woman captain?” he snickered. “You expect us to believe some bitch with a rowboat is plundering the Lyrian Sea?”

Heat spread across Cat’s face, her vision edging red. “That bitch captains the Cygnet, the fastest brigantine in these waters.”

“What of the other ships?” Osprin said evenly, silencing Carley before he could say something more foul.

My head or theirs, Cat thought again, willing herself to answer. But somehow the words caught in her throat, refusing to rise. A ship was far easier to identify than a captain, their names boldly painted and proudly displayed.

Her eyes widened when another voice answered.

“The Red Truth. The Baleria. The Rag Prince,” Lieutenant Fell said, ticking off the names.

Despite the circumstances, it felt like a small reprieve.

But Osprin’s eyes never left Cat’s face. “Any other names?”

Ana, she thought, her throat going tight. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of her neck. But she held Osprin’s stare.

“I cannot be certain,” she said again.

The governor was silent for a long moment, until the only sound in the room was the clock ticking. And Cat’s thundering heart, pounding so loud she feared Osprin and his officers might hear.

“Where might Kane make his berth?” The governor looked down at his maps, breaking his hold. “No ship can sail forever,” he added with a cluck of his tongue. “Kane must have a safe harbor now that Archenport has been reclaimed.”

Cat nodded, grateful for the change in subject.

“There are dozens, if not hundreds, of uninhabited islands in these waters,” she said. Too many came to mind—Perdina, the Cold Keys, Drowning Key, Hookhead, Jasboa, True East. They were just a few of countless other pirate hideaways scattered through the Lyrian Sea, known or unknown to Cat Rose. “And there is Arcayo. They have no alliances with the Empire or any other kingdom. For a time, Kane made a home in Nera, on Arcayo.”

Her breath hitched, the swell of memory rising up again, threatening to drown her.

Luckily the governor did not seem to notice and pulled a sour face. Cat ventured he had never seen Crownless Arcayo or the city of Nera. To the island’s benefit, no doubt. Most good Meridians had never sailed within a mile of Arcayo’s capital, ignorant of its stone streets, gurgling fountains, and jade-tiled buildings. The fuchsia flowers bursting, misty rainbows cooling the air. The smell of citrus and cacao, sweet cigar smoke, countless spices. Song priests calling out from their towers while the markets overflowed, a thousand blue pennants streaming over a waterfall city.

It felt as far from Archenport as a place could be, and Cat hoped it stayed that way.

“They are a sovereign nation, and beyond the claim of the Empire. For now,” Osprin said. “But their time will come, certainly.”

Both Carley and Groust grinned at the prospect, looking like a pair of leering jackals. Cat could not help but glance at the jeweled map in the corner.

So much of the world already devoured, and not an inch of hunger slaked.

“I must say,” the governor added, his tone sharpening. “You have not given much, Lady Rose.”

Cat could only sputter. “I—certainly you have more to ask?”

“Sir, we don’t have time for the whimpering of this woman.” Carley took a step forwards, planting himself between Cat and the governor, effectively cutting her off from any lifeline she might grasp. “Time is of the essence. Commodore Percy has arrived from High Harbour with his ships, and is anchored in the port, awaiting orders.”

Behind Carley’s back she shot Fell a look of desperation, embarrassing as it felt. He was already staring at her, his lips set in a thin, unreadable line. Panic set in, her throat closing. She could feel the cold of the cells and the rough brush of rope around her neck.

Do something, she wanted to say. Help me, you bastard.

“How many vessels did he bring?” Osprin sighed, his face obscured by Captain Carley’s rude position.

“Seven left High Harbour,” Carley answered, standing proud and stiff at attention.

“Six, sir,” Groust cut in, his pencil raised. Then he lowered his eyes again, ashamed to have corrected his superior officer.

Carley’s mouth twitched. “Ah, yes. Six have arrived.”

“Has Commodore Percy lost a ship, or have you miscounted?” Fell said dryly, one black eyebrow raised into a perfect, imperious arch. It was a look Cat knew well indeed, and enough to shatter the haze of terror settling over Cat’s mind.

Jasper Fell would always grasp at his own advancement, jumping at any opportunity, eager to climb. His hands were on the ladder now.

She only hoped she could climb with him.

Or kick him down the rungs.

Scoffing, Carley glanced over his shoulder. “Percy’s seven met a storm off Fortune Bay and were separated. But it will not be long until the last ship returns, the storm was small enough—”

Cat stood quickly from her seat, her mussed skirts pooling around her.

“A storm off Fortune Bay?” she balked, making a show of her disbelief for the governor. “Big enough to scatter a convoy? At this time of year? It is not yet the season.”

To her left, Fell took a step so they stood side by side. A united front. Under different circumstances, Cat would have shoved him away. Now she only wanted to keep him close.

“Have any other ships gone missing from the fleet?” he demanded.

Carley pursed his lips, annoyed.

But Osprin stood too, unfolding from his chair to rise like a thunderhead. He was shorter than Carley, but the captain quailed before the governor.

“Well, Carley?” Osprin prodded, his eyes narrowing into slits.

The captain of the Revel gave an appeasing bow, hat in hand.

“I will have to check our records and communications, Your Lordship,” he said, glancing sidelong at his lieutenant.

Groust was quick with an answer, which was perhaps all the more embarrassing for his captain. He turned a page in his notebook, eager to impress.

“Two ships lost in the Furies in the last month, Your Lordship. The Alliance and the Paladin. Both separated from their squadrons by storms, also near Fortune Bay.”

Cat felt such a storm whirling inside her, threatening to tear her apart. Part of her wanted to let it. It was simply too much to bear, the weight of this place, and all she had done to keep herself alive in it. And keep Valerian alive in it too.

My head or theirs. My head or his.

In contrast, Fell seemed intrigued. “Lost or sunk?”

Groust shrugged. “No wrecks were found, but they may yet arrive in their ports, the squadrons are new to these waters—”

The governor gave a low grunt, cutting Groust off with a slice of his hand. “What of bodies?”

Groust softly closed his notebook. “I do not know.”

Side by side, Cat and Fell exchanged heavy glances. She remembered what he told her in the dungeons of the fort. Two bodies washed up on shore, bullets in their heads. Two sailors of the fleet. It was not just the Paladin and the Alliance missing, but other ships too. Taken by violence, not storms or tides or any other danger in the Lyrian Sea.

Taken by him.

Cat cleared her throat as a lady would, the sound soft and gentle and delicate. It was a sound any Meridian officer or lord would know well, even a sailor long separated from fine dinner parties and court intrigues. Every eye snapped to her, black eyes and silver-gray, mud brown and sickly green. Cat faced them all down.

“Your crews are dead, but those ships still sail,” she said evenly. “Kane knows this sea better than any navigator you have. He knows the tides, he knows the wind, he knows the storms. And he’s using them to steal Meridian ships right out from under your nose.”

She let the weight of her words settle. Even pompous Carley had nothing to say, his face still blotchy pink.

But Cat only had eyes for the governor, holding his furious gaze.

“He’s building an armada of his own,” she murmured, landing the killing blow.

Behind his desk, Osprin’s cold facade threatened to burn, his face washing scarlet with rage. She did not miss the way his fists clenched, old scars standing out at his knuckles.

“You were never going to starve out Kane.” Cat stepped forwards to lean on the governor’s desk. The maps and parchments slid under her hands, the wax of the King’s golden seal cool to the touch.

“He means to fight, my lord. Total victory or nothing.”

Osprin grimaced as she threw his words back at him. But it was the truth, a truth Cat knew all too well. Val would tie himself to the mast of a sinking ship before surrendering to the navy, now or ever.

“So Kane will fight,” the governor growled, closing his fist. He seemed a volcano near to eruption.

This time when he struck the desk, he sent his maps flying, his regiment of paper soldiers scattered like a surrender. The letter from the King slid with them, the stamped image of the Meridian lion staring up at them all.

“From where?!” Osprin swiped at his desk again, sending another spray of parchment over the floor. “With whom?”

Fell did not flinch as a chart of the Lyrian currents slid across his boots, only picking it up with a sniff.

“And how many?” Fell added, moving to put the map back in its place. As he went, his arm brushed Cat’s, the pristine blue of his coat a sharp contrast to her wrinkled sleeve.

His body was far too close for Cat’s liking, but she did not move, holding her ground and the governor’s attention. Her survival depended on it.

“Like I told you, there are hundreds of small islands, some barely sandbars or tidal keys, with no inhabitants or crown claim. Before the pirates took Archenport, they used those islands as their own.” Her fingers walked a map of the Lyrian Sea, tracing the formations picked out in ink, bound by severe lines of latitude. “Islands that aren’t even on your charts.”

Her finger grazed an empty stretch of water that Cat knew was not empty at all.

Captain Carley seemed to have regained his voice. “Preposterous. The royal cartographers are unmatched—”

“The royal cartographers are in Brycam City and subject to what your ships see,” Cat said coldly. “If a landslide or a hurricane changed a coastline tomorrow, your navy-issue maps would not reflect the difference for two years at best. I’m afraid pirates of the Lyrian Sea are far more knowledgeable in their navigations than you are, sir.”

The captain sneered but even he could not argue with the logic. He rounded on the governor instead, electing to ignore Cat outright. “Send Commodore Percy after him, my lord. And the Revel will happily join him to hunt down this—”

Fell laughed openly, cutting the man off before Cat could. He faced the rival captain with a lazy smirk, shaking his head as if Carley were a student in the classroom—a student who had supplied the very wrong answer to a simple question.

“That is precisely what Kane wants, Captain,” Fell drawled. “For us to chase him piecemeal, searching a hundred useless spits of sand. As Lady Rose said, he knows these waters better than you do. And he has at least four ships behind him, three of ours, and one of his own.” He ran his eyes over Carley once more, then turned away with a shrug. “And gods know who else.”

This seemed to embolden the governor, a strange light coming into his eyes.

“Then I will not play his game,” he said. “I will not send squadrons to the slaughter.”

“I don’t understand . . .” Carley sputtered.

“I will not send a squadron. I will send the fleet entire,” the governor barked. “I only need a heading. And I need it quickly.”

Cat felt the blood drain from her face. The fleet entire. More ships than Cat knew how to count: men-o’-war, frigates, cruisers, warships all. Dozens of ships, thousands of sailors. Worse than the fleet was two months ago, when the Meridian fell upon the Lyrian Sea and the pirate republic like a godly hammer, and shattered the world.

What will they shatter now? What world will rise from this wreckage?

She eyed the floor again, picturing marble instead of wood. White tile, black tile, left or right.

She chose her move without hesitation.

“I will find Valerian Kane.”

Perhaps it was some trick of the humid air, but her voice seemed to echo, her words repeating over and over, drumming in rhythm with her ragged heartbeat. Cat expected doubt or regret to course through her as her words landed. Neither came.

My head or his.

Carley’s laughter shook the study, high-pitched and needling. Groust gave a half-hearted chuckle but clamped his mouth shut on sight of the governor.

Osprin did not laugh. Neither did Fell.

Both stared at her, hard-eyed and silent.

“My lord, you need hunters, not a barmaid,” Carley said, still chucking. His spittle flecked the air.

“You need to keep count of your own ships, sir,” Cat shot back. “I will find Kane.”

“And how do you propose you do that, Lady Rose?” Osprin mused, folding his arms across his chest. His sleeve shifted, showing a flash of bronzed wrist. Not the skin of a lord but the skin of sailor.

A sailor of a different sea, Cat reminded herself. For all his experience, he is still fresh to these waters. His strength is in numbers, not wisdom.

“You do not know what this place was, what the Lyrian Sea became in the years since the Empire left. It might be fading now with your triumphant return, but it is not gone,” she warned. She straightened, trying to look regal and resolute. “I ran a business here for many years and kept it afloat through perilous days. I have friends in every port from Little Talon to Longdawn. I know what to ask, how to talk, and when to listen.”

She braced herself for more of Carley’s laughter or Fell’s sneer, but neither man moved. Fell only stared, his expression unreadable again, his scrutiny too sharp for Cat’s liking.

“Better still, I do not wear a uniform of the Empire,” she continued steadily. “I am just the Widow Rose, a barmaid. Another civilian fleeing the changing tide, looking for safe harbor.”

It was an obvious, if risky, plan—but well worth the gamble.

To take whatever gold she might wring out of Osprin, to set out with a smile and promise she would never keep. To be gone before he even realized she never intended to come back, and leave Valerian whatever small chance he still had.

“And what do you ask in return, Lady Rose?” Osprin wondered.

She set her jaw. “What I was promised. A chest of gold and a strong wind. I want to be rid of this place,” she spat, her disdain all too obvious.

The governor sneered. “But the Empire has returned, the colonies reclaimed for the Meridian. Your perilous years are over, Lady Rose. There is no reason for you to leave your home ever again.”

There are a thousand reasons, she wanted to scream, remembering every hurricane, every sweltering heat wave, every sickness, all strung across the canyon between empire and anarchy. But most of all she remembered a pair of eyes, the color of a tempest.

“This is not my home,” she bit out.

Not anymore.

Next to her, Fell’s fingers curled, one hand balled into a fist, his knuckles turning white. Out of frustration or anger, Cat could not say.

Osprin shifted his attention, one hand on his chin. “You know the Lyrian Sea better than most of my officers, Captain Fell. Your patrols and your intelligence were integral to the reclamation. And you served here long before Archenport fell and the pirates took hold. You’ve seen this place for what it was, and what it must become,” he said, scratching at a sheen of rough, gray stubble. “What say you to this plan? Does Lady Rose speak truthfully?”

Cat’s chest tightened. Not because of the ghostly noose still looming but Jasper Fell’s forever-shifting machinations.

She read the delight plainly on Fell’s face. He gave a roll of his shoulders, taking his time to answer, drawing out her discomfort.

“Lady Rose is a woman of many friends, yes,” Fell said, shooting her a smug look sidelong. He drew out the words, letting his true meaning linger. “And . . .”

Cat’s skin crawled and she braced for a killing blow, for whatever secrets Fell might lay bare.

“She does not lie.”

Confusion washed over Cat. She could only blink as Fell continued his performance.

He faced the governor with a shallow bow, sweeping back his hat. To anyone else, he looked the picture of a loyal officer, dedicated to Crown and Empire. Cat knew better than to believe it.

But what else could he be after?

“If you will not send a fleet to hunt Valerian Kane, you should send Lady Rose,” Fell concluded. For once, his expression was stoic and determined, his brow set in a stern, dark line.

Whatever he wanted, Cat hardly cared. I will send him my thanks when I escape, from wherever I end up.

But he was not finished.

“And you should send me, of course,” he added, smiling to show two rows of even, white teeth.

Living in the Lyrian, Cat saw sharks all the time. She watched one now, his jaws wide, his eyes black. He smelled blood in the water, and he circled closer.

Hidden in her skirts, Cat’s hand rounded into a fist.

“I can hardly blend into the streets of Alvaris or Nera with a Meridian captain and his man-o’-war on my heels,” she snapped. “Your Lordship, I am of little value if I fail but—”

The shark circled—and struck.

“Ah, so kind of you to try to protect a ship of His Majesty’s navy,” Fell said, facing her as if they stood in the center of a ballroom and not a hurricane. “But I’m afraid you must be realistic in these matters, Lady Rose. You are a woman alone.” Fell clicked his tongue in a way that made Cat want to set the mansion on fire. “You can hardly be expected to navigate the waters of the Lyrian Sea unaccompanied.

Women do it all the time, you fucking rat, she thought, biting down on her tongue.

Fell took her silence for acquiescence.

“It would be ungentlemanly of us to send you alone. The King would hang his head in shame to even hear of it,” Fell went on blithely. “Besides, I would not want you to be frightened off your goal. Who knows what awaits you out there? Old friends. Old enemies?” His eyes sharpened, and Cat knew she was seen through. “A woman’s heart is easily unnerved. I shall help you walk this path and protect you from any danger you might face.”

There was nothing she could say aloud. But Cat pleaded silently, hoping Fell could read her eyes as well as she could read his.

Just let me go, Fell. Let me walk away like you promised.

“I would hate to see you lost in this, Catrine,” he murmured, his voice taking on a lower tenor, his gaze like cold steel.

“You served me with a warrant of execution not twelve hours ago,” Cat shot back, nearly growling. She did not miss the ripple of amusement in his gaze. “Captain Fell—”

“Is correct.”

Governor Osprin’s voice was the fall of a hammer or a judge’s gavel.

“We cannot expect a lady such as yourself to take on this endeavor alone.”

Cat opened her mouth to argue. “But—”

“Nor can we send Captain Fell and the Scorpion into the unknown,” Osprin added, acknowledging her. “There is no disguising a Meridian warship.”

Huffing, Fell squared his shoulders. “My lord—”

The governor cut him off with a blistering look. “You will command a merchant vessel. Take your best men and whatever Lady Rose requires.”

I require a pistol and four bullets, Cat thought, biting her lip to stifle a frustrated scream.

Despite the loss of his ship, Fell looked triumphant. He bent into another sharp bow, lower than before. Cat glimpsed a swath of freckles on his bare neck, exposed for a second. For all his peacocking, Fell was a sailor too.

A formidable ally—and an even worse opponent.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, stepping backwards.

Cat pursed her lips, feeling the eyes of the officers and Osprin on her. She did as expected and swept into a low curtsy.

“Very well,” she murmured, her eyes on the floor.

The game board in her head lay upended, the pieces scattered, her victory beyond reach. Again, she wished herself at the card table, with a trump card up her sleeve, instead of hopelessly cornered, with only one path left.

Fell’s hand wound beneath her arm. He played the part of a charming escort well, and no wonder. It had been the truth once, in this very mansion long ago.

How did my partner become my jailer, she wondered bitterly.

It was not the noose she felt now, but chains.

She barely heard the governor as he spoke, his words suddenly far away, filtering as if through deep water.

“You sail at dawn.”

Chapter Ten Before

CAT HAD WEATHERED storms on Rosby. It was nothing compared to weathering a storm at sea.

She awoke to thunder like cannons, firing closer and closer, until the force shook the ship from bow to stern. She felt it in her teeth, her bones vibrating with the storm. Clutching her pillow, pressed against the pitching wall of the cabin, Cat tried to go back to sleep, to no avail. When the next thunderclap sounded, she vaulted from her bunk, half tossed by the swells rocking the ship.

A single candle burned on a little table, the flame swaying with the will of the sea. But it was enough to illuminate the cramped space, the walls pressing in with every hungry wave.

Sara was already folded into the corner, a pillow over her head. The severe maid had lost all her sharpness, her meticulous hair undone and falling about her in swaying black rivers. She clutched her prayer beads in her fist, thumbing the stones one by one. Beneath the pillow, Sara peeked out and offered her free hand.

“My lady,” she murmured.

Cat took her hand gladly.

Side by side they cowered, at the mercy of a merciless sea.

Though she believed in nothing, Cat Rose prayed through the pantheon, begging to one silent god after another, until she had exhausted the deities of the Church.

Still the storm raged, every second somehow worse than the last.

Shouts echoed and Cat imagined Quine giving orders through relentless sheets of rain. She thought of Lieutenant Fell too, still clutching his hat against the wind. And perhaps Lord Rose wandering on deck, looking for someone to pay attention to him, until a wave swept him overboard to be claimed by the black deep.

Cat gripped Sara tighter and wished she knew gods beyond her own.

The gods of Esperin and Anticles were like the Meridian’s, cold statues in colder churches. Shadows cast by false shapes. Distant and beyond reach, if they existed at all.

Another wave rocked the ship, the largest yet. For a sickening moment, Cat thought they might tip over. Sara wept beside her, their hands still clasped. On the table, the candle tipped and rolled, the flame guttering out, plunging them both into heavy, heaving darkness.

“In Arcayo, they worship the Song—the sea,” Cat heard herself say, her grip on Sara even tighter. It was a dim memory against the harsh onslaught of the storm. The pages of her books blurred in her mind, the ink running like water. “The sea itself.”

“How do we pray to the sea?” Sara’s voice answered, gulping around tears. Her prayer beads wound around her knuckles, making Cat wish for a token of her own.

For something to put her faith in, even if there was nothing to believe.

The darkness pressed against her eyes, absolute in their cabin. There was no window, and not even lightning could lift the dark.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Cat murmured. It was the only thing she could think to say, the only piece of the Lyrian she knew beyond the chains of the Empire.

Sara repeated like a pilgrim following a priest. “May the sea always sing for you.”

So they went, back and forth, the seconds stretching, the minutes endless.

Until the thunder seemed a little less strong. Until the ship did not rise and fall so violently, each wave smaller and smaller. Until the cabin felt like a cabin again, and not a grave.

“Is it over?” Sara breathed, her arm clutching to Cat’s.

Slowly, Cat extricated herself from the other woman’s grip. Beneath the sleeves of her sleep shift, Cat could already feel bruises forming. It was no matter. She had left curved indentations of her nails in Sara’s hand.

“I don’t know,” Cat answered, rising to shaking feet. The deck still rolled beneath her, but at least she could stand without falling. “I’m going to find out.”

“My lady, you shouldn’t—”

“I’ll come right back, Sara.” Cat stretched out, feeling for the walls of their narrow cabin. Her fingers slid over pitted wood as she traced her way to the door. “I promise.”

There was no light in the passage, the lanterns belowdecks blown out or smashed. Blown out, Cat surmised. Navy sailors knew better than to leave them burning during a storm. Gods only knew how much oil and gunpowder lay stored through the vessel.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, the dark lifting to reveal a wash of blue spilling down the forecastle stairs. The steps gleamed, slick with rain. Then there was a peal of lightning, blinding for an instant. Cat froze, eyes too wide, until the thunder rolled.

Farther away, she told herself, exhaling in relief.

She expected a wreck when she emerged on the main deck, but Quine’s crew were as formidable as their captain. Everything was tied down and the sails reefed but for one small sheet for maneuvering. A few sailors bailed seawater over the side, moving in unison. The rest were either belowdecks riding out the storm or clustered around Quine at the helm. All of them looked run-through—red-faced and red-handed, wet to the bone.

Cat could hardly distinguish officer from enlisted sailor. Against the storm, against death, they all looked the same.

The rain still fell, but less furious, almost gentle in its touch. The predawn sky coiled overhead, the clouds a swirl of black, gray, and blue. And in the distance, strangely green, the storm moved low over the water. Cat stared for a long second, enraptured by the sight. Half a mile away, the lightning crackled through the green clouds, the waves white-capped and vengeful.

“May the sea always sing for you,” she muttered to herself one more time, willing the storm to keep moving.

Then a voice bellowed from the quarterdeck, clear across the ship.

“Lady Rose, you should be below!” Quine glared at her, his eyes burning through the rain. He stood tall next to his helmsman, the exhausted sailor still clutching the ship’s wheel.

Cat wanted to obey, but something would not let her move. She lingered, still staring at the green clouds and the dawn breaking somewhere in the darkness.

“Lady Rose!” Quine shouted again.

There was a flurry of motion, and Lieutenant Fell descended the quarterdeck ahead of the captain, cutting him off. He was not as Cat had pictured, a hat still stubbornly on his head. Instead his black hair was loose and wet, clinging to his face. A red flush tinged his cheeks, and she surmised it was not only rain soaking his body but sweat. His cobalt coat was gone entirely, his white sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fabric so wet it was near translucent. She glimpsed his pale chest at his open collar, the muscles of his neck and shoulders carved by a harder life than she had assumed.

Cat jolted, realizing her nightshift would be soaked through in a similar way soon enough. She crossed her arms, hugging herself instinctively, trying to cover what she could. Heat bloomed over her skin despite the cold, damp air and the spray of the iron sea.

“Below, Lady Rose,” Fell growled, closing the distance between them. He even took her by the shoulder, forcing her away from the rail.

She gave an indignant gasp, and all thoughts of wet clothes disappeared.

“I thought officers were supposed to be gentlemen, Lieutenant,” she snapped, trying to break his hold.

It was like fighting with a steel trap.

“There are no gentlemen in a hurricane,” he shot back, marching her towards the stairs. “Now get below. Stop pressing your luck.”

Cat glanced back to the green clouds, her face incredulous. “You call that storm luck?”

“We are alive.” Fell lowered his head to her eye level, his silver gaze a knife. “That is luck enough.”

Though her stomach still rolled, Cat nodded. She would go below and be grateful. We are alive, she thought, sighing. It reminded her of another dangerous moment on another deck, on another ship.

Welcome to the Lyrian Sea.

“Lady Rose?” Fell prodded, still standing over her. He dropped her arm, letting his hands dangle at his sides. Like the rest of the crew, his fingers were striped red and white, the angry testament of straining rope.

Cat almost laughed. Fell would drag her across the deck but not below it. The lines of propriety here are so strange. And always shifting.

“Very well—”

Her mouth clapped shut as she pitched sideways, shoved away from the staircase by cold, familiar hands. Cat caught herself on the rail, the waves churning black beneath the ship. For a terrifying moment, she thought she might tumble overboard into the wet abyss. But the rail held, sturdy and solid. She braced herself and turned in time to see Lord Ryman Rose clambering across the rocking deck, his arms flung wide.

“I have need of a man to clean my hammock, our maid is in hysterics!” he called to no one, as if Quine’s crew were servants to be ordered.

Cat bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Part of her wanted to wrap an arm around her husband’s throat and silence him for good. The rest was too worn to do anything but slump against the rail. Somehow pissing himself in front of pirates wasn’t mortifying enough. Ryman had to embarrass himself in front of half the navy too, screaming about the vomit in his blankets.

Fell shot a glare in Ryman’s direction but did not stop him. He offered a hand to Cat instead. Real concern shone in his eyes, if only for a blistering second.

“No gentlemen in a hurricane,” Cat muttered, leveraging herself up to stand unaided.

The lieutenant darkened. “Something tells me his behavior is not the hurricane’s fault.”

“These infernal Roses,” Quine growled from the helm, louder than the distant thunder.

Cat could not blame the captain for his frustration. She was shamed enough by her husband’s behavior, in fair or foul weather.

“Ryman, let me tend to you,” she called, grimacing as the words left her mouth. But it was the only way she knew to get him belowdecks and out of the way. “Come, you can take my bunk, if need be—”

“Nonsense, you are a lady of the Meridian, you should not stoop to cleaning,” Ryman shouted back over his shoulder. His nightshift was soiled at the collar, splattered with sick. “Captain Quine! I say, unhand me!”

Another sailor caught Ryman by the arm, bodily steering him around. But the lord slipped on the rain-slick deck, stumbling to his knees with a bray like a donkey. Cat felt her cheeks flush deeper, her embarrassment a roaring fire. She did not miss the look on Fell’s face either.

Pity.

I don’t pity the likes of you.

She did not know which she preferred. Fell’s pity, or the pirate’s disdain.

A few yards away, the officer wrestled Ryman to his feet. Somehow he had developed a nosebleed in the last thirty seconds.

She could hardly watch the shameful scene. Ryman whining for a servant and falling over himself. Another sailor of the Venerable running to escort the helpless lord below. Captain Quine at the helm, shaking his head with a look of disgust. And the storm beyond it all, black and green, still churning its way across the furious sea.

Lightning veined once more, crackling through the clouds. Guttural thunder followed, the distant force of it reverberating in Cat’s chest.

Then another light flared, lower this time, somewhere between the waves and the cloud bank. Barely above the waterline, or where the waterline should be.

Cat squinted at it.

It was a flash in the clouds, but not like a lightning bolt.

Like a—

“CANNON FIRE!” Fell roared, just as the sound reached the Venerable.

Not the distant rumble of thunder, but the sharp, brutal blast of gunpowder.

A cannonball whistled across the distance between storm and ship, hot iron burning through the air.

She barely had time to flinch, let alone brace.

Lieutenant Fell was faster, throwing out an arm, forcing Cat to duck against the deck. He did the same, his body pressed beside hers, his arm around her shoulders, his wet clothes soaking through her shift.

The whistle became a howl.

Through the cage of Fell’s arms, Cat looked up in time to see the cannonball careen past the forecastle and slam into the figurehead of the Venerable.

The ornate prow, a gold carving of the Meridian lion with a lantern sun in its paws, exploded in a storm of shimmering splinters. The legendary beast fell to ashes, the great symbol of the Empire destroyed in seconds. The lantern in the lion’s paws went too, flame spitting and hissing as it spiraled into the sea.

The force of the blow rocked the ship, and Cat’s stomach rocked with it. Her ears rang with the force of cannon fire.

Across the deck, the crew of the Venerable leapt to battle stations, whipped into a frenzy. Quine barked orders, his officers scuttling, his helmsman rapidly spinning the wheel. Sailors flew up the rigging, climbing to free the sails.

Cat expected Fell to stand, to follow orders. But he did not move, hovering over her, his silver eyes sweeping back and forth over the ship, and into the clouds, reading the distance between the Venerable and whoever lay in wait.

Whatever he saw, he did not like.

“Lieutenant,” she murmured, trying to stand despite the arm holding her down.

Again, it was useless to fight him. He did not move, his face a blank stone.

“Is the hurricane shooting at us?” Ryman wailed out, already forgotten in a heap.

Before anyone could answer the stupidest question ever asked upon a ship, there was another flash in the clouds.

And another.

And another.

*

SHE WOKE TO the taste of blood.

I bit my lip, Cat thought, her mind pulling itself slowly from the black maw of sleep. Ryman was making such an ass of himself, I bit my lip to keep from screaming at him.

Then something nudged beneath her, gentle as a cat pawing its favorite toy. The rise and fall of whatever she lay on had a rhythm, as if the thing below was breathing. It was not so warm as the air, a few degrees cooler, but not unpleasant.

And wet.

Cat’s eyes flew open to a cloudy sky and gray water, the waves no longer a line of furious mountains but a parade of calm valleys. The thing nudging her was not a thing at all but the current of the Lyrian Sea.

She jerked up to sit, the wreckage beneath her bobbing with the sudden motion. Cat yelped and froze, lest she tip her makeshift raft over entirely and plunge the rest of her body into the water. Her arms were already doused, and one leg too, but her torso had dried, stiff with salt. She could still claim modesty, even half soaked.

As if modesty mattered in the middle of the sea.

It was finally daylight, though the storm left behind a low blanket of misty clouds. A rare reprieve from the Lyrian sun. Cat squinted, trying to see through the haze. Trying to make sense of the destruction coming into focus all around her.

She was splayed across a curved piece of wood, one side pocked with barnacles, the other black and burned. Revulsion crawled up Cat’s body.

This was part of the hull, from deep below the waterline.

Terror descended and Cat raised her gaze.

The Venerable lay in pieces.

Small ones.

The edge of a gilded rail. A window frame from the captain’s quarters, its glass shattered. A few barrels floated past, sinking slowly. Rope trailed along like the tentacles of some horrible sea creature, tangled and frayed. One of the masts bobbed nearby, a felled tree, its white sail rippling across the surface as it had once rippled in the wind. A longboat stubbornly remained afloat, albeit flipped over and broken in half.

Cat sucked in a desperate, terrified breath. She tasted ash instead of salt air and nearly retched.

It was not mist moving over the surface but smoke. Indeed, pockets of flame still burned along the wreckage, feeding on what remained of the Venerable, clinging to dry wood and skims of oil on the surface.

More dark shapes took form through the thick air, arcs of wood like the ribs of a skeleton. The deepest parts of the hull had risen to the surface, too wet to burn through. It looked like a watery hell all around her, with nothing but death to keep her company.

A wet, rasping sob rose up in Cat’s throat. She clapped a hand to her mouth, blinking furiously, trying to stem her tears before they even began. The smoky air seemed to sear her lungs, but Cat gasped it down, breath after breath, trying to steady herself against a world turned upside down.

“Hello?” she finally called out over the water, her voice trembling. “Sara! Captain Quine! Lieutenant Fell!” She was desperate enough to even call for him. “Ryman!”

No one answered.

“Hello?!” she shouted again, into the emptiness, with no one to reply but the hissing embers.

Her eyes stung, her face crumbling despite her best efforts. Cat told herself it was the smoke, but the hot tears running down her face said otherwise.

What now?

It was the only question that mattered, with the Venerable sunk, the sea stretching in every direction, and Cat at the center of it all.

Alive, but still very much doomed.

There is no point in crying.

Cat shivered as the thought crossed her mind, the voice her own. But colder, harder. And correct. There was no one to hear her weep. No one to come to her rescue.

She glanced through the wreckage again.

No one but me.

Slowly, she forced herself to her knees, rising up a little for a better view of the debris. The water sloshed over the wreckage, but she kept her balance, hands outstretched.

Now she glimpsed the bodies amongst the debris, felled like their great ship. Men of the Meridian to the last. A tricorne hat floated by, the edge of it decorated in gold filigree. Cat recognized the pattern.

Quine.

Worse was the shock of dark hair, blacker than the waves, never to be woven into a severe braid ever again. Sara already looked like a ghost, the nightgown her shroud. In the smallest of mercies, she floated face down, and Cat did not have to look into her lifeless eyes.

Cat expected another wave of tears, if not sickness. She touched her arm, feeling the still-blooming bruises of Sara’s terrified grip.

Sorrow washed over her. But the tears did not return.

What good will it do? There is no point, Cat told herself again, turning her gaze away.

She searched, not for the uniform of a navy officer, but a stained nightshift. A head of dirty blond hair. Bare feet and soft hands.

Let him be dead at least. Show me this mercy, she begged.

Then someone groaned, and her body whirled so fast she nearly plunged into the water.

Cat tracked the sound like a hunter, finding the overturned longboat again. One side of the broken hull dipped into the water, with an odd shape clinging to the wood.

It was moving.

Cat bent to the water’s edge. Her hands clawed through the waves, working furiously to paddle herself towards the longboat.

“Hello!” she screamed once more, her arms already burning with exertion.

The shape groaned again in reply. It sounded more like a growl this time, bitter and annoyed. One arm bent, pushing up through the haze, bringing his face into sharper focus.

Foolish though it might have been, Cat plunged into the sea. Her nightshift like a cloud around her, she swam the last few yards to the longboat.

And Second Lieutenant Jasper Fell.

He stared down at her with a strange look, in a daze. Black hair clung to one side of his face, and a vicious cut sliced across one dark eyebrow. His arms, bare to the elbow, were striped in angry, pink burns. They almost obscured a tattoo on his left forearm, a navyman’s mark—the Meridian lion with an anchor in its paws.

“Lady Rose?” Fell said softly. The cut through his brow dripped red, a bead of blood working down his cheek.

“Under the circumstances, I suppose you can call me Cat,” she sputtered, fighting to float.

The lieutenant’s pale face only went paler.

“Are we alive or dead?”

Cat swallowed a bloom of frustration and reached out to grab the lifeboat, her shift tangling around her legs. She tried to steady herself, but the current was stronger than she realized, pushing at her limbs. With a will, she twisted in the water and caught Fell around the wrist.

His skin was cold beneath her hand, unmoving, as if he could not feel her grasp. For a second, Cat wondered if he might have struck his head or lost his senses entirely. Then his gaze sharpened, and he twisted his hand so it gripped her own. His fingers closed around her wrist and he flexed, hauling her up next to him.

“Alive,” she answered, clambering up onto the longboat. She tucked her shift, sitting astride the hull, all thoughts of etiquette drowned with the Venerable. “For now.”

Her eyes still burned, but the tears were gone. Her sorrow was spent, for Quine, for Sara. For the rest of the crew lost. She had strength enough for herself and her predicament. It was a strange feeling, to shut out the horrors in front of her eyes.

Fell did not. He blinked at her slowly, still in shock. He seemed half a ghost himself, ready to fade into the smoke.

Cat clenched her teeth and tightened her hold on his wrist, hoping to rouse him.

“What now, Jasper?” she said sharply, but he only looked at her in that detached way again.

As if he saw through her, as if she didn’t exist at all.

She tried again, leaning closer. “I’m sorry about your men—but we are still alive. And we need to figure out how to stay that way.”

He only looked away, scanning the wreckage—the bodies and the uniforms, the men with their faces submerged. A wave of emotions crossed his face. Cat expected anger, but it quickly melted to sadness.

“For Crown and Empire,” he muttered. No longer a proud battle cry but a lament.

“For Crown and Empire,” she echoed weakly, watching as Fell winced.

“They did their duty,” Cat offered, as if it would be a balm.

He winced again.

“Did they?” Fell breathed, his voice breaking. “Did I?”

“Certainly, I would be dead if not—”

The lieutenant only shook his head. “Quine was a good man. A good captain. Fair. Decent.” The words cracked, betraying deep wells of pain. “He wasn’t born a noble, you know? Not like so many officers.”

Something snagged, and Cat tipped her head, her fingers still tight on Fell’s wrist. His pulse thrummed against her grasp. She eyed his tattoo with new scrutiny. It was hardly the kind of thing a nobleman would bear, but the lowborn sailors certainly did.

“Not like you?” she murmured, watching the disdain creep back onto his face. The detachment, the arrogance. And the envy too.

“No, Lady Rose, not like me,” he said bitterly. It was enough to finally shift his attention from the bodies around them. The water sloshed as he leaned and snatched his arm away, the wreckage shifting with his weight. “I’m surprised it took you so long to notice I am not of the same quality.”

Cat’s thighs tightened on the longboat, holding against the sudden movement.

“You hide it well,” she replied, sizing him up. “With your sneer and your cold exterior.”

Some color returned to his face, pink blooming over his cheekbones. He held Cat’s gaze for a long while, the silver of his eyes dappled by the weak light.

“I suppose that’s another difference now,” he said, dropping his gaze to the water. “Jasper Fell, the common orphan boy, alive where so many of rank are dead.”

Cat opened her mouth to respond, to commiserate, to say anything that might prod Fell back to himself. But a gloom fell over them both, a massive shape moving through the smoke and fog.

Her voice died in her throat, her head tilting back to look up and up and up—

The shadow was unmistakable.

Another ship approached, the silhouette sharpening as it maneuvered through the wreckage. It was smaller than the Venerable, but not by much. Cat glimpsed the misty outline of three masts, their sails tacked. Oars splashed through the gloom and hazy figures flitted over the deck. At the prow, a hulking figurehead took shape, a paw raised to claw the air, jaws open wide.

The Meridian lion.

Cat nearly wept. The lion, the navy, she thought, opening her mouth to shout. But a soft wind rolled along the water, parting the smoke to allow a beam of blinding daylight. At the stern of the approaching ship, a great flag unfurled, black as the bottom of a well.

Black as death.

The world went silent, the only sound Cat’s heart thumping in her ears.

Pirates.

A white skull rippled over them, sewn to the flag. One of its teeth was gold—the incisor sharp as a blade.

Cat felt it as keenly as a knife at her throat.

Next to her, Fell drew a breath. His face cleared, his wits returning as if someone poured a bucket of ice over his head. The ghost was gone, replaced by the stern and capable Lieutenant Fell.

“Get in the water,” he hissed, slipping off the hull without so much as a splash. He eased himself quickly and quietly under the surface. Leaving only a trail of air bubbles behind.

Cat quickly followed, sliding into the waves. When she broke the surface again, this time under the overturned shell of the longboat, Fell was waiting in the near darkness.

“Do you think they saw us?” Cat whispered, doing her best against the current.

Daylight slanted through a crack in the hull, striking a line across Fell’s bleeding face. He was a good swimmer—or at least didn’t seem to struggle as much as Cat.

“You may hold on to me if you must,” he said, extending an arm. “Don’t let your pride drown you.”

“My pride sank with the Venerable,” she said, grasping at him. “What of your pride, Lieutenant?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We face certain death out here. Sharks, storms, dying of thirst as we drift.” She fought to speak and tread water at the same time. “Surrendering to pirates might be the best option to survive.”

Fell sneered. “You first, Lady Rose.”

Her cheeks burned, her bluff called.

“Very well,” she shot back, taking a deep breath to fill her lungs.

Only for Fell to grab her by the shoulder, preventing her from swimming away.

“We are on a well-traveled sea lane,” he said, too close to her face. At such a distance, in the slanting light, Cat could see his eyes were not entirely silver but flecked with tiny chips of icy blue. “There will be a navy or merchant ship along in a day, or maybe hours. This smoke will not be difficult to spot.”

Her shift tangled around her kicking feet. She gritted her teeth, feeling like she might drown at any moment. “And if we drift off the lane, out to the ocean?”

Fell’s resolve wavered. “It will not come to that.”

“It might,” Cat muttered. “You know it might.”

His face tightened, a muscle feathering in his jaw. It was answer enough. The last thing either Catrine Rose or Jasper Fell wanted was to die at sea.

In this, at least, we are aligned.

“On the crossing from the Empire, our ship was waylaid by pirates. We were able to pay them off. Certainly, we can do it again.” Cat remembered the Credence too well, and what hard, fast lessons she had learned upon its deck. “To pay is to live. To fight is to die.”

They were not her own words but the words of a pirate.

Good advice, no matter the source.

Fell did not seem convinced. But before he could reply, darkness fell over the longboat, blotting out the light from the crack in the hull. Cat shivered beneath her shift, holding tight to Fell’s arm. Both ducked low against the water line, as if the waves might somehow hide them.

Splashes echoed outside, amongst the wreckage. Oars, Cat knew, hearing the hollow thwack of wood on wood as the pirate ship navigated the ruin of the Venerable. She imagined them bumping up against crates and barrels, long oars gently pushing aside debris and corpses. Then something heavier crashed into the water. Many somethings.

The pirates were diving into the destroyed warship.

“Lash those together!” A man shouted, barking orders. His voice sounded like grinding stones, destroyed by long years at the pipe.

“Aye, sir,” a few others answered.

The rough voice growled. “We may yet make something of this mess.”

Beneath the overturned hull, Cat felt sick. She bent her legs, one hand clawed to the wood, trying to find something to hold on to so she might lift herself higher out of the water. Fell’s hand on her shoulder froze her solid, his grip like a vise. His eyes widened, furious and cold, his message clear.

Stop moving.

Another splash echoed, bigger and closer than the others. Cat felt the force of it hit their hiding place, rocking the wreckage over them. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut.

A longboat, she thought. How many pirates it held, she could not say. But more than enough.

The voices glided around Cat and Fell, circling them.

To pay is to live, Cat told herself over and over again. But pay with what exactly? Promises? My nightgown? Her heartbeat quickened, ramming so hard she feared the pirates might hear it. She figured Fell certainly could.

His eyes met hers through the shadows. As on Rosby, his gaze took on an odd glint. He was weighing her measure once more, taking stock of Lady Rose. Or what remained of her, half drowned and destitute.

“Do not tell them your name, Cat,” he whispered, his voice almost lost to the sloshing water. “A maid they may let go. But a lady of the Empire—”

Cat’s breath caught in her throat. “What will they do to a lieutenant?”

The glint faded, Fell’s eyes going dull. And Cat understood exactly why he would not chance the pirates, no matter the price. As an officer of the Meridian navy, noble or not, he faced certain death.

“Do you see any survivors?” a pirate called, a woman, her voice tight and annoyed, curling with an accent Cat could not place.

“None,” another replied. “The powder magazine must’ve been full to the gills. Even Goa couldn’t salvage this wreck. What a bloody disaster.”

“By the Sea and the Song, what a waste,” the woman hissed back, almost on top of them.

An oar knocked against their hiding place, and Cat flinched, curling into herself. Beneath the surface of the water, she struggled, working the wedding ring off her finger. It was plainer than a lady’s ring should have been, just a circle of gold.

Do not tell them your name.

Cat felt nothing as she slipped it off, letting it drop. She hoped it would join the one on Ryman’s finger, steadily sinking into the dark.

A gruff male voice growled out from somewhere closer. “The captain was supposed to hobble the ship, not burn it to the keel—”

The woman outside knocked her oar again, cutting him off. “It isn’t the captain’s fault a navy ship couldn’t withstand a few cannonballs. And you should think more on salvage than running your mouth . . .”

Gray light washed over Cat and Jasper as the longboat hull flipped over, revealing them both. They recoiled in unison, as if they were not two obvious survivors bobbing in the waves.

Cat shivered in the water, staring up at a half dozen pirates. Each one looked grimier than the next, seated side by side in a battered longboat. They glared back with flint-bright eyes.

“Maybe not an entire waste,” the woman said, grinning.

Chapter Eleven After

FELL DROPPED THE charade of a dutiful officer as soon as the carriage rattled through the gates of the governor’s mansion. It felt like watching an octopus change his skin to suit a reef.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Cat bit out, seething.

Fell laughed. “Quite the performance, Lady Rose. I forgot how well you dance with the right partner.”

The right partner. Cat scoffed and glared out the window, watching Archenport roll past. Fell’s jab was twofold, meant to sting. She did her best not to think on it.

Even so, she remembered swirling silk and her steps across checkered tile, tracing the patterns of a country dance learned across the ocean. Fell’s arm under hers. And then Valerian’s too, his tempest eyes turned gold by the candles of a ballroom. It pained her, the weight of so much memory. Sometimes it felt like being pressed to death, crushed between two unyielding stones.

Satisfied with her silence, Fell relaxed back into his seat.

“I’ll have my pick of vessels,” he said. “Fear not; even without the Scorpion, you’ll be safe in whatever waters—”

“Do not pretend to care for my well-being, Fell,” Cat muttered, still pressed against the window.

The carriage was already far down the city hill, fast approaching her townhouse. Her hand closed on the handle of the door, eager to push it open. She intended to step out as quickly as she could and leave Fell performing for his favorite audience—himself.

“Oh, I’ve long stopped worrying about that,” he answered coldly. “It is my neck on the line as much as yours.”

Cat tried to bite her tongue but failed.

“Then leave me be. Save your own skin. We both know you excel in that endeavor!” she snapped, whirling to face him.

Desperation laced her words, as much as she hated it. Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands, playing the part of a beggar.

“Let me do this alone,” she murmured.

Let me go.

Fell held her gaze long enough to light a little candle of hope. Then snuffed it out just as quickly.

“And lose the best chance we have of ending this now?” He shook his head. “Contrary to what you might think, Cat, I have no desire to spend the rest of my days rooting half-dead pirates out of the Lyrian Sea.”

“Of course,” Cat drawled back at him, reading Jasper Fell as she would a book. “It is always so easy to see your intentions. After all, you are not a terribly complicated man.”

His eyes narrowed, two bolts of silver flame.

“You will always choose yourself first,” Cat said, “and follow the selfish course.”

“A trait we share, Lady Rose,” he replied without hesitation.

There was no use denying it. In the scheme of things, Cat was simple too.

“True.” Her voice sharpened, an admission as much as a warning. “True indeed.”

The carriage turned, rolling onto Keystone Street, and Cat leaned with the motion.

“The King is coming, and you will be his champion,” she added. It was not an accusation but a matter of fact. “Who knows, he might even give you a lordship, if you deliver the sea. And I’m sure Osprin thinks the same.”

She tipped her head, watching Fell. Already he basked in the prospect of such a future, his silver eyes going foggy.

Teeth bared, Cat shot forwards to loom over him. Fell did not flinch, leaving them nose to nose in the small space.

“I suppose you’ll drag Captain Kane in front of the King yourself. But will you have the stomach to do the deed?”

The flecks of blue in Fell’s gray gaze seemed to dance. Beneath them, the carriage halted, but Cat kept her balance, one hand braced on the low ceiling, the other pressed flat against the panel beside Fell’s head, fencing him in.

Against the collar of the imperial uniform, his neck turned a bright shade of red.

“Cat,” he said in a low tone, his voice thickening.

As with all things Jasper Fell, Cat knew that voice too. She had heard it many times, all of them desperate and wanting.

One side of her mouth lifted in a sneer. His eyes followed the curve of her lips.

“I remember your face when they tore Morovant limb from limb.” She did not miss the jump of a vein in Fell’s throat, nor the uncomfortable way he shifted. Like a worm squirming on a hook. “I thought sailors didn’t get seasick, but you looked quite green.”

Fell was silent, still staring, still looking her over inch by inch. Cat was accustomed to his observations and knew better than to feel shame before Jasper Fell. He’d seen much and more of her. But still she felt a flush, her cheeks warm in the close space, suddenly aware of the short distance between them, and her disheveled state.

For once, she hoped to see pity in him. Pity enough to loosen the chains that bound them both. Pity enough to end this torment.

Then the footman pulled open the carriage door, spilling hot Lyrian sun through the interior.

Cat did not recoil, holding her ground.

Beneath her, Fell raised his scarred eyebrow, and his gaze turned shrewd.

“I advise you pack light,” he said. Again, he glanced at her rumpled dress, this time with haughty disdain. “Gods only know what manner of ship I might commandeer. You may not be afforded a cabin.”

Cat rolled her eyes. Whatever hope she had for Jasper Fell’s mercy burned away. There would be no release, not from him. Quickly, she alighted from the carriage. Over her shoulder, she blew a poisonous kiss.

“I’d sleep in the bilge if it meant getting away from you,” she called.

Fell did not bother to descend. He glared after her, his mouth torn between a snarl and a smile.

“That can be arranged!”

*

ONLY WHEN THE door was safely shut behind her, the sanctuary of the townhome welcoming Cat with open arms, did she slump. Or at least she tried to. Ms. Moseley caught her before she could collapse entirely, a weeping Derry on her heels.

“We went to the fort. They said you were . . .” Derry snuffled, red-faced, her eyes swollen from crying.

“It doesn’t matter what they said,” Moseley said, her stern manner somehow comforting. Cat could not help but lean into her grasp. “She is home now. I told you our mistress would sort it out.”

Much as she wanted to let Moseley take a little bit of the burden, Cat forced herself to stand. She tried not to remember what it felt like to sit in a cell, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.

“I’m fine, Derry,” she said, even as her knees trembled.

Moseley dropped her hand but did not leave Cat’s side. “See, nothing to fuss over,” she said sharply. “Now go prepare a bath, she’ll need it after a night in the cells.”

While Derry bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, Cat shot Moseley a grateful look. Derry was a kind girl but emotional, prone to hysterics. And while the situation certainly called for hysteria, it would not aid matters at all.

Moseley pushed Cat along, away from the front door and into the small parlor.

Gleaming glass windows looked out on Keystone Street, and light spilled across the intricate Anticlean carpet, worked in green and gold thread. Oil paintings, porcelain vases, silk-edged curtains. Her fine things would suit a Meridian lord, though they were acquired through less-than-lordly means. Years ago, Cat had wanted her house on Keystone to look like a little bit of Meridia, like a corner of the country estate she never truly had. Now as she sat, surveying the fine wallpaper and woven rugs, the useless hearth and lacquered paneling, she hated it all. They were the trappings of the Empire, the stamp of a king far across the ocean.

Far across the ocean for now, she thought sharply. Already the clock ticked in her mind, counting down the days until the sovereign himself would arrive.

She started as a glass was pressed into her hand, two fingers of dark-brown liquor sloshing in the crystal. Not rum but good whisky, judging by the biting smell.

“Put it back and set yourself right,” Moseley commanded, standing over Cat like a wolf over her pup.

“You would make quite the nursemaid,” Cat replied, taking a steady gulp. She drained the glass slowly, but without stopping.

The whisky burned a sweet line down her throat and pooled in her belly. The warmth of it anchored her a little, holding her steady against the waves of fear and anger crashing in every direction.

“I doubt I’ll have time to bathe properly,” Cat muttered, casting a rueful glance at the door. As much as she wanted to scrub off all remnants of the fort, the cells, and the governor’s deadly bargain, there were more pressing things to address.

Moseley raised a thin eyebrow. “No time to bathe? This is very unlike you.”

At any other time, Cat would have laughed. Instead, she turned to look out the window, the street beyond warped by the thick glass. Captain Fell’s carriage was long gone.

“Have Derry lay out some clothes for me,” she murmured.

The maid’s brow disappeared into her hairline.

Cat sighed. “For travel.”

When Moseley collapsed into the seat next to Cat, she looked her age for once. The sun glinted in her gray hair and cut across her worn face, filled with wrinkles hard-earned by a life of work beneath the tropical sun. She ran a hand over her scalp, smoothing back a few silver strands. Meticulous as Moseley was with the townhome and the estate before it, she was always disheveled herself.

“Is it finally time, then?” the old woman whispered, her pale eyes wavering around the room. Then she grimaced. “I don’t know if you have anything warm enough for the crossing.”

In spite of herself, Cat laughed.

“I’m not going back to the Empire,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

Moseley’s expression tightened, her lips pursing. “I see Jasper Fell’s hand in this.”

Sighing, Cat wished for another glass of whisky.

“Indeed, his hands are all over my predicament,” she admitted. “But he is also the reason I’m still alive and not strung up in Hargrove Square.”

She could not help but feel some begrudging loyalty to Fell, even now. It was a difficult habit to break, after all they had seen.

Moseley did not share the sentiment. Her frown became a sneer, her cheeks flushing red.

“He informed on you last night and saves your neck in the morning,” she snapped. “What a gentleman.”

Cat felt her mouth twitch, but not to sneer. Her lips pulled into a smirk.

“There are no gentlemen in a hurricane,” she muttered, though Moseley would not understand. The words were too old, an echo from another life upon the Lyrian Sea. “A storm is coming, Moseley. And I fear I must sail into it. I suppose it is my own fault.”

With a will, Moseley stood. Cat half expected her to salute. Gods knew she had more honor and duty in her pinky finger than half the imperial navy.

“Your fault?” Again, Moseley took her by the arm, a steadying grip in a restless sea.

“It is no one’s fault but the Meridian Empire, Cat. All this is their work and no one else’s. They burn, they destroy. They build over what was and force the rest of us to bear it.” Then she crooked a smile, showing the charming gap in her front two teeth. “Besides, one tavern wench could hardly destroy the pirate republic. Don’t think so highly of yourself, Lady Rose.”

Cat forced a smile, for Moseley’s sake, even as the pain in her chest grew.

“I do not believe I could think any less,” she whispered to Moseley’s retreating form.

*

THE TRIO SPENT the rest of the day and well into the night preparing for the journey.

Most time-consuming was the sewing. Cat would not be able to take much with her, but the clothes she packed were well altered. They laced coins into her jacket lining and between the folds of her black dresses, as much as could be hidden. It was less than Cat hoped to carry, but she made do, adding a false bottom to her leather bag. And her skirts all had pockets added already to hold a handkerchief or her small pistol, whichever suited.

Only when the clock in the dining room chimed midnight did the women relent. With all her effects in order, Cat collapsed into bed, already counting down to when she would need to wake again. It was a foolish endeavor.

If I fall asleep now, I’ll have five hours at least.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for the bliss of a dreamless sleep. Instead, a face swam up out of the darkness of her mind, unmistakable. His hair glinted bright gold, lit by an unseen sun. And his eyes flashed blue-gray-green, the shifting color of a tempest.

Four hours.

Cat tried to will Valerian from her thoughts, her fists clenching beneath the blankets. The memory returned anyway, welling up like blood from a wound.

Four years ago. It was sun season with a dead wind, the sails of the Covenant slack and listless. Too hot to row, too hot to do anything but anchor off in the shallows and let the crew seek what respite they could in the shade of the palm trees on a desolate island.

And the crew knew better than to follow their captain and his lady, the pair of them walking alone down the beach.

Warmth spread across her body, until her nightdress stuck to her skin.

Three hours.

Val loved to swim. Cat used to wonder if he was truly a son of the Meridian docks, born an ocean away in a gray country to a gray city. She liked to imagine he was a child of the Lyrian first, then spirited off on a ship, taken far from home only to return years later. It was the only explanation. He belonged to the Lyrian as much as the dolphins, the reefs, the roving sharks, and shifting tides. As much as the ghosts on the beaches, the ruins of stone, the people replaced and swept away. And the people who remained, steadfast against the changing wind and changing map.

It was written in his skin, bronzed and hardened by sun and salt. In his hair, the ends bleached near to white. In long-fingered hands, scarred and smoothed over. When he dove into the shallows, his figure rippled, no longer the shape of a man but something else. A sea creature, a god long forgotten, if it ever existed at all.

Then he turned back to shore, to Cat in the shadow of a palm tree. Salt water rolled off his naked form, but the sun was relentless. He was already dry when he reached her.

She was not.

Two hours.

Her fingers walked the paths his hands had once, finding familiar ground, and her heartbeat quickened. Tension coiled in her core, a curl of rope wound too tightly. And then, with practiced circles, easy patterns, she came undone.

The room was silent but for her heartbeat and catching breath. She expected the release to help a little, to send her spiraling into sleep. Instead, it was a torment, a frail shadow of what had been.

Cat could not remember the name of the island. She doubted it had one, like any of the hundred other spits of sand scattered throughout the sea. But Cat wished she had something other than a memory to mark the place.

One hour.

She shot awake to the sound of Derry’s footsteps in the upstairs hall, followed by a tentative knock on the door. Blue slanted across Cat’s bedroom, the soft, early light before dawn peeking through the curtains. It was the kind of light that bid Cat to stay in bed, burrow down into the blankets, and force Fell to drag her down to the harbor.

But Cat Rose would not give him that satisfaction. She was on his leash, but she would not be his pet.

“I’m ready,” she said, yawning and untangling herself from the blankets and any remaining dreams.

Derry bustled in, lighting candles as she went. The smell of coffee and bacon followed her. Cat’s toes curled with delight. Whatever she faced next, at least she would do it with a full stomach.

And clean. Derry had indeed forced her into the bath the night before, washing Fort Morden’s prison away. Now in the predawn light she brushed through Cat’s chestnut hair one last time, before dividing it into two twists that met in a bun at the base of her neck. Though the humidity remained undefeated, the first frizzles of escaping hair curled around Cat’s ears.

She kept silent as Derry helped her dress, pulling her nightgown over her head. Briefly, Cat stood naked, watching the light behind the curtains as it grew brighter. Then her gaze drifted down to the muscle above her elbow, her inner arm paler than the more-exposed skin on her face.

A single tattoo stood out amongst her freckles, the lines of it red and crude. And beautiful. They formed the image of a single rose, smaller than her thumb. But unmistakable.

And easy to hide.

The rose seemed to burn, itching as it had under Fell’s scrutiny. Cat fought the urge to scratch at it, lest her skin flame and her dreams return. Besides, she had not told Moseley what her task was, let alone Derry. They did not need to be drawn into her mess.

And Cat Rose knew better than to leave loose ends.

She was not known for outrageous fashions like some women of Archenport. Quite the opposite. Cat usually preferred black, ever the Widow Rose. Before, during, and after the so-called pirate republic, there were always people in brighter, more stylish clothing. Lord Baltross’s tittering wife Fiona with her feathers. Jade Belloq in bright silks, donning the finest garments she could pillage from merchant ships. The women of Itzima, in whirling skirts of every color. Arcayans with their turquoise and gold jewelry, brighter than sea and sunlight. And now the officers’ wives, few as they were, new to the islands. They brought gowns and jewels from the Empire, fashions Cat had never seen before. Smaller waists, longer skirts, sharper collars, each more extravagant and impractical than the last.

Her dress was old black, nearly faded to gray, trimmed with white lace. Suitable enough for errands around town, though she doubted it would survive long on the deck of a ship. But she could hardly worry about such things now.

“All done,” Derry muttered, fastening Cat’s braided leather belt into place. It was worn and cracked, thicker than fashion dictated, the only piece out of place on a good Meridian lady.

That, and the coins sewn into her bodice.

And the knife in her stocking.

And the pistol in her hidden pocket.

*

IT WAS A tearful goodbye, even with iron Moseley. The old maid did her best not to show it, but Cat caught the wet gleam in her eyes. It was a rare sight, even after all their years together, through storm and war and heartbreak. Cat felt the same sting as she embraced her, holding on a little too tightly.

Derry was inconsolable, tempered only by the early hour. It would not do to wake the neighbors with her wailing, as Cat reminded her before leaving their home.

She half expected Fell and his carriage to be waiting outside, but Keystone Street was empty. Scoffing, Cat set off on the short journey to the docks. Of course he will not make this easy on me, she thought, hefting her larger bag on one shoulder, the drawstring purse over the other. Both thunked, heavy with hidden coin.

Cat only hoped it was enough.

The sky was pink when she reached the harbor, the dawn barely breaking. But it might as well have been high noon. Navy sailors, fishermen, traders, servants, and travelers scuttled along the waterside. Some were fresh off their boats and ships, eager for a tavern or a bunk. Others had only begun their days, carting supplies to the vessels in the harbor.

Careful to avoid fresh catch spilling from hauled nets, Cat worked her way through the crowd. Towards which ship, she did not know, but she looked with a keen eye.

Fell’s vessel, the Scorpion, lay at anchor in the bay. Triple-masted and double-decked, the man-o’-war was a commanding sight with at least sixty guns across her decks. She was dwarfed only by the Revel beside her. Cat smirked, remembering Captain Carley from the day before. He seemed pompous and overwrought. His ship was no different.

Not like the Scorpion, with which Cat was more familiar. She was smaller but more agile, with a veteran crew handpicked over many years in the Lyrian Sea. While the Revel looked fresh from the shipyard, the Scorpion had her distinct battle scars from years in the Lyrian Sea. It gave her a distinguished and fearsome look.

Captain Fell, despite his infuriating manner and social climbing, deserved such a warship.

And he deserves this too, Cat thought, laughing openly upon the docks.

Even from a distance, she could see Fell’s face turn red.

He stood at the rail of a merchant sloop half the size of his Scorpion, the shame of it written all over his body.

“Not a word,” he said as Cat boarded the vessel, still laughing.

“What will the ladies think of you now?” she teased, casting a shrewd eye over Jasper Fell. “Between the boat and the clothing, I barely recognize you.”

Gone was the well-heeled navy officer, replaced by a merchant captain with a linen overshirt, breeches, boots, and a bright red waistcoat. He still wore a tricorne hat, but it was battered and worn. Cat ventured he bought it off one of the dockworkers, along with everything else. He looked mismatched and unkempt, the only evidence of his office in the gleaming pistol still belted at his hip. And the ever-present silver ring.

Fell gave an exaggerated shudder and pulled his hat down lower. His cheeks flamed red as his vest.

“I said, not a word.”

“You don’t have to escort me if you don’t want to,” Cat replied, taking a turn about the deck. “I’m told I can be quite difficult. Be rid of me and end the headache before it can begin.”

Beneath his hat, Fell rolled his eyes. “Oh, the headache of you has lasted a decade. What’s a few weeks more?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder before continuing her examination of the single-masted sloop, the generously named Fledge. As well as its sailors.

“Dr. Bryer, Mr. Whisten,” Cat said, nodding at two passing men.

She recognized them from the Scorpion, both looking just as uncomfortable to be out of uniform. Dr. Bryer, the surgeon, gave her a shallow bob of his head in reply. Whereas Lieutenant Whisten glared, his eyes coal black.

“Mrs. Rose,” Whisten growled with naked disdain. He had the look of a bulldog, jowled and mean.

She was unsurprised by his hatred. Whisten was a church-going man, despising of sinners and nonbelievers. Cat Rose happened to be both. She did not miss the way he thumbed at his bracelet of prayer beads, as if warding off something wicked.

Cat took it as a compliment.

The rest of the sailors aboard were all navy, selected from the men beneath Fell’s command. To her surprise, she only counted ten of them, a skeleton crew if there ever was one.

“I don’t see Horton,” she muttered, feeling Fell at her shoulder.

“I left him to take command of the Scorpion.” He gave a pained sigh. “In my absence.”

In spite of the circumstances, Cat felt a bit lighter, a burst of hope blooming in her chest. Whisten hated her, but he was not terribly bright. First Lieutenant Horton was both intelligent and hateful, a difficult combination to surmount. Without him, the path forwards looked much easier.

She spun on her heel, bags swinging with her.

“And what of your threat?”

Fell tipped his head, chuckling. “Which threat?”

With a thunk, Cat let her bags drop to the deck.

“Am I to be afforded a cabin, or must I brave the bilge?”

*

THE CABIN WAS no better than a closet, but far better than sharing quarters with sailors. And Cat would never turn down a locked door and her own bunk, even if it reeked of tobacco. Judging by the black smudges above her, the previous captain of the Fledge liked to smoke abed. At least she did not have to stoop, barely an inch shorter than the ceiling. Fell was not so lucky, his neck bent to accommodate the small, closed space. He followed her into the narrow compartment, hauling her bags as he went.

Thankfully the compartment had a window, murky as it was. The glass glowed pink with the rising dawn. Overhead, boots stamped across the ceiling, which was the floor of the quarterdeck. All of it made for a claustrophobic sensation, the walls close enough that Cat might only reach out her arms to touch both sides.

Worse still was Jasper Fell, firmly planted in the doorway, caging Cat into the little cabin that felt more like a coffin. She wrinkled her nose and glared around at the meager room, her face a picture of disgust.

“You’ve certainly seen far worse, Cat.” Fell sighed, letting her bags drop. “Don’t make me regret my kindness.”

“Your kindness?” Cat spun on a booted heel and almost collided with Fell’s body. She snarled up at him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Your kindness would have sent me to the gallows yesterday.”

Fell didn’t move.

“And yet here you stand,” he cut back, bone-dry. His silver eyes swept over Cat from head to toe, before lingering pointedly at her neck. “Very much alive, and in the governor’s employ. With a pardon in reach. How peculiar.”

She bared her teeth. “Don’t act like you’ve done me some kind of favor—”

“Don’t act like I would be the only Meridian officer to put your name on a list.”

Fell’s voice rose, filling the cabin, and his self-satisfied air fell away. Cat saw frustration instead, as color spotted his cheeks.

“There was talk of another round of arrests; you were among them,” he pushed on, a worried tremor to his words. “This was the best way to intervene.”

You’re lying, Cat wanted to snap, to throw his falsehoods back in his face. It would certainly make things easier to simply hate Jasper Fell. But she saw the truth in him anyway, much as she did not want to. Ten years ago, he had tried to help her on the deck of a doomed ship. And much as she wished he wouldn’t, Fell did the same now. Her teeth clenched, chewing on the implication. And what else lay beneath.

“You are not the type to give gifts without expecting something in return,” Cat said, her voice low and hissing.

His lips curled, but not into a smile.

“No, I am not,” Fell replied, echoing the same words spoken in another time. In another life.

Cat could only draw herself up tall and survey him again. To balance the Fell she knew once and the man in front of her now. So much had changed, and yet nothing at all.

“So you saved me from the noose just to put me on your leash,” she said.

Fell raised his scarred eyebrow. “Better a living dog than a dead wolf, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Better to be neither,” Cat muttered, shaking her head. “It’s clear you knew.”

At that, Fell’s smirk returned tenfold. “I know many things. Please be more specific.”

“You knew Osprin would do anything to find Kane, to reward the captain who brought him down,” she said. “And you knew you couldn’t find him without me. Is that the shape of it, Captain Fell?”

“That is the shape of it, Lady Rose. You can thank me for saving your life whenever suits.”

“Thank you,” she growled, though it sounded more like a curse. Even so, Fell puffed up like a rooster. “Now that’s settled, I trust you can chart a course to Prospera easily enough. More specifically, to the port of Alvaris.”

The captain deflated immediately, his face going tight.

“You want me to take a ship of His Majesty’s navy to Prospera?” he spat, his satisfaction turning to disgust. “I will not—”

With only inches between them, it was easy for Cat to put out an arm, her fingers closing on the edge of his vest. The rough fabric slid between her fingers, and Fell clamped his mouth shut.

Her voice dropped, softer and deeper.

“This is not a ship of the navy, and you are not a king’s officer. Besides, the war is over. The treaties are drawn. Prospera is as good as neutral ground as we can find, only a week away, and the best chance for news of Kane’s whereabouts.” Cat glanced up at Fell through her lashes, weighing his pride. “You have no cause to fear the Esperese anymore.”

His nose wrinkled, and he looked over her head.

“I do not fear them, I hate them,” he said through clenched teeth.

She did not need to read his mind to know what Fell thought. He had not forgotten the burning of Allisport all those years ago, when the war had run hot as sparked powder. Nor what came after they learned the news of the conquered city. The Venerable burned and broken, her crew dead, the ruin of Fell’s best posting in the Lyrian Sea.

“But do you hate them more than you hate pirates?” Her grip tightened on his vest. “More than you hate Kane?”

His silver eyes flared, and Cat dared to hope.

“What of Arcayo?” he said stiffly.

She did not move, still close enough to smell the sandalwood oil on his skin. Her pulse quickened.

Fell’s breath feathered her cheek, drawing closer in a dangerous way. “You said it yourself; Valerian kept a home on the island. And I am sure you are intimately acquainted with it.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Jasper,” she replied, smoothing his vest again. For all his posturing, Fell flinched under her hands. “But I am familiar with Arcayo and Nera. Enough to know Valerian would hardly keep a pirate armada in port, and risk drawing your fleet anywhere near that city.”

She brushed a nonexistent speck of dust from his shoulder, as if the state of his clothing was more interesting than the conversation.

Fell narrowed his eyes. “But he could be there.”

“Certainly,” Cat offered with a shrug. “Valerian Kane could be on any island in the Lyrian Sea—or on none. I am not a sailor, I do not know how many square miles the territory encompasses—but I’m sure you do, Captain,” she purred. “Now, would you prefer to chase instinct or information?”

His retort was swift. “Information has suited me well thus far.”

With a grateful sigh, she stepped back, putting a few inches between them. “Then let’s get on with it.”

She gestured for him to leave, but Fell did not budge. He still watched her, keen as a hawk.

“Alvaris is a proper city, bigger than Archenport. Easy to get lost in.” His jaw clenched. “Easy to disappear.”

After long years living between the changing lines of the Lyrian Sea, Cat knew how to keep a straight face. Her expression did not change, though she thought of the coins in her purse, in her dress, tucked away wherever she could hide them. Coin enough to buy passage, coin enough to slip away.

“I don’t trust you to tell me the truth, Cat,” Fell said. “But I do trust you to save your own skin. You always do,” he added, shoving the door back open with a boot. Sunlight spilled over his shoulders, edging the navy captain in gold. “So remember your bargain, with the governor and with me.”

Cat wanted to don her smile, to charm Fell once more and placate all his worries. To keep him searching the horizon, instead of searching her. She only held her ground, her vision at war with the darkness of the cabin and the bright light of the deck. It seemed to swallow Fell whole, obscuring his face.

But not his voice.

“This road ends in only two places,” he warned. “With Valerian Kane’s neck in the noose, or your own.”

Chapter Twelve Before

CAT FELT LIKE a sack of grain, passed hand over hand and hauled over the side of the pirate vessel. She fell to the deck like a sack of grain too, her balance thrown off by her bound wrists. But her concern was elsewhere. Not on the ship, or even the pirates shuffling her along. She focused on the tale rapidly taking shape in her head.

I’m Sara Cove, a maid to Lord and Lady Rose, both now drowned with the rest of the Venerable. I accompanied the family on the crossing from the Empire. I was born in Thresher, a town outside Brycam City...

It was an easy story to tell, a true one. And Sara did not need her own story anymore.

Fell would be a harder tale to twist. Though he had lost his coat and hat, his hair undone from its neat queue, there was no denying his status as a sailor in the imperial navy, not with such a tattoo on his arm. Cat only hoped he had the sense to claim a lower rank and masquerade as a seaman who might be shown mercy. Not like an officer, who the pirates would certainly kill on the spot, if they did not torture him first.

Cat winced as he was forced over the rail after her. Fell wore far more bindings, with rough rope tied around his ankles as well as his wrists. The pirates laughed when Fell collapsed on the deck, unable to stand. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, lest they gag him. But his cheeks flushed.

Unsteady as she was, Cat tried to help Fell to his feet. Until someone grabbed the neck of her shift, holding her in place like a dog carrying a pup by the scruff.

Blinding rage filled Cat’s body, despite her predicament. Forgetting Fell, she fought to stand on shaky feet and rounded on the offending pirate.

Cat expected a rotten man like most sailors, skin mottled with sunburns and sores, grinning with a mouth of yellow teeth. Instead, she found herself face to face with the woman from the longboat. She was black-haired and bronze-skinned, with a hawklike nose and high cheekbones. Her features were clearly of the south, from Itzima or Crownless Arcayo.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Cat tried to compose herself in the face of the unknown.

Then the pirate woman smiled. Her four front teeth gleamed silver, matching the hoops in her ears and the fine chain around her neck.

It made for a shocking—and intriguing—sight.

“Where are you going?” the pirate woman purred, tipping her head.

Indeed, her voice carried a distinct accent Cat had never heard before, rich-toned and almost melodic in rhythm. She was shorter than Cat, with a curving body on full display in her shirt and breeches. Despite her womanly form, there was no mistaking the danger of her. She wore a pair of knives, the belts crisscrossing her hips.

Cat swallowed hard, trying to force down the hasty words already clawing up her throat.

She was not successful.

“Will you at least let the man stand on his own two feet before you kill him?” Cat snarled into the pirate’s face.

The woman did not flinch, but her dark gaze flared, her expression changing from shock to interest. Her black eyes flicked between Cat and Fell, tracing a line between them. Then she loosened her grip, dropping her hold on Cat’s collar.

“I thought Meridian wives despised their husbands,” she said with half a grin.

Huffing, Cat righted her nightshift, adjusting the thin, wet fabric so it did not cling so tightly to her figure. She crossed her arms over her chest, shamefully aware of what a sight she must seem.

“I am no wife,” Cat answered, glad to have shed her wedding ring in the water. “I am a maid.”

The woman tipped her head, still wearing her smile. But it did not reach her eyes. She took a step, then another, boots hard on the deck. Cat swallowed again, feeling like prey. The pirate woman certainly acted like a predator, circling them both with her silver smile.

“You do not speak like a servant,” she replied, gesturing between Cat and Fell. “And he does not look like a lord.”

Cat tried to slump and look small, her spine bowing under the imagined weight of servitude.

“My lord and lady are dead, drowned with the rest of the crew,” she said, sticking to the story. It felt like the right decision.

But only for a moment.

Heads turned across the deck, a sea of squinting eyes snapping to face her. Tanned and battle-honed pirates growled amongst themselves, their anger and frustration on full display. A tangle of rough voices and shifting accents hissed.

“Not even a crown-licking fool to ransom,” a red-faced man barked, his tattooed hand slapping against the rail of the ship.

Another, his skin the same bronze as Cat’s dripping curls, jeered in reply, cursing in a language Cat did not know. But his frustration was easy to decipher. She winced as they shouted back and forth, arguing.

Probably about whether to throw me overboard, Cat thought, shivering.

Fell glared up from the ground, pure venom in his gaze. Cat almost expected him to hiss. He wisely did not, sparing her a single, fleeting glance. But long enough to see his fear.

The black-haired woman continued to circle, intrigued. With a jolt, Cat wondered if she was the captain of the vessel, though Cat did not know if a woman could do such things.

I did not know a woman could even be a pirate until a few minutes ago, she mused, trying to hold the mask of a servant.

Her shoulders hunched and she turned into her hair, as if the wet curls might hide her a little better. Slowly, Cat pulled her fingers into her sleeves, hoping to hide soft hands that had never known blistering work.

The woman came closer. “Your lord and lady are dead?”

Behind her, the crew seemed to press in, a wall of hungry eyes and bared teeth, their scars and tattoos telling similar tales. Of hardship, of violence, of greed.

I have known hardship too, Cat thought, remembering the island and Ryman and what it was to live in a cage. A cage I foolishly chose.

The anger flamed enough to keep her warm.

Cat met the woman’s eye.

“Like I said, Lord Rose is dead. Lady Rose is—”

Something shimmered, catching the sun over the woman’s shoulder, and Cat’s voice died in her throat.

Another face appeared over the rail, the last member of the pirate crew to climb back on deck. He hauled himself up with powerful grace to stand amongst the crew, his smile wide and crooked, a single incisor gleaming gold. Stubbled cheeks had given over to a short beard. His hair was darker than she remembered, wet from the sea, his shirt and breeches soaked through. The man did not blink as he stalked forwards, the crew shifting apart to let him pass. He padded on bare feet, and Cat thought of the lion at the prow of his ship, the Lion of the Meridian. Deadly, powerful, golden, filled with the calm knowledge of his superiority.

King of the jungle.

No, he is not a lion, Cat remembered. As he closed the distance between them, his eyes caught the sun, the blue-gray-green of them flashing dark and deadly.

He is a storm.

A tempest.

He halted side by side with the she-pirate, an amused look on his tanned face.

Valerian Kane.

For the second time in his presence, Cat thought about diving into the water and testing her luck against the Lyrian Sea.

His eyes trailed, running her over, his gaze heavy as roving hands.

“I would not recommend that course of action,” he said, repeating words spoken six months ago on a different ship under similar circumstances.

This time, Cat did not bother denying her thoughts. There was no use to it. Valerian seemed to read her with such ease. And no other words came to her, not even to beg. But her shoulders squared, her spine drawing up tall.

There was no use playing the maid anymore.

Valerian tipped his head to the side, inspecting her. The white shift left little to the imagination and Cat’s skin prickled beneath the thin cotton. His eyes seemed to leave a trail, just like the seawater rolling down her body to pool at her feet. A smirk spread across his lips, but the pirate said nothing. Not her name, not her station. Cat braced, waiting for the blow of both.

But silence stretched, both excruciating and encouraging. In spite of her predicament, Cat dared to hope.

He has forgotten my name.

Sharpness twinged, and Cat realized she was biting down on her lip, near enough to draw blood again. She loosed her teeth, forcing a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the shift.

She held his gaze, letting all her hope well up in her eyes. It felt like dancing naked in front of him, and somehow so much worse. Valerian only stared back, his gaze unreadable but impossible to look away from.

Please forget my name.

Then Valerian’s smirk turned into a predator’s smile.

“Your fortunes have changed since last we met,” he said, dipping into a mocking bow. “Lady Rose.”

Cat’s eyes fluttered shut as a wave of noise broke over her. The crew cheered, their despair shifting to excitement.

On the ground, Fell’s face dropped in defeat.

Cat expected to feel the same. But surrender would not come. Instead, she snapped her eyes open, her glare fixed on Valerian Kane. Without thinking, she took a step forwards, towards him and the terrifying crew. Somehow his smirk made her bolder, angrier. And ready to fight.

“I will treat with your captain,” she snapped, trying to sound strong. She thought of Captain Quine and his stern, self-assured manner.

For all the good it did him.

She expected the pirate with the green coat to emerge, sweeping forwards with a flourish. Morovant, Cat remembered, the name echoing in her head. He was charming and dangerous, but ultimately fair, leaving the Credence to sail on, lighter a little cargo.

To her dismay, a chuckle ran through the crew, the she-pirate laughing loudest. And Valerian not at all.

Her stomach turned, her eyes raking the deck again.

This is not the same ship.

It was smaller, less ornate. Not at all like Morovant’s great vessel.

Slowly, she turned back to Valerian and his damned smirk.

This time, Cat studied him as he studied her, looking for any change. There were no uniforms amongst pirates, no medals to mark rank. Valerian looked as she remembered, for the most part. It was only a few moments six months ago, but she had turned the memory over in her mind many times since then.

He wore the same gold chain around his wrist, had the same scars on his hands. The same tattoos, one mangled, the other proudly displayed at the open collar of his shirt. Her cheeks burned as she eyed the triple lines woven together in a haunting circle. Her finger swirled, inadvertently tracing the same shape as his tattoo. Valerian even wore the same weapons, his knives at one hip. The only difference she could see was another chain dangling from his neck, most of it tucked beneath his clothes.

But there was a weight to his shoulders, a heaviness she had not noticed before. Like the ship itself hung from his neck.

I suppose it does, she mused, noting the crew. The way they ringed around him, every man and woman angled, as if Valerian was the sun, and the rest of them orbiting planets.

“You are the captain,” Cat murmured weakly.

His smirk spread, burning into a true grin. It fell upon her like a shot from a cannon, shuddering Cat to her core.

“So they tell me,” Valerian answered. “Welcome aboard the Covenant, Lady Rose.”

Cat hugged herself as best she could with bound hands, fearing she might break apart. In spite of the warm sun overhead, a shiver went down her spine. She was a lady aboard a pirate ship, with nothing to trade for her survival. Her eyes roved back to the ruin of the Venerable and any value she carried. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed down a thousand thoughts, each one more terrible than the last.

The captain’s attention shifted from her and he stalked the deck, a predator once more. With swift motions, Valerian seized Fell by the collar, dragging the navy officer to his feet. Another would have fallen, but the lieutenant found his footing, bound though he was. He snarled through clenched teeth and Cat saw hatred in his silver eyes.

Valerian only laughed. He was the taller of the pair, and his grip forced Fell to dance on tiptoes. Uncomfortable at best. Humiliating at worst.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to try to pass him off as a servant too?” Valerian drawled.

Cat wanted to lie, but her tongue felt like lead.

“You’ll hang for this, Pirate. That’s a ship of the line you sunk, a man-o’-war of the fleet. There are dozens of men dead in that water,” Fell’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth. “I am an officer of the imperial navy—”

“An officer of the imperial navy?” Valerian echoed with a performative gasp, to the roaring laughter of his crew.

“And you are a murderer,” Fell spat, raising his voice to be heard over the din. It was as good as a cannonball shot across the bow of the ship.

All laughter ceased, and some light faded from Valerian’s eyes. For a moment, Cat thought the sun had passed into cloud—but it still shone brightly overhead.

The pirate’s fist clenched, the grip on Fell’s collar going even tighter, until the corded muscles of Valerian’s arm strained against the gold chain around his wrist. He was lean, but made of iron, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin.

Something cold rippled under the captain’s expression, like a storm front rolling over the horizon.

Cat wanted to intervene but stayed frozen to the spot, her heart in her teeth.

Make it quick, she prayed, begging for an easy, painless death for Jasper Fell. It was the only option left, and Fell knew it too. To incense the pirate captain, to tempt his rage, so that he might simply shoot the officer where he stood and be done with the matter.

Fell’s bare toes scraped the deck, still fighting for purchase. But he did not flinch, and Cat felt a wretched burst of pride. Second Lieutenant Jasper Fell would face his ending with all the honor and duty the Crown could ask for.

Then Valerian angled his head, lowering his gaze so they were face to face. Silver met storm, a flash of lightning through black clouds.

“Mind the blood on your own hands, Officer,” the captain growled, opening his grasp with a snap. Fell collapsed to the ground at Valerian’s feet. “Your empire is steeped in it.”

For a second, the pirate wore a look of pure rage. He stared at the officer on the ground and Cat feared it would be the end of Jasper Fell. A violent, bloody end.

Her heart thundered in her chest, her wrists aching under the rope. She felt her lips part, her breath coming in small, shuddering gasps. Her eyes darted to Fell, now crumpled on the ground, before reluctantly meeting Valerian’s gaze.

He was already staring, the full force of his anger directed, not at the Meridian officer, but at her.

For the longest second of her life, Cat saw death.

Then Valerian’s face wiped clean, his amused expression returning as he rolled his shoulders, turning away from Fell.

“Ana?” he muttered.

The woman jumped to attention. “Captain.”

Valerian eyed the horizon, then the flag at the stern of the ship, and the way it fluttered in the soft wind. “Set a course for—”

“Help me!”

A voice shrieked up from the water, borne out of the bobbing wreck. It carried over the ship, echoing like the cry of a wet cat. Amongst the crew, a few pirates winced, and one even covered his ears.

Cat wished she could do the same. Her teeth clenched tight, smothering a sudden, enraged scream.

Dear gods no.

Her eyes flew to Valerian, who met her with a curious tip of his head. Once more, Cat tried to beg with her gaze alone, trying to make him see what she already knew. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, hot and sharp, threatening to fall in a shameful river.

“Don’t,” she heard herself whisper.

The voice called for aid again, his caterwaul a burning knife.

Leave him to die. Let him drown. Let me be free of him.

The pirate captain held longer than she expected, unblinking and thoughtful, even as his crew ran to the rail, shouting about a man in the water. A pale man, a soft man.

A rich man.

Valerian’s command felt like a blow, spoken without breaking eye contact.

“Throw him a rope.”

*

RYMAN ROSE WEPT every second of the surprisingly long journey from the waves to the deck of the Covenant. He could barely hold his own weight and wailed as they pulled him up, his hands shaking as he grasped the thick rope around his middle. When he fell to the deck, sputtering and spitting seawater, it took a long moment to get his bearings.

And perceive the ship he willingly climbed aboard.

“You are not the navy,” he mumbled, looking into Valerian’s face with round, red eyes.

“Are we not?” Valerian laughed, to the amusement of his crew. “How terrible, Lord Rose.”

Before Ryman could shriek again, a few members of the crew fell upon him, binding his hands and feet. Though Cat doubted it mattered much. Her husband was more liable to piss himself than pick up a sword.

“Catrine, help me!” he wept, immediately crying fat, shameful tears. He shook, looking between the only faces he recognized. “Lieutenant Fell, I order you to protect—”

“Gag him too,” Valerian muttered, meeting Cat’s eye across the deck.

Relief, small as it was, washed over Cat. She dipped her chin an inch in gratitude. Valerian returned the gesture, and the stormy green of his eyes flared again, catching the sun.

Then Fell hissed up at her from his knees, shifting close to her hip.

“You know this pirate?” he whispered, looking at her sidelong. The lieutenant seemed torn between scandalized horror and fascination.

Cat chewed her lip. “He waylaid the Credence on the crossing from Meridia. Or his former captain did.”

She eyed the ship again. Though smaller than Captain Morovant’s, it was still impressive. And likely stolen from the Meridian navy.

Her voice dropped. “It seems Valerian Kane has moved up in the world since then.”

Scandalized horror won out, and Fell’s eyes widened.

“You know his name?” he sputtered.

But Cat had no time for Jasper Fell’s judgement. She gritted her teeth, weighing the crew, its captain, and the sea stretching endless in every direction.

“Shut up and let me save your life,” she hissed so only Fell could hear.

Then she took a shaky step forwards, away from the lieutenant, to stand alone in the middle of the deck. It felt like crossing a threshold. Even the wind seemed to know it, a sudden gust catching her wet hair, blowing damp bronze curls across her eyes. The air swelled, the smell of salt and smoke and distant blood filling her senses. Hidden in her sleeves, her hands trembled, but her spine was straight, her amber eyes unblinking.

Catrine Rose was a lady of the Meridian Empire, no matter how bleak the circumstances might be. If anything, her life depended on it now.

“I did say I would like to treat with your captain,” Cat said, loud enough for all to hear. Her voice echoed, sharp-toned as a governess scolding a lazy pupil. “On behalf of my husband, Lord Rose. And Lieutenant Fell.”

Valerian glanced at Fell, sizing him up again with a flick of his eyes.

“Lieutenant, you say?” he echoed, grinning as another ripple of glee went through the crew. “And Lord Rose. It seems we are not without a prize,” he added loudly, gesturing with a sweep of a hand.

Beyond the rail, the wreck of the Venerable still burned, its crew and cargo lost to the deep. Though most members of Valerian’s crew kept up their smiles, cheered by the thought of ransom, Cat did not miss the darker faces. Some even grumbled behind battered hands, clearly disgruntled by the events of the night.

It was an easy card to add to her hand, and Cat tucked it away to be played later.

Valerian took steps to meet her, his sea legs giving him a swaying gait. One hand rested on the pistol at his hip, long fingers drumming a rhythm only he could hear.

“Very well, Lady Rose. If you would parlay with the captain of this vessel, so be it,” he said, coming to a halt in front of her, leaving only spare inches between them.

At such a distance, Cat expected him to smell like death. Instead, there was only ocean and sweat, and something deeper, like woodsmoke or tobacco. It seemed to cling to her, and Cat could not help but lean into the scent of him. But that was oddly comforting too. To know Valerian Kane was just another man, flesh and blood as much as anyone else.

His arm swept again, this time pointing behind Cat. She followed the gesture, turning to look at the quarterdeck of the ship. A set of doors in its face led within. To the captain’s quarters.

Flesh and blood, she reminded herself. It was a less comforting thought than a second ago, but Cat held firm.

“No harm will come to them while we speak?” she asked, eyeing the two men still bound on the deck.

Fell gritted his teeth, while Ryman screamed into his gag, his face turning redder with every passing second.

Cat hoped he would faint with the effort.

“None,” Valerian answered sharply. His jaw clenched, the hard edge of it like an anvil. “Or at least no harm they do not give themselves. You have my word of it.”

Lady though she was, Cat was not naïve. She did not trust a pirate captain. But she trusted his crew’s loyalty and ability to follow orders. It was enough. It had to be.

It was all she had.

“Lady Rose, you should not—” Fell bit out, trying to get to his feet, only to be shoved down again with one strong, annoyed push from Valerian.

“His Lordship is in hysterics,” Cat answered neatly. Indeed, Ryman was now cross-eyed and struggling to breathe. “I will do what I can to solve this matter, even if I am just a woman.”

Jasper Fell was hardly satisfied. He glanced between lady and pirate, cheeks flushed, eyes darting and desperate.

“Cat—”

“To the brig with them,” Valerian barked, motioning for his crew. They jumped to attention, hauling both men to their feet. “Safely.”

“Cat—” Fell said again, barely getting her name out before being gagged too.

She could only watch as they were marched away, her heart ramming in time with their footsteps on the deck. Until both Jasper Fell and Ryman Rose disappeared into the bowels of the pirate vessel, leaving their lady to stand alone.

Cat lifted her chin.

“Shall we?”

Chapter Thirteen After

STORM SEASON APPROACHED, and the constant threat of hurricane hung over the Fledge. Cat was no sailor, but she squinted at every band of clouds and suspected every change of the wind as they sailed south. She knew the look of an angry sea. And knew to fear it.

But above all, she feared a certain black flag on the horizon, one she remembered too intimately. It beckoned every time she closed her eyes.

The white skull with a golden tooth, and red roses beneath, intertwined with crossed bones.

But storms and flags lay silent, Cat’s fears dormant if not forgotten.

The Fledge left the calm waters of the Stills for the sharper currents of the Furies. Flat, sandy islands filled with marsh and scrubland became jagged, green mountains, their ridges like spines poking up out of the sea. The Furies were named for crueler winds and harsher storms, and for the islands themselves. Most were dead or dying volcanos, their heights wreathed in mist or smoke. Once their waters raged, not just with weather, but war.

Cat remembered that too, the long conflict between Esperin and the Meridian Empire. Fought on both sides of the ocean, across country fields and island shallows, through old cities of the Continent and new harbors. With saber and pistol, gunpowder and cannon, fleet and cavalry. And blood. So much blood.

But those years were over, the truce finally made.

And all the Lyrian would pay the price of such a peace.

We are already paying, Cat thought, watching as the island of Prospera came into view.

Aptly named, Prospera was the jewel of the Esperese colonies, with rich soil for planting and vast fields of sugarcane. Its capital, Alvaris, was a lynchpin of trade between Esperin and the world. And a key way station in the transport of gold and silver from their mines on the Southern Continent.

Many a treasure fleet passed through Alvaris harbor, armored beyond comprehension, too strong for any warship, navy, or pirate.

She turned over her shoulder, away from the prow of the Fledge to face the stern. Captain Fell stood on the quarterdeck, with his helmsman and Lieutenant Whisten alongside. Even from a distance, Cat could see the scowl on Fell’s face.

Approach with caution, she told herself, ascending to the bridge.

“Gentlemen,” she offered, inclining her head to Fell’s men.

Whisten replied with a sour look and the helmsman averted his eyes entirely, focusing on their course into port. Most of Fell’s crew acted in similar fashion, avoiding Lady Rose whenever they could. It was no mystery as to why.

They know not to trust me, Cat thought, keeping her face calm and serene.

They are correct.

“I must voice my opposition one last time, Captain,” Whisten growled, turning on his heel to show Cat his back.

Fell gave him a withering look. “Your opinion has already been noted, Lieutenant.”

Despite Whisten’s rude stance, Cat did not miss the curl of his lip as he frowned. But he would not argue. Instead, he saluted sharply, obeying his commanding officer.

“Aye, sir,” he barked, turning to leave. Though he was sure to snarl in Cat’s face as he departed, his stinking breath washing over her.

“Traitorous whore.”

Years ago, the insult would have stung. Now Cat barely felt it. Traitor to whom? she wanted to ask, but bit back the instinct to infuriate an already furious officer.

Everyone, she knew. I am a traitor to everyone. Everyone but myself.

Cat watched Whisten go, retreating down the gangway to the main deck. He grumbled the entire way, and even kicked a bucket in frustration, spilling water across the timbers. Sailors scattered from his path, avoiding his wrath.

Cat could not help but smirk. Men are so emotional.

Captain Fell was no exception. She turned to find him not angry, but embarrassed. His face was paler than before, a muscle working in his jaw. Mr. Daylor, the helmsman, continued his work, still refusing to acknowledge Cat’s presence.

With a twitch of his hand, Fell beckoned, and she obliged, following him to the rear of the quarterdeck. They overlooked the stern of the Fledge, the grand standard of the Meridian Empire flowing over their heads. The Lion gleamed golden against a blue sky and even bluer waters.

Fell glared out to sea, his silver eyes like mercury. “My apologies for Lieutenant Whisten—”

“Don’t bother.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, he is hardly the only member of your crew to think such things of me.”

The muscle feathered in Fell’s jaw again.

Cat could not help but lower her voice, leaning into him. She shaded her eyes against the brilliant sun, fixing him with a keen stare of her own.

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought it yourself,” she murmured, her mouth curving into a half smile.

Fell’s cheeks flushed, but he did not try to deny it.

“Very well,” he grumbled.

“Besides, if we’re to measure whores, I’d say you qualify far more than I ever did,” Cat added as his blush spread.

He sputtered, taken off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may not work in a brothel, but you sell your love same as whores do. Just not for coin,” she said, tapping the spot on his chest that usually bore medals and honors. “No one gives me medals for my smiles and good nature,” she added, her grin too wide.

Fell shrugged her off and straightened his plain merchant’s jacket, looking sore. She didn’t know which was more insulting to him—being called a whore or posing as a civilian captain.

“You don’t have a good nature,” he snapped back.

Cat laughed openly, turning to face the ship’s wake.

“I did once,” she muttered, her voice nearly lost with the wind. “I am glad to be rid of it.”

She felt his eyes on her face too sharply.

“I remember the girl you used to be,” he said, his voice trailing away.

“Of course you do,” Cat replied, matter-of-fact. “You were there to watch her die.”

Even now, she could still feel the kick of the recoil, the flash and acrid burn of gunpowder. The weight of a pistol in her hand—the same pistol that sat at Fell’s hip now. It looked exactly as it had that day, almost ten years ago. Fell was so precious with his things.

She expected him to scold her for such dramatics. Instead, he leaned forwards on his elbows, bracing himself against the taffrail, leaving spare inches between them.

He removed his hat, a few locks of hair falling across his forehead. The scar through his left eyebrow glinted white. Not for the first time in so many years, Cat wished the scar was worse, marring his handsome face as he deserved.

No, she thought. He deserved to die with Quine and the rest of the Venerable crew, his bones left to reef-growing off Pearl Key.

“I do not like this plan, Cat,” he whispered.

“You do not like Prospera, or Esperin. And I do not blame you,” she muttered back. “But I need information, and we must try to find it.”

And find her, Cat reminded herself, thinking words she could not say aloud.

Fell gave a grim nod, still refusing to look at the steadily approaching city.

“Well, where do you propose we start?” he said. “Alvaris is a proper city, and while I trust your ability to weasel your way through the worst of circumstances, even you have no advantage here.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” she clipped. “The Esperese fleet patrols different parts of the Lyrian Sea. If the Meridian navy is losing ships to Kane, he may be preying on the Esperese navy too,” she said. “If they have reports of missing ships or pirate movements, we can at least collect more pieces of this puzzle.”

Over her shoulder, the port of Alvaris loomed. The harbor was a maw of teeming ships, both merchant and navy, civilian and fleet. She scanned the hulking silhouettes, looking for the floating fortress of a treasure galleon. To her relief, there were none in port. But the ivory flag emblazoned with the green cross flapped from many masts, and a ridiculously large flag flew at the mouth of the port. There was no mistaking Alvaris for anything but a monument to the King of Esperin.

Still, Cat looked for a stone arch in the water, or sparse ruins in the jungle, remnants of what was. Of the peoples who came before and were swept away by bloody hands.

Fell finally turned from the stern to face the city with her.

“And how do you propose a merchant captain and his crew approach the commanding officer of Alvaris?” he said bitterly, eyeing an Esperese warship as it glided out to sea.

Cat gave him a smirk. “Don’t tell me you left Archenport behind without something to mark you as a Meridian captain? You are allies now, are you not?”

“Besides this, you mean?” Fell huffed, rolling up the sleeve of his coat and undershirt.

His forearm, tanned and muscled from years at sea, bore the usual tattoo of a sailor. The Meridian lion, with an anchor and sun in its paws. Most men of the imperial navy had it.

Most lowborn men, Cat reminded herself.

“It is not often you see an officer with such . . . decoration,” she said.

Fell hissed, pushing his sleeves back into place. “Less often than you see a lady with it. Don’t look so smug, Lady Rose, we both know I’m not the only one bearing ink.”

Cat’s smirk dropped, and Fell smiled, triumphant.

“Not to worry, I also have my orders and a writ of passage,” he added, reaching into his coat, producing a sheaf of parchment sealed with familiar blue wax. Osprin’s symbol. Cat could only nod mutely, remembering her writ of execution, with the same signature and seal. She still felt the rope around her throat. Not tight, not strangling, but always present, never fading.

Beyond the prow, the Alvaris breakwater came into view, a stone wall against the waves. Lighthouses marked each end, one of them beside a ridiculously gigantic flag of Esperin. White foamed against the north face of the break with calm waters on the other side, the harbor like a still pond.

A pond filled with sharks, Cat thought, eyeing too many sails and flags to count.

While Fell consulted his harbor charts, reading the currents of the busy docks, the helmsman turned the wheel, and the Fledge responded, bearing to port. Wood clacked as oars were racked below deck, ready to help maneuver the ship at Fell’s command.

As they approached, Cat squinted, eyeing the closest lighthouse. Her gaze narrowed, tracing the tower, its stone whiter, cleaner. Newly built.

Next to her, Fell did the same. With a snap of his wrist, he unfurled a collapsible spyglass and peered into it.

“Is that—”

“A song tower,” Cat finished for him.

Fell glanced sidelong at her, suspicious. He tipped the spyglass, offering the lens to her. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve seen song towers before, Fell,” she answered dryly. “I know what they look like.”

But I’ve never seen them beyond Arcayo.

She turned the new information over in her mind as the Fledge sailed closer. The tower was unmistakable now, not rounded like the Esperese lighthouse but squared off at the corners, every inch of the white stone carved in intricate whorls.

To match the wind and the tides, the sky and the sea, Cat knew. And the song within it all.

Her eyes ascended, tracing the carvings as they twisted upwards. There was a room at the top, open on all four sides, like the crown of a bell tower.

With no bell.

“Can you see inside?” Fell muttered, shading his eyes to stare at the shadowed belfry. “What do they keep up there?”

Cat resisted the urge to remind him he held the spyglass. Instead, she shook her head.

“Priests, mostly. But the sun is high, the sky clear, the sea soft and calm. There is no need for a priest today,” she explained, her eyes darting between the waves and the heavens. Then back to the top of the tower, searching for a glimpse of an indigo-dyed sleeve.

Fell collapsed his spyglass and stowed it.

“I did not know Esperin believed in island superstition,” he scoffed, shaking his head, though his eyes remained on the tower as they passed. Down the deck, most of his men seemed to show the same skeptical sentiment.

Superstition. Cat did not share the faith, but she would hardly categorize the Arcayan religion as such. Though she doubted Fell would care.

“They did not use to.”

Against the Esperese port, bustling with continental warships and merchant sailors, the song tower seemed terribly out of place. Peculiar. And foreboding too.

“Singing off hurricanes—what a joke,” Fell muttered, turning his face back to the city.

After a long moment of staring, too many thoughts swirling in her mind, Cat did the same.

Like Archenport, Alvaris was only a few decades old. Most of its buildings were pale-pink stone, built to withstand the storms of the Furies. The streets climbed up the first heights of a green volcano presiding over the island. Cat spotted the burnished bronze steeple of an Esperese church and battlements of a walled fort overlooking the harbor. Cannons glinted in the noon sun, bright as black stars. They did not give her pause like the ships at anchor. She counted a dozen warships, and three times as many merchant vessels, in dock or anchored in the shallows. Most unloaded cargo for the market, carrying wares to the flat plaza alongside the docks, half of it shaded by striped tents.

But the bustling dockside was not her concern. Cat looked above the city, tracing up the volcano looming over Alvaris. The fiery mountain was long dead, the jungle ridges overgrown, with only birds rising from the highest peak. Her brow furrowed as she searched, hunting for another church spire, another flash of stone amongst the trees.

Somewhere, a bell began to toll, counting off the noon hour.

It took six strikes for Cat to find it, the simple church tower amongst the trees, half consumed by the jungle. Not shimmering bronze but worn stone, a sentinel for many decades. She stared at it without blinking, tracing the path from harbor to tower a dozen times, until she felt satisfied.

Out of habit, Cat reached for the watch at her belt, checking the time against the bell tolls. Her lips twisted, the hands of the clock well behind the hour.

“You should sell that old thing if you aren’t going to have it repaired,” Fell muttered, eyeing the face over her shoulder.

“I shall add that to my list of things to do,” she replied, snapping the watch closed before Fell could tease her about the faded rose. “We start with the Esperese navy, and work our way down.”

Fell scoffed, his lip curled in disgust. “Down?”

Cat did not know Alvaris well, but Meridian or Esperese, the colonial ports were all the same. There would be a thriving marketplace, a crossroads for all kinds of folk. The docks and market crawling with every station of person from navy captain to indentured servant. Shops thrown open to merchants and travelers and city folk going about their business. Churches with open-handed priests and weary pilgrims. Taverns filled to the keel with sailors, traders, diplomats, officers, and workers. Then the gambling houses, frowned upon but well-tolerated. And the brothels, ignored by some, sneered at by most, and frequented by almost all.

She could not help but grin.

“Tell me, Jasper Fell—are the rumors true?”

“Which rumor exactly?” he drawled, rolling his eyes. His chest puffed out, as if to display the medals he no longer wore.

“That you’ve never set foot in a brothel.”

He deflated audibly and Cat’s smile widened, her amber eyes glinting like the coins sewn into her dress.

“What a sight that will be,” she mused, turning on her heel.

*

AFTER SOME BICKERING and bribery to the port officer, Fell secured a berth at the harbor docks, close enough to the market but with room to maneuver should they need to flee the navy in a hurry. Cat doubted that would be necessary, nor even possible. Unlike the Meridian Empire, Esperin had not abandoned its colonies during the war, only loosened their hold a little. And Alvaris was still the home port of the Esperese in the Lyrian Sea. She defended treasure fleets and held off the pirate republic. Fell was a talented captain, but hardly a magician. There would be no escape for the Fledge if things went ill.

Alvaris was enough of an assault on the senses to forget her worries, if only for a few moments. Together with Fell, Whisten, and two other sailors of the Fledge, Cat disembarked to find herself in the heart of a riotous, vibrant city.

Striped tents and merchant stalls splashed color across the marketplace, which seemed chaotic at first glance. But as they walked, Cat realized it was painstakingly organized, with foot traffic carrying them in a singular direction like the flow of a current. She glimpsed fishmongers, butchers, spice traders with piles of salt and ginger, farmers with everything from bananas to tobacco, weavers, silversmiths, jewelers. Exporters sending products off the island and on to the rest of the Lyrian or beyond to the continents—north to Esperin, south to Itzima and the mining colonies. Importers sold goods not found in Prospera, at varying prices and varying quality. Cat’s eyes narrowed comparing textiles from the Meridian mills, picking out flaws and imperfections.

As expected, sugar dominated the Alvaris plaza, with half the market seemingly dedicated to its trade. Raw or refined. Barrels of molasses. Bottles of rum. All of it came from the vast sugar farms on the north side of the island, transported through Alvaris before sailing to every corner of the map. Porters and managers and merchant captains bustled through it all, meticulous in their calculations, followed by flocks of free laborers and indentured.

The people of the Alvaris market were just as varied as her wares, and the party from the Fledge fell in with the moving crowd.

As they walked, she noted many Esperese merchants and sailors, all of them speaking their own language. She understood most of it, the slower parts at least. Based on what she could glean, many were eager to leave Prospera and make the crossing back to Esperin. Something about the coming hurricane season, which looked to be brutal.

She shivered to think of it. Cat knew better than to be caught in the Furies during storm season.

And yet where have I found myself, she thought bitterly, her lips twisting.

There were precious few Meridian sailors, but enough to make it so Fell and his crew did not stick out so sorely. The Meridian folk were ruddier and fairer than the Esperese, who bronzed in the Lyrian Sun, while most Meridians cooked in it.

Cat caught sight of a particularly red-faced sailor, sunburn blazing across his cheeks. Limp yellow hair poked out beneath his hat, and a roll of fat caught under his chin. Her stomach jumped with a sudden memory, the thought of another scarlet Meridian man, well beyond his depth in the Lyrian Sea. And long dead.

I have not thought of Ryman in years.

It took her off guard and she missed a step, her boot catching on the pavement beneath her feet.

Before she could drop to a knee, a quick hand caught her under her arm. Gentle but firm, holding her steadily in place.

Cat looked up, expecting to see Fell smirking over her.

Instead, an old man stared down, his lined face the color of ochre, his eyes dark and warm, as if lit from within. His hair was slate gray and smooth, combed back into a long tail. With his high cheekbones and proud, arched nose, there was no mistaking him for a man of Esperin or Meridia.

He was an Arcayan, an islander, a true son of the Lyrian Sea.

And he wore indigo-blue robes, the edge hemmed in shimmering gold thread. The pattern matched the carvings on the song tower, three lines braiding together into a circle. Cat knew that symbol. She knew that symbol far too well.

Not embroidered on fabric but inked on bare skin.

Sky, sun, and sea.

The Song.

“May the sea always sing for you,” he said, exerting just enough pressure to help Cat right herself.

His voice was deep, dipped in honey, and no wonder. Arcayan priests were said to sing more beautifully than birds.

Cat blinked back at him. “May the sea always sing for you, Lord Priest.”

Ahead of her, she saw Fell’s head over the crowd, halting to look for her. His face reddened, his eyes wide with fear in the moment before spotting her.

“Keep up, Cat!” he called over the market, waving for her to follow.

But the Arcayan priest held in place, letting the flow of people break around them like waves around a stone. He did not release his hand, still looking down at Cat. She stared back, unblinking, forced to crane her neck to hold his gaze. He was exceptionally tall and, despite his age, had the build of a soldier.

“It is a rare Meridian lady who knows of my people, or our ways,” he murmured.

Some yards away, Fell glared at her, trying to fight his way back.

“Well, I do,” Cat replied.

The priest loosened his grasp, bowing his head a little. His melodic voice dropped.

“Then you know there are no lords in Crownless Arcayo. I am but one of many.”

“I’d say you are one of very few,” Cat replied, her hand darting out to grab his wrist in turn. “How many Arcayan priests man song towers beyond your islands?”

His smile was amused and dark.

“More will soon, my lady.”

The crowd pushed in, the tide of people jostling their shoulders. The noise and closeness of so many would have rankled Cat, if not for the shield it offered from Fell. The captain was waylaid, still trying to fight his way backwards, disgruntled and grumbling, caught up in a knot of Esperese sailors. But not for long.

Cat spoke quickly, both eager and bewildered.

“Why? Have you allied with Esperin? Is this—”

Her voice caught as she racked her brain. Once she read so many books about Arcayo and the rest of the Lyrian Sea, committing facts to memory as if they might be any use. Few were, in the reality of things. Lists and historical dates mattered little over the years, and information from Meridian scholars even less. Their knowledge of the Lyrian was limited at best.

She cursed herself, staring into the priest’s eyes, trying to remember. She had never believed in priests and songs, in the ways of the Arcayans.

Valerian did, she knew, thinking of the tattoo on his chest. The braiding lines of ink and faith, hot beneath her fingers, traced so many times she could draw them from memory. Cat never thought much of them, too practical to dwell on the many silent gods of the world. But even she could not deny the look on his face when he stepped into the shadow of a song tower or temple. Reverent, peaceful. A storm quelled.

Valerian always knew more than I ever could.

She dropped her hand, releasing her grasp on the priest’s wrist. Her mind raced, a jumble of too many things that just would not align.

“Cat!”

Fell’s frustrated shout rose above the din as he finally cut through the crowd, his furious men in tow. A few of them elbowed back and forth with passing merchants, trading curses as they blocked the street.

“I do not want to shackle you to my side, but I will if you make me,” Fell warned, offering his arm with a stern air. He spared only a passing glance to the Arcayan, uninterested and unknowing of his position.

Cat ignored the captain’s arm, nodding goodbye to the priest.

“May the sea always sing for you,” he said once more before melting into the market crowd. His indigo robes disappeared in seconds, swallowed up by the tide.

Fell stared after him, a black eyebrow arched imperiously. “A friend of yours?”

“No,” Cat replied.

“Let’s get on with it.” He looped his arm into hers, holding firm despite her protestations.

With Whisten leading the way, they carved a line through the market crowd, escaping the tumult onto a neighboring street.

Buildings leaned together, red shingles and pink stone giving the city a rosy haze. It was not so crowded here, but still bustling with foot traffic and horse-drawn carts. Storefronts and warehouses lined the way, with apartments cramped on the higher floors. Washerwomen strung laundry across the alleys while a few children played dice on a stoop. Lively music spilled out from one tavern on the far corner, two brawling men from another.

Fell looked back and forth, his gaze lingering on the fort to the west, situated above the city.

“I don’t suppose you know the way to the naval offices, do you?” Fell muttered.

With a scowl, Cat unraveled her arm from his.

“No,” she answered, lying.

The crowd and the noise made it too easy. Fell’s trust, spare as it was, even easier.

Cat was gone before he noticed, slipping off, disappearing into Alvaris with little more than a gleam of amber eyes and trailing skirts.

She was two streets away when she heard him calling, his voice a roar above the din. But it did not follow, the sound of him and the city fading with every step south, up the ridge of the volcano. Into the jungle and a church she could no longer see. But she remembered the way.

Towards the church tower, and the woman she was sure to find at the top of it.

Chapter Fourteen Before

VALERIAN LED HER through a broad council chamber running the width of the deck, the walls paneled oak, the windows thick-glassed, with the image of a golden lion holding the anchor painted on the ceiling. It wore the crown of the Meridian Empire, a double band of gold set with yellow diamonds like the pointed rays of a burning sun. If Cat questioned the origins of the Covenant, there was no mistaking it now: this was a stolen Meridian vessel, a battleship of the line, a fourth-rate if she counted decks correctly. And fairly new, judging by her exterior. Perhaps fresh from the burned shipyards in Allisport, newly delivered to the fleet in the Lyrian Sea. Pride of the Crown and Empire.

But no longer.

There were scorch marks in the rich curtains, which were now mismatched, a thick red brocade on one side, and light cotton on the other. The latter was hastily replaced, and Cat ventured they were not curtains at all, but bedsheets procured at some market. Or plundered from another ship. Sunlight spilled across the floor, casting a soft glow on the dark wood. Though polished, it was scuffed and scraped, a testament to dragged furniture and hard boots. So it was, the trappings of piracy layered over imperial foundations.

She did not miss the bullet hole in the wall, at precisely the height of the average man. Her heart thundered. At least the wall around it had been scrubbed over, leaving only the ghost of bloodstains behind.

Valerian did not stop as they passed the long table set across the room, with a dozen mismatched chairs. Instead, he pushed open the door into the next chamber without so much as a backwards glance.

Gritting her teeth, Cat followed, though every instinct told her not to.

She knew what lay beyond the last door.

In her mind, she remembered her books and the whispered warnings of Meridian society. Pirates were not just criminals but scoundrels, ravaging maids and ladies without thought for propriety or etiquette or honor. They sought their pleasure not just on the seas but in the gambling houses and brothels of the islands, in every ditch and gutter, until their lust for blood and gold and flesh was slaked. If it ever truly could be.

Cat trembled as she walked.

She expected a bedchamber done up in garish red and black, a den of debauchery, where not even the Lyrian sun could penetrate. Perhaps even a whore still between his sheets, sleeping through the assault to serve the captain later. Bright as Valerian appeared, Cat could not ignore the darkness in him, within his stormy eyes and beneath his chest, in a cavernous pirate heart. She had seen enough of the Lyrian Sea to know what dangers lay beneath still waters or behind serene clouds.

Her footsteps halted on the threshold, breath catching.

There was no red, no black, no shuttered curtains or enormous bed. No curled toes peeking out from the sheets. She doubted any companion could even fit in the shockingly small bunk, hidden away in the corner amongst shelves overflowing with bound books and rolled parchment. Certainly not alongside Valerian, who seemed too tall for his own bed, alone or otherwise accompanied.

Next to the bunk was a chest, the wood crisscrossed with iron banding and more locks than could ever be sensible. At a second glance, Cat realized it was screwed into the floor, held fast with planks. Whatever Valerian valued most would go down with his ship, should the Covenant face the same fate it gave the Venerable.

Against all her expectations, the cabin was warm and yellow with sunlight. Glass windows faced the sea on three sides, battered curtains thrown open to the horizon.

If not for the desk pulled to the center of the room and the maps scattered across every flat surface, the cabin might seem disused. The only personal items seemed to be clothes, along with a scattering of strange trinkets and artifacts. A few were clearly plunder, starkly out of place in the room: a porcelain plate painted in the Rijkstad style, blue patterned on white, with a sizable chip at the edge. A water-damaged gilded book, an ornate clock ticking so slowly it was almost frozen in time. Then were items she could not place at all. Smooth stones mostly, green and blue, a few of them carved with symbols Cat did not recognize. They were not Meridian make, or even Esperese, that much was clear.

Valerian dragged a chair across the room, legs scraping a fresh line over the floor.

“Well,” he muttered, gesturing to the chair. It was missing an arm, but otherwise finely made, the polished oak inlaid with gold scrollwork.

Silent, Cat sank into it, her focus narrowing from the room to the man in front of her.

To her surprise, Captain Kane seemed more awkward alone, indoors, away from his crew. He bustled around the desk, his shoulders hunched a little so he did not hit his head on the broken lamp dangling from the low ceiling. Cat almost laughed. Valerian was simultaneously too small and too large, looking boyish behind the desk of a navy lord.

Captain though he was, he did not wear the mantle like Quine or Meedy or even Morovant. They all bore the weight of command with ease or smug satisfaction. Not like Valerian. The captain’s title hung off him like an overlarge coat.

She ventured his command of the Covenant was barely weeks old, if that.

And perhaps the Venerable his first prize, or what remained of one, she mused.

Her fear melted, and the scales between them tipped towards balance, if only a little.

He had barely sat before glancing at her shoulder. His gaze snagged on her simple shift and the stretch of exposed skin around her neck.

Cat went warm beneath his inspection, but held still, reluctant to show any unease. It would only be seen as weakness. And she could not be weak if she were to save Jasper—and herself.

“Would you like a jacket, Lady Rose?” Valerian said in a halting voice, eyes skipping between her collarbone and her face. Then he extended a hand towards a wardrobe by the bed, the top drawer missing, the others crooked and stuffed full.

It was the last question she thought he might ask.

Her first thought was to shudder. His clothes were probably riddled with fleas and gods knew what else. Not to mention the shame of wearing a man’s things, let alone a pirate’s. But warmth curled in her too. He offered so easily, with little agenda she could find.

Beyond granting me a favor, and perhaps winning my trust, Cat told herself. She was at enough of a disadvantage without indebting herself to a pirate captain.

Nor did she need to cede what might be a small advantage of her own.

She shrugged, aware of her bare, freckled skin exposed to the warm, sunny cabin, and Valerian’s stormy eyes.

“No, thank you,” she answered, sitting back in the broken chair as if she was entertaining in her parlor. Her heart thrummed, though her voice remained level. “And I told you—my name is Cat.”

At that, Valerian grinned, settling back in his seat. He kicked up a boot, resting his foot on the desk.

“So I’ve heard,” he drawled, pointing back towards the deck. “That officer carries a candle for you. I’m certain you’ve noticed. And your husband,” he added, whistling a low tone. “I do not envy you.”

Her hand closed on the single remaining arm of her chair, fingers tight on the wood. But her face, like her voice, remained serene.

“I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” she said. “He is not himself when sailing.”

Valerian’s eyes darkened. “The Arcayans say the sea reveals a man’s true nature.”

“I do not know the ways of Arcayo,” Cat replied, with a ladylike humph, as if they were discussing the weather or a passing scrap of gossip. “Though you seem to collect their treasures.”

“Collect?” Valerian scoffed and followed her eyeline, noting the stones. “No, those were given, my lady. I do not take from my own.”

“Good luck charms then? Magic to guide you on the sea?”

At that, Valerian threw back his head and laughed. But there was no mirth to it. “Magic? The crowns of the Continent squeezed the magic from these waters a generation ago,” he said, his voice going tight. “When they slaughtered and sickened and drove away the true people of the Lyrian. There is no magic here anymore.”

Cat frowned, feeling like a child scolded by the teacher. “That isn’t what the history books say,” she answered, keeping her chin high.

Another laugh echoed around the cabin. “And who wrote those books, Lady Rose? Someone who was there, someone who lost something? Or a Meridian man at a desk on the other side of the world, with only the words of the conqueror to tell the tale?”

To that, Cat had no answer at all. She did not miss the interesting glint in Valerian’s gaze, the way his hand strayed to the tattoo on his chest. The braided circle, the twisting lines.

But she was in no position to ask probing questions.

Through the window, a few pieces of the Venerable drifted into view—then the first body. She winced, only to find Valerian still staring, not at her exposed shoulder or throat, but her face.

“You are changed since last I saw you, and yet your fortunes have not changed at all,” Valerian said slowly.

Cat felt her jaw clench. “I was in the process of changing said fortunes when you decided to blow up my ship.”

His grin widened, but it did not reach his eyes.

“I did not decide to do anything of the sort.”

More bodies bobbed amongst the wreckage, a parade of blue coats and blood.

“And yet countless men are now dead in the water,” she said. “Or already feeding the sharks.”

The captain scoffed. “Sharks don’t feed much in daylight.”

“My mistake,” Cat replied, her tone acidic.

It turned something in the pirate, his smile dropping.

“If we are to be laying blame, best give it to your captain. He didn’t store his powder properly, probably moved the magazine above the water line for easier access—and doomed his ship in the process.” There was a flush high on his bronzed cheeks, slight but clearly visible to Cat’s eye. “Those shots were meant to disable your ship, not destroy it. It wasn’t my fault.”

To Cat’s shock, she heard desperation lace his words. Sincerity, even. And logic too, much as she hated to admit. There was no prize to be had in a disaster such as this.

“That’s certainly a good excuse,” she muttered. “Though I don’t know enough about powder or magazines to ascertain the truth of it either way.”

“You’ll learn.” The flush disappeared and he looked out, not to the Venerable, but empty stretches of sea. “We all do.”

The sun rippled off the water, dancing across his face and in his eyes. It smoothed him out, wiping away long, harsh years of life in the Lyrian. With a start, she remembered he was not so old as he seemed. There was no gray in his short beard or gleaming hair. The lines on his face were worn by smiles and squinting eyes, not age. And his hands, rough as they looked, were still nimble and deft. She watched them now, splayed on the desk, the lines of shifting light spraying gold against already golden skin.

Somehow, his hands gave her pause, her eyes tracing his long fingers. One was crooked, perhaps broken long ago. And his knuckles looked raw, red from use. On deck or in a brawl, Cat could not say.

Both sent a current of heat to her core.

She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze back to his face.

“There is no we where you and I are concerned, Captain Kane,” she murmured.

“Is there not?” He looked back to her, an eyebrow raised. “We who crossed the ocean, leaving Meridia behind for another horizon?”

We who crossed the ocean. Cat pursed her lips, turning his words over, puzzling through them. Again she searched his face, mapping his appearance like territory to be examined.

He was not pale like other men of the Meridian, even the sailors. But the rest of him—the blond hair, those tempest eyes torn between blue and green, his accent, rough as it was, but not unfamiliar to the docks or the gutters of Meridian shores.

The twinkle of amusement returned to his eyes, like stars between rolling thunderheads.

“You enjoy confusing me,” she grumbled.

Valerian pushed back his hair, though most of it fell back into the same place, curling past his chin to brush his shoulder. It was strangely endearing.

“I enjoy being unexpected,” he countered. “I was not born to nobility or wealth, but I am not so far from you as you might think, Lady Rose. You’ll learn,” he said again, this time with a deep sigh. “You’ll learn what life is here, if you choose to stay. If you do not return to the Empire.”

Cat chewed the inside of her cheek, her mouth filling with a bitter taste.

“There is no life to return to in Meridia,” she said without thought. “So I suppose this is the lot of it.”

Valerian’s eyebrow rose higher, and Cat cursed inwardly.

“Only that I mean my husband has found such great success here,” she added, too quickly, her voice pitching high.

You fool, at least act like someone who can muster a ransom, she chided herself. Silently, she prayed Valerian would take her at her word, or better yet, ignore them entirely. Men often did.

“I am just a silly woman saying silly things,” Cat said, pressing a hand to her temple in performance. “Think little of them, sir.”

“You do not seem silly to me,” Valerian answered in a voice like granite.

It made Cat shiver in her chair. But for the circumstances, she might have enjoyed it.

“Lord Rose would never return to Meridian shores, I assure you,” she told him. “There is too much wealth to be had amongst these islands.”

Valerian’s brow tightened, his forehead furrowing. His gaze turned hard and his lips parted. She did not miss the red flash of his tongue as it ran over his golden tooth, polishing a fang.

Cat braced for his anger, for the brig. Or worse, the depths of the deep blue sea.

“That’s what I keep hearing from men like your husband,” he said, pushing back from the desk.

She flinched as his chair scraped over the floor and Valerian stood in a single motion, his eyes heavy on her. She felt his gaze on her trembling hands, her parted lips, chest heaving one harried breath after another. His own lips opened again, as if he could taste her fear. And her lies.

Her fingers curled, nails digging into her palm. The sharp bite gave her something to feel besides Valerian Kane’s infernal focus.

Only when he looked away did she release a little, some tension unwinding in her chest. But not entirely. Cat was still prey in a predator’s lair.

His eyes skipped over the many maps across the room, and Cat followed his gaze. Most of them were Meridian made, with severe lines of latitude drawn by skilled cartographers, the lay of the Lyrian islands mapped out in painstaking ink. Stooping, Valerian seized one and held it up to the light.

The sun illuminated a chain of islands, arranged in the shape of a fishing hook. Cat recognized them—had seen them at the bottom of every map of the Lyrian Sea—but she did not know their names, nor which kingdoms laid claim to their shores. They were foreign, as so much still was, and she ventured would always be.

“Vultures, all of them, looking at this place like a carcass to be picked clean,” he finally said, tossing the map aside to level his gaze at her again. “It’s what your empire does.”

It sounded like an accusation, though Cat hardly thought she was the one to deserve it.

“You said as much,” she snapped, stung. “But you are of the Empire too.”

“Being born there doesn’t make me part of it,” he retorted hotly, pacing in front of the windows. With a sweep of his hand, he gestured to the carcass of the Venerable, growing smaller by the second. “Especially not when I’ve sunk a Meridian ship.”

He did not say it with pride, or even warning. But Cat was not a foolish woman. Valerian Kane was a pirate captain, no matter how young or fine-looking. No matter his quick smile or deft hands. No matter how he looked her in the eye when he spoke to her, unlike almost every other man she knew.

There was no forgetting the danger of him. Especially not with her only allies in the world shackled in the belly of his ship.

“Vultures.” Cat’s voice trembled.

She stood so quickly, her chair fell backwards. Her free hand sliced through the air, a finger pointing straight at Valerian’s chest.

“Are you not a vulture too, preying on the weak as they make the crossing?” she demanded, as her mind told her to be quiet.

But she could not. Something in her would not allow it. This was not the parlor of a fine country estate or a city townhome, where she had to be demure, her smile fixed, her eyes downcast.

This was a pirate ship, in the middle of a lawless sea.

If my life is to hang in the balance, it will hang by my own measure and no one else’s.

“Exhausted crews and weary travelers make for easy targets, don’t they?” she continued, her eyes narrowed, the words spilling from her.

Part of her expected the captain to strike her across the face. It certainly would not have been beyond the realms of thought. Ryman had not hit her before, but there were enough rough shoves and disgusted looks to know he would, if the circumstances allowed. She did not expect much more from a pirate.

Instead, Valerian crossed his arms across his chest, his tight expression loosening into something thoughtful. And surprised.

In his silence, Cat heaved a breath, willing her heartbeat to slow and her flush to disappear.

Neither obeyed.

“If given the choice between jumping and being thrown,” he finally murmured, and Cat’s head spun.

She spoke the same words to him six months ago, under not-so-different circumstances. The familiarity made her heart pound harder.

“I choose to jump,” Cat finished, echoing herself.

The sea rolled beneath the ship, and for a moment she felt unmoored again. Then she truly was, losing her balance as the deck rocked. She threw out a hand, aiming to catch on to the desk before she could hit the floor.

Cat hit a solid wall of muscle instead, the side of her face pressed against tanned skin and surprisingly soft curls. Another touch burned at her waist, and she glanced down with a yelp, spotting Captain Kane’s arm curled around her middle, holding her upright.

The heat of his embrace burned through her thin shift, just as his bare chest burned against her cheek. And there was no ignoring the smell of him now, the weight of tobacco and salt and sweat threatening to pull Cat beneath a rushing tide. She almost let it, frozen for a moment, unmoving in the arms of a pirate.

When she thrust backwards out of his grasp, scarlet from head to toe, the pirate only made things worse. He didn’t move, grinning, laughing at her as she righted her chair and her dignity.

“You are not the sort of lady I expected,” he said, sighing.

One foot crossed the other and he leaned backwards against the desk, his body braced in front of her. It left little distance between them and did nothing to make him look smaller. If anything, Valerian seemed to take up more space, his body only a few feet from her own. He radiated warmth still, but Cat told herself it was just the close air of the cabin, and the sun beating through the glass.

“I doubt you’ve met a lady before,” she said, abandoning her chair. The remaining arm had splintered in her haste, and she refused to sit in it again, lest it collapse beneath her and truly destroy any shred of her dignity still left.

“True, I haven’t met a lady before.” He shrugged, and a lock of blond hair fell over his shoulder, long enough to brush the base of his throat. The gold chain around his neck gleamed bright against his skin, trailing out of sight beneath his collar. “Even so, not what I expected.”

“I suppose I enjoy being unexpected too,” Cat countered, surprising them both.

His smile flashed, the golden fang glinted in his mouth.

“Indeed, Lady Rose.” His voice deepened. “So, what do you have to offer?”

Though she was a lady of the Meridian, raised to be ignorant of less-polite society, separated from gutter snipes and jeering drunks, Cat was not so foolish as to miss the layers of implication. She remembered when Captain Meedy had asked if there was something else she was willing to trade when Captain Morovant waylaid the Credence. How his gaze had raked her collarbone. Valerian did the same now, his eyes trailing to her exposed shoulder, then her neck, then her clenched fists.

Cat had never felt so exposed, and yet—her breath caught. Her waist still prickled, her cheek still flamed. Every time he touched her, Valerian seemed to leave ripples in his wake. As if she was a pond of still water, his fingers skimming her surface to draw up something deeper and unseen.

Cat did not know what to make of it, the burning echoes and trailing eyes. They unsettled her, confused her, made her head spin and her skin itch.

But it was nothing compared to Ryman or his pale eyes. The way his gaze turned everything cold and gray. Even through layers of silk and petticoats and ribbons. Against bedsheets. On ship decks. In rolling carriages. On the steps of the country estate, sold out from under her. In their decaying room on Rosby. By daylight. By darkness.

I hope he dies in the brig, she thought bitterly.

Valerian allowed her silence, only tipping his head, content to watch. Cat felt a little like an animal being coaxed out of a hole. She supposed it was not so far from the truth.

What do you have to offer?

“To run is to die. To pay is to live.” She gestured to her planted feet, bare on the plank floor. “I am not running.”

“You don’t have much choice in the matter,” Valerian said. “But certainly, we will ransom the officer back to his navy. That can be easily arranged, we’ve done it enough.”

It was a small relief. Jasper Fell did not deserve to die here, and Cat cheered to know it would not be his fate. He may not even be ashamed, if the ransoms were so common as Valerian said.

“Of course, he must agree to the trade,” the captain added wistfully. “Though he doesn’t seem like the sort to choose.”

Cat blinked, confused. “The sort to choose what?”

His smirk curled. “To sail under the black flag.”

“You would offer him a position on your ship?” she said incredulously. A strange feeling washed over her, the drifting sensation again. It is only the ship, Cat told herself, the ship and the waves beneath.

She thought of Greer, the servant who asked to join Morovant’s crew, trading a life of service for a life of plunder.

“Where do you think most of my crew comes from?” He laughed, enjoying her bewilderment. “Half the pirates in the Lyrian Sea were navy once. Be it Meridian or Esperese or Itziman or Arcayan. Why do you think we know how to toy with the fleets so well?”

In her chest, her heartbeat skittered and Cat could not help but think of the she-pirate out on deck. The woman with the flowing river of black hair. Ana, Valerian had called her. And she was not the only woman who served aboard the Covenant.

Did Valerian offer them the choice too?

Her mouth went dry.

Would he offer it to me?

Cat dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. One glimpse at her hand, her soft, white palm, was enough to kill her hope before it could even bloom. She was a lady of the Meridian, a courtly wife. Her only skills were at the card table, her only use what little lords and ladies she might bring into the world. There was no room for her on this ship, or any other.

She was useless in every sense, she knew that. But she would not bear Valerian telling her so.

Her teeth clenched, her mouth remaining resolutely shut.

The captain of the Covenant did not seem to enjoy silence. He shifted against the desk, crossing and recrossing his arms.

“What of you?” he prodded, eyeing her again.

Cat knew what a sight she was. Her eyes were probably red from seawater and tears, her hair frizzing and knotted. Her shift had finally dried, now stiff with salt. She despaired at the thought of her face, freckled after six months in the Lyrian, without rouge or lipstick or powder to look decent.

The captain was still staring, a little line appearing between his brows. As if she was a puzzle he was trying to put together.

A puzzle with missing pieces, Cat mused. Good luck.

“We own Rosby Island and an estate upon it,” she said stiffly, tossing her head. A curl fell across her forehead and she brushed it away as if it were a feather in an ornate headdress. “There are farms, orchards, fresh water. We have made ourselves quite the living here.”

Cat did not enjoy lying, but she was good at it. Lies were easy to spin and far easier to look at than the truth.

The line between Valerian’s eyebrows deepened.

“On Rosby?” he scoffed in disbelief. “I do not recall such things on that rock you call an island.”

“Then you have not seen what Meridian engineers can do,” Cat answered without hesitation, though her mind whirled.

If he knows even a little of Rosby, then he will know I’m lying.

Valerian uncrossed his arms and leaned, bending at the waist to close the distance between them. It was starting to annoy her, the intensity of his stare, as if she were a horizon, a storm, or another ship. Something to overcome or conquer. She steeled herself against the swirl of a tempest in his eyes, refusing to be pulled under.

“I do not recall an engineer with you on the crossing.”

“Perhaps your recall is not entirely perfect,” she said imperiously, her voice laced with annoyance. And desperation. “I do not keep my husband’s accounts, but I am privy to them. There is a great deal of money for Lord Rose, both on the island and in Archenport. Not to mention back home in a bank on Bristol Street.”

At the mention of the glittering financial heart of Brycam City, the seat of the Empire’s wealth and center of her economic power, Valerian’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. It felt like a point scored in a game Cat did not know how to play, but she celebrated anyway. Valerian Kane was a pirate before anything else, and valued money above all things. It was good to know what made people move, and clearly, Valerian Kane moved for greed.

She smiled at him, triumphant.

“Deliver us to Archenport,” Cat said, “and I will make you a wealthy man, Valerian Kane.”

He grinned at her in return, the corners of his mouth curling in a dangerous way.

“I already am a wealthy man,” he replied, but she saw the hunger in him still.

Not just for greed but glory too.

Cat raised her chin. “Then I will make you known and feared. Tales of you will echo through the fine homes of Archenport and beyond when I am free.”

It felt like waving a strip of meat in front of a predator with too many teeth, who might forgo the meal to swallow her instead.

But Cat would not relent. Her bluff depended on it.

“Let’s start with the gold,” Valerian finally said, satisfied with her for now. The sun caught the windows behind him, turning his hair into a halo. “One thousand crowns, Imperial mint.”

Cat sputtered, her head going light. One thousand crowns was enough to buy a fine house in Brycam City, and everything in it. It was a ridiculous figure, especially for someone as ridiculous as Ryman Rose.

“One hundred,” she shot back through gritted teeth.

“Three.”

She forced herself to look Valerian in the eye. The too-bright light put his face in shadow, blurring his features, but his eyes remained steady as a beacon, storm-green and stunning.

Cat stared back as best she could, willing herself to remain still and strong, to be a worthy opponent. Someone to respect, someone to treat with. An equal.

“Done,” she murmured weakly.

Three hundred crowns.

Suddenly she fought to breathe and wanted nothing more than to sprint back out on deck, pirates be damned. She needed fresh air, and perhaps to empty her guts over the rail.

Valerian showed no such discomfort. He extended a callused hand, as if they had just struck a trade for farm animals and not a ransom agreement.

“A pleasure doing business with you again, Lady Rose,” he said, chuckling.

“Again,” Cat echoed, in a daze.

In the window gallery, the distant Venerable’s hull was slowly sinking, the rib-like beams of wood disappearing beneath the waves. Soon all memory of the great ship would be gone, and her passengers with it.

“You call this business?” she muttered with disgust.

Valerian recoiled, his smile faltering, before turning to a sneer. His open hand closed and dropped to his side.

“As I said, I call it an accident,” he replied. “I think that concludes our meeting, Lady Rose.”

Despite six months on the islands, Cat had not lost her ability to read social cues, especially the most obvious. Most of her was glad to be dismissed. The smallest piece wanted to linger, frustrating as Valerian Kane was. She gave the shallowest of curtsies, scowling. There was something infuriating about him—not just his murderous nature, but the lengthening list of contradictions that made up the pirate captain. It puzzled Cat to no end.

She spun on her heel, ready to be rid of him.

“I call it survival too,” he added, somewhat softer. Not kindly, but matter-of-fact. “This is what survival is in the Lyrian Sea, for me and my crew. We do not have the luxury of buying our lives. We must fight for them or die trying.”

Her steps halted, one hand on the cabin door. Slowly, Cat turned.

Valerian’s long, lean form was braced against the desk. One hand gripped the edge. The other fingered the golden chain around his neck. The braided metal was thin and fine, like a thread of sunlight between his fingers.

“I did not think we would survive the storm,” Cat heard herself say.

Outside, the clouds had completely cleared away, the sky a taunting shade of vibrant blue. So different from only a few hours ago, when the world went black, the darkness broken only by lightning and cannon fire. When the waves became mountains and canyons, tossing their ship like a toy.

“I prayed all night,” she mumbled, remembering the close air of the cabin, and Sara pressed in next to her, their whispers somehow louder than the storm. “Hoping I would live to see the morning.”

Valerian blinked at her. “I’m surprised to see your gods answered.”

“No. No, the gods of the Meridian Church were silent,” she said with a faint laugh. “I think I prayed to something else.”

Valerian’s gaze flared, his eyes going wide, as if her voice had struck something in him.

“What did you pray to, Lady Rose?”

Cat chewed her answer, feeling foolish.

“To . . . to the Lyrian, I think,” she finally forced out. “May the sea always sing for you, Captain Kane.”

He did not move, his eyes lingering on her face. She felt shot through with his focus, nailed in place, unable to move even if she wanted to. She could not help but stare back, searching his face as he searched hers. Looking for what, she could not fathom.

Valerian relinquished first, and Cat exhaled a shaky breath, watching as he leaned back against the desk, planting his hands on his hips, squaring his shoulders. The action pulled open his shirt a little more, and the golden chain winked against his bare skin. Slowly, surely, he pulled the full length of it up, twisting the gleaming thread around his fingers.

A turquoise stone hung from the necklace, a perfect match to the prayer beads she had destroyed six months ago. Cat swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. There was no denying it. The prayer bead was her own, with the same crack running through its center.

She remembered the press of his hand in her pocket, sure fingers stealing one last treasure from Lady Rose. Her mouth worked but no words came. There was nothing she could think to say.

Valerian Kane was not so bound.

“May the sea always sing for you, Lady Rose,” he said softly, turning to face the horizon, her prayer bead still caught between his fingers.

Chapter Fifteen After

LIKE MOST PORTS, Alvaris was a tangle near the water, a hectic knot of streets and buildings that unraveled as soon as one moved inland. She had only a few hundred yards to lose Jasper Fell, before there was only one road to run and all would be done for. Cat was quick, but not quick enough to outrun a naval officer over open ground, let alone a crew who hated her in their marrow.

Good, then, that it was a market day. Cat thanked her luck as she ran, pressing through narrow gaps between sugar carts rolling in from the fields, carrying barrel after barrel of golden-grained treasure across the island. Mules brayed and porters shouted, but she paid them no mind, even stealing a scarf from one of the Esperese merchants’ stands. She tied it as she ran, hiding her coin-bright curls, a dead giveaway in a crowd of black-haired Esperese traders.

Her thighs burned and she tried not to think of the cobblestones, praying none came loose under her feet. It had been some time since Cat Rose had truly run anywhere, and there was already a stitch forming in her side. But there was no stopping, not if she wanted to keep her head.

Not if she wanted a chance.

Only when she reached the jungle did she risk looking backwards, down into the teeming streets. She panted hard, one hand braced against the trunk of a palm tree, her tightly laced boots firmly planted on stone steps leading up the volcano.

Bright red flashed in the distance—Fell’s waistcoat. He forced his way along an alleyway, his men behind him. But it was a losing battle against the thickening crowd. Cat grinned, heaving another gulp of air.

They don’t even know where I’m going, she thought, triumphant as she turned to look up the green slope.

Her smile quickly dropped, wide eyes following the crooked path of stone steps leading into the misty jungle. There was no steepled church in sight, the path ahead disappearing over a distant ridge.

A bead of sweat rolled down her neck and under the collar of her plain dress. It would hardly be the last.

Steeling herself, she forged ahead before she could think better of the situation.

After a few minutes of climbing, Cat started thinking of shedding the coins sewn into her hemline. They grew heavier by the second, and she lamented every circle of silver and gold, not to mention the clinking pouch in her pocket. Or the little knife in her boot rubbing a raw edge against her leg.

But tossing it would be stupider than tossing away her money. If anything, she needed the knife more than gold.

If only I had time to buy a mule to take me up the mountain, she thought, wheezing, step after blistering step. Or pay a porter to carry me.

Though the ascent made her knees scream and her lungs sear, the jungle offered some welcome respite from the blazing sun. Palms and knotted fig trees closed overhead, tossing a blanket of shade over the path. The air was thick and humid, but smelled of fresh dew and earth, not dock water and fish. Cat gulped it down as she hauled herself forever up, trying not to think of how much farther she still had to climb.

At least the way was well cared for, the ferns and vines cut away from the stone, though Cat doubted many traveled this path anymore. Precious few pilgrims sought this church, the wayward seeking rare salvation. And now, the disgraced Lady Rose.

Fitting.

A pair of monkeys followed along in the treetops, their furry silhouettes leaping from branch to branch. Cat wished she had something to give them. Monkeys had grown rare in the Lyrian Sea and the two little beasts, black with a ring of white around their faces, seemed a good omen. Certainly, they were better than the more dangerous animals that made their home on the islands. Wolf bats were few, jaguars fewer, but not impossible to find. She watched the jungle sharply. She hardly wished to flee the noose to walk into a waiting set of jaws.

But there was no predator she feared so much as man.

Which man above all—Osprin, Fell, or Valerian Kane—she could not say.

When she crested the next ridge, Cat almost sank to her knees in defeat. The path led farther still, winding back and forth in merciless switchbacks that made her chest tighten. But at least she could see the church now, her destination clear, if distant.

“I’m too old for this,” Cat muttered, using the stolen scarf to mop her brow.

The Esperese must have built the church many decades ago, when Alvaris was little more than a single dock in the harbor. It looked crudely hewn from this distance. Unlike the new church in the port, washed pink and with its gleaming spire, this was a low, squat thing, built of unassuming white stone and faded red tile. The jungle seemed to bloom around the church, consuming it. In a few years’ time, Cat ventured it would be swallowed entirely, reclaimed by the roots and trees and the yearly march of howling storms. Part of it had already crumbled, one side of the long stone chapel collapsed. The rest leaned like a drunk man, with only the tower to hold him up.

Something flashed in the window at the top, and Cat braced for the bellow of a tolling bell.

It did not come. Her arrival went unnoticed.

Or unwanted.

She nearly collapsed at the top of the path, her breath like a stabbing knife. But whatever dignity she had left would not allow such things. Instead, she pressed a hand to the now-searing stitch in her left side and hobbled towards the wall surrounding the church. There was no gate but an open archway wound with flowering vines. Jasmine perfumed the air, though she could hardly enjoy it. Breathing was difficult enough and Cat forced herself to take even, rasping gulps until she steadied somewhat.

Only then did she realize how silent the church was.

The monkeys are gone.

Suddenly Cat forgot the pain in her ribs and her aching feet. She even forgot Jasper Fell, still stuck and searching the streets of Alvaris, if she had any luck at all.

The courtyard was overgrown as the church walls, with weeds and flowers springing up between the cracked flagstones. A fountain in the center was long dry, discolored to patches of brown and green.

She raised her eyes to scan her surroundings, noting the door to the church hall and the even older tower, itself built of sun-washed white stone. It was almost worn smooth, eroded by weather and time. Almost. With a lurch, Cat realized she recognized the patterns coiling up the church’s belltower. Braided lines, twisting geometric coils—the same carvings as the new song tower in the harbor, and the old towers across Arcayo.

Cat blinked up at its height.

This church had not been built by the Esperese but overtaken, claimed when they conquered the island and drove its inhabitants away. Her stomach twisted, and she tried to imagine the tower before the church, before Esperin took this island and everything on it.

As the wind used to sing through the arch in the old harbor, the jungle seemed to whisper here too. But its voice was little more than a passing breeze across the rooftops, an echo of what was, and would never come again.

“Hello?” she chanced, calling out once in Meridian and once in her poorly accented Esperese.

Something scuffled and she whirled to find herself facing a priest robed in rough spun wool, his tanned face peering out at her from a window. He glared and shook a finger at her.

“You are in a holy place, madam!” he scolded, speaking Meridian so she could understand. “Show some respect.”

“My apologies, sir,” Cat replied quickly. She crossed the courtyard to approach the older man, weathering his look of disdain with ladylike grace. Her face smoothed into an expression Cat hoped looked like humble penance. “Forgive me, Father, but I am looking for a sister of your order. I have sins to confess.”

“You certainly do,” another voice answered behind her, ringing out over the churchyard.

A chill settled over her in an instant, falling over sweating skin like a frigid wave. She swallowed hard, throat working.

Perhaps this was a bad idea.

Her heart thumped.

Too late.

With all the will she could muster, Cat turned on her heel, steeling herself to face the church tower, and the black-haired woman standing in front of it.

She wore a robe like the monk, bound at the waist with a length of rope. One sleeve was pinned up, unneeded, for the woman was missing her left arm. But the dull clothing did little to hide her true shine, her eyes like two burning black coals.

Her lips parted, showing four silver teeth.

It was not a smile.

“Ana,” Cat said, her voice sharp and clear.

“Widow Rose,” the pirate answered, holding her ground.

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Even the monk stayed quiet, looking between the two women.

What does she know of the world now? What does she know of me? Cat wondered as she stared at Ana, keeping her face a blank mask to hide her trepidation.

What has she heard?

What does she suspect?

Anamina Rualcon left the life of piracy years ago, but Cat knew she would rather slit an officer’s throat than aid the Meridian Empire, even now. The Seawolf no longer sailed, but she was a wolf still.

Silver flashed in the sunlight, and Cat braced, expecting to be bitten.

Instead familiar, unbridled laughter filled the courtyard, and Ana threw her arm wide. In a few short strides, she crossed the flagstones and wrapped Cat in a soft embrace. Cat could not help but melt, leaning in, her arms tight around the former pirate. She was careful to avoid the curve of flesh below her shoulder, though it had been years since Ana lost the arm. She was certainly healed by now, but Cat was loath to find out her assumptions were incorrect in the worst way.

“By the Sea and the Song,” Ana murmured, her songbird voice half muffled by the hug. “It is good to see you, Kitten.”

“I hate that nickname.”

“I know, Kitten.”

For a brief second, Cat shut her eyes and tried to forget, as if the last few years had never happened at all. She clutched at Ana like another weary traveler seeking sanctuary or absolution.

In truth, Cat knew she would find neither in this place.

*

“I THOUGHT I was finished climbing.” Cat’s breathing came hard and harsh as she did her best to keep up with Ana’s relentless pace.

Above her, the woman did not break stride, her breathing offensively quiet as they ascended the spiral of stairs. Cat expected Ana to have lost some strength, but her years at the church, climbing the bell tower and the steep jungle path, seemed to have made her fitter than ever.

Frowning, Cat clutched at the handrail, using it to leverage herself up. “Can you slow down a little?”

“No,” Ana replied with a grin.

Another breath heaved through Cat’s teeth. “I’m surprised you’re still here. I didn’t know you were capable of staying in one place this long.”

Or serving in an Esperese church.

Ana did not answer and Cat studied the walls instead, tracing the carvings that spiraled with them. They were more visible inside the tower, better protected from the elements. The old stone was cool under her fingers, cooler than it should have been, soothing as a wet cloth on a fevered brow. Her memory of the grander tower in Nera was shaky, but the patterns seemed to match, albeit in smaller form. She did not know the notes each braiding curve represented, but imagined a song priest singing them, a hand on the carving, reading the stones as he loosed the melody of them.

Ana knows, Cat thought, watching the Arcayan woman run a finger along the curves, tracing them as someone would a page in a book.

That quieted her questions a little.

This place is holy to her too.

Cat reached the belfry sweating and panting, the humid air making her more uncomfortable. She all but ran for one of the open archways and braced herself, leaning out into the breeze coming off the sea. Below, the southern coast of Prospera splayed out, vibrant green against brilliant blue.

From this height, the boats in the harbor looked like toys, perfect miniatures. Far less intimidating than the real thing, and yet still a sight to behold. She squinted, trying to spot the Fledge. She knew better than to hope Fell might abandon her on the island, but she scanned the breakwater for his vessel anyway.

Her eyes snagged on the newer song tower, the white stone like a finger bone sticking up from the waves. Again, she puzzled over it and the presence of an Arcayan priest here in a foreign city.

“I’ve seen many strange things, but few stranger than a song tower in an Esperese harbor,” Cat murmured, still fixated on the port. “I assume you had something to do with that.”

Across the belfry, Ana smirked. She leaned against the iron bell occupying most of the space, half of it covered in rust. Cat doubted it could even ring anymore.

“Hardly. I am but a sister of the Church, low in my station,” she answered. Something twinkled in her eyes, betraying a secret she would not bare. “I know little of the dealings of great men, the Esperese or my kin.”

You know far more than you let on, Cat wanted to scoff. Instead, she shrugged around at the chamber, eyeing the carvings with a sharp look.

“Strange, to build a song tower below when one already exists here.”

Ana only shrugged, hip balanced against the bell. “The Church does not relinquish its grasp easily. Even on ruins.”

That was true enough. The Churches of the Continent were just as voracious as the Crowns, if given the chance.

“It’s good to see you too,” Cat offered, wiping the sweat away from her brow. “It’s good to see you alive.”

The implications and words unsaid hung heavy in the air, almost close enough to touch.

It is good to see you alive when so many are not.

“We’ll drink to them,” Ana said softly, edging around the bell to reach a small cabinet in the corner. She produced a dusty bottle of thick red wine and tucked it into her elbow, then plucked two glasses, one of them cracked at the lip.

Cat watched in silence as the other woman navigated without issue. When Ana offered a glass, Cat took it gladly. Silently, they drank to all the dead they shared.

The wine had a sour edge, too dry for Cat’s liking, but she drained the glass. Ana did the same, quick to pour another for both of them.

It sloshed into the glasses, dark as old blood.

“Do you spend all your time drinking and watching the horizon?” Cat said, gesturing towards the harbor.

“Not all of it. I prune the path and dust the altar from time to time,” Ana replied, finishing the second glass with ease.

Cat was not so quick to drink. She needed her wits and knew better than to try to match Ana glass for glass. The Seawolf was not just renowned for her teeth but her belly too. Instead, Cat held the wine close and paced, taking a turn around the tower.

Navigating along the bell, she came to a little table against the wall, positioned with a clear view of the harbor and horizon. There was a pile of notes on the wooden top, held down with a well-maintained spyglass, and a pot of ink alongside a sheaf of quill pens. But it was the block of wax that caught Cat’s eye. Thick, red like the wine.

The kind of wax used to seal letters.

In her boots, her toes curled.

Cat did not bend to inspect the papers. It would be too suspicious. Nor could she read them if she tried. A glimpse was enough to know the letters were not written in Meridian or Esperese but Arcayan, its script whorled and dotted, wholly different from northern languages.

Satisfied, Cat casually turned back to face Ana.

“I see you’re still reporting on the Esperese fleet,” Cat mused.

“And whoever else sails into port,” Ana answered, an edge to her words. “I keep a weather eye for some friends. That is all.”

Cat studied her wineglass. “The same friends?” Her tone was light. And calculated.

“Come to think of it, most of them are dead,” Ana said, sighing. She tossed her braid and looked out to sea, her eyes lost in thought for a long moment.

“I expected you to go home,” Cat said, still trying to get a measure of Ana, to balance the woman in front of her with the woman she had known. “To be dancing in Nera, not shut up in a tower, serving gods you don’t believe in.”

“You are certainly one to speak of gods and belief, Widow Rose,” Ana replied, her smile sharper now. “You saw them kill Harry, didn’t you?”

Cat startled at the name. Worse still was the wet sheen in Ana’s eyes. The sorrow took Cat by surprise, and she realized she could not recall ever seeing Anamina weep. Not even when she stumbled into port half dead and missing her arm.

“Yes.” It was all she could say.

Ana drew a breath, her voice tight. “And the way he died? I heard rumors . . .” she said, her voice trailing off.

The gruesome memory flashed in Cat’s mind and she could not help but flinch. She would have liked to spare Ana the pain of such things, but that was not the world they lived in.

“The reality was worse,” Cat murmured, dropping her gaze to look at the floor. She traced patterns in the wood beneath her, hoping for a distraction.

Instead, she saw Harry Morovant’s corpse back in Archenport, his broken body in the middle of Hargrove Square.

Tied down and ripped apart. Sewed back together. Nailed to a post. Left to rot on my doorstep. Too cursed for even the crows.

Ana snatched the still-full wineglass out of Cat’s grasp and drained it dry.

“To Harry. To Captain Morovant, dead and gone,” she muttered, slapping the empty glass down on the table, her head shaking back and forth. “You know, a small part of me believed he might find a way out of it. Or that it was a ruse, a trick. He was always good at that sort of thing. Slippery, sharp. And quick with a bribe.”

Cat did not doubt he tried, from the prison cells of Fort Morden all the way up to his execution.

“Governor Osprin is not the type to be bought off,” she answered. Her skin crawled at the thought of him, a reaper behind his ornate desk. “Unfortunately.”

A black eyebrow arched high on Ana’s face, her look changing.

“You speak as if you know him,” she said slowly.

Dread pooled in Cat’s stomach and the floor seemed to sway beneath her, as if it might drop out at any moment.

“All of Archenport knows him,” Cat answered, disdainful. It was not even a deception, her feelings about Osprin decidedly negative. “It’s hard to miss the man standing next to the executioner every single day.”

Then her voice dropped, and she reached out, taking Ana by the wrist. Her fingers closed, forceful while she met the woman’s eyes.

“He is a monster the likes of which the Lyrian has never seen before,” Cat warned.

For once, I am not lying.

Ana stared at her. “And the Lyrian certainly has her share of monsters.”

Nodding, Cat sighed and released her grasp. She glanced back to the sea, the picture of a wistful woman waiting on a man who might never return. Or at least she hoped she looked that way.

“We are lucky another monster still lives,” Cat tested, her words filled with meaning.

“So, Valerian did escape the noose,” Ana breathed, looking torn between hope and concern.

Both were false.

The Seawolf was good at many things. Acting was not one of them. She was subtle as a shark cutting through open water.

Lady Rose was the opposite.

She did not turn, though she could feel the letters on the desk behind her, their presence burning a hole in the back of her mind. Now she was certain. Ana still wrote to Valerian, reporting on the comings and goings of Alvaris. Once she tracked treasure fleets and Esperese navy for her old captain. But now what?

Cat eyed the Arcayan letters again, then the song tower in port, imagining the priest in his indigo robes. And Ana up the mountain, manning a song tower of her own.

It’s connected, Cat thought. I’m sure of it. Whatever maneuvering they did, whatever gold the Arcayans paid to put a tower in the harbor, whatever words passed between Ana and Valerian and maybe the priest too, whatever song sung low across the waves stirring the water and winds as no man could.

But how do they reach him? Her mind spun. The Covenant will not make port long, not with the navy crawling across the Lyrian. He attacks and escapes and moves on, collecting ships of the fleet as he burns his way through the islands.

It was quite a puzzle to solve. But not so pressing as the one in front of her.

Why is Ana lying to me?

“Yes, Val is alive,” Cat offered, thinking quickly. “But not for long, if Osprin has his way. He is a terrifying man, and he will bring all the fury of the Meridian fleet down on Val when he finds him. Not to mention every surviving pirate in the Lyrian Sea,” she added, eyeing Ana with a meaningful look. “And I mean every pirate.”

Ana’s gaze darted over Cat’s shoulder, back to the desk. So obvious were her thoughts, Cat almost gestured for her to get writing and spread word of Osprin’s hunt.

“When?” the woman muttered.

Before the King of Meridia arrives. Before he comes and slams the door on everything this place once was, Cat thought. But she knew better than to play her best card too early in the game.

“It is only a matter of time.” Cat shook her head. “I wish it were not so.”

A shadow crossed Ana’s eyes, but Cat held her ground, even as the world tipped beneath her.

“I’m surprised you aren’t with Val,” Ana said. Her gaze passed over Cat slowly, from boots to her hem, then up her bodice to the freckled skin of her collarbone, before landing on her face, as if she might sift straight through her mind like a hand through soft sand.

An honest woman would not feel accused, Cat told herself. She would feel sad.

She sighed, giving her breath a well-calculated hitch.

“I should have been,” she said, her voice softer. Then she dropped her head, one hand curling at her hip, knuckles turning white with frustration. And shame. “I should have been with him when the fleet came.”

It was an easy picture to paint, and Cat was a master with her brush.

“But I understand why he did what he did,” she added, squinting her eyes as if fighting back tears. “There was no returning to Archenport, not after the Meridian navy routed Morovant’s armada. Val had to run, and I—I—” she stuttered, her voice breaking. “He left me behind.”

Ana’s scrutinizing glare softened a little. “That is not the captain I remember.”

“The years changed us all, I suppose. The years and the blood,” Cat offered. She even dabbed at her eyes, using the stolen scarf to wipe away tears unshed. “And some change more than others.”

She forced a tight laugh and gestured to Ana with her scarf, pushing on. “When we first met, you said you would never make a good lady. That you weren’t the obliging sort. Now an old monk bosses you around a crumbling church.”

“Brother Fiero is just so demanding,” Ana said, rolling her eyes. She moved around the bell, closing the distance between them. “But a small price to pay, I think.”

“To survive,” Cat replied, speaking the words they both knew hung in the air.

“To be useful,” Ana shot back.

Cat remembered that too, the broken sound of Ana’s voice so many years ago. I can still be useful, she had said, slumped against Valerian, her usual light stolen away with her freshly severed arm. And she was not wrong. She could not climb rigging or load a pistol or haul rope anymore. But she could keep a weather eye on the horizon for years to come.

“And yes,” she added, her voice thickening. “To survive. To survive then and to survive now. The Meridian fleet would happily hang the Seawolf. And they would hardly pause to kill an Arcayan woman. What is another in the sea of thousands already dead at their hands, on my island or any other? But they would not hang an Esperese nun,” she added, gesturing at her roughspun wool and plain appearance.

Once more, her dark eyes flared.

“But that’s just me. What price did you pay, Kitten?”

Now the nickname sounded like a curse.

Cat stiffened, refusing to flinch. “I don’t follow.”

Ana was not so easily thrown off. This time when she took another step, Cat mirrored her without thought, holding the inches between them.

“What did you do, Catrine Rose? How are you standing in front of me, alive and breathing?” Ana said, her voice shifting to a snarl as she continued her forwards motion.

Cat took another step backwards and yelped, her heel hitting open air, the archway of the belfry yawning behind her. And beyond it, nothing but sky. She reached out with one arm, catching the stone edge to stop herself from pitching backwards.

“Ana—” she began, stopping short as a flash of silver sliced through the air.

Not teeth but a blade.

Even one-armed, Ana moved with lightning precision and control, perfectly balanced. The knife lay cold against Cat’s throat. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the cool metal against her flushed skin.

“Ana,” she said again, trying to gather herself, to sound calm and collected in the face of looming death. Her free hand strayed, playing with the chain of her watch to hide the tremble in her hands. “What are you doing?”

But the Seawolf did not relent.

“I remember that officer. What was his name?” she said, holding Cat in place, balanced between blade and empty sky. “The one who survived the Venerable with you and your rat husband.”

“Jasper Fell,” Cat answered flatly, trying not to move.

“He kept your secret, didn’t he?” Ana laughed, the sound cold as her steel. “Of course he did, or you would not stand before me now. They’d hang you for it, even ten years later.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cat glimpsed the tops of the palm trees, very far below. Her vision spun and she clawed at the archway, trying to hold steady.

“I owed Fell a debt, yes. And I paid it, long before the Meridian navy returned,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Long before any of this.”

Ana only hissed back. “That doesn’t answer my question. How are you here without Valerian? How are you walking free? How are you still alive?”

There were too many options to weigh, too many lies to choose from. Cat tried to calculate her bluff, sifting through the cards she had to play.

“It was only a matter of time,” she said again, but firmer, her teeth bared. “I warned Valerian. I told him.”

Her voice broke, true frustration boiling over. In her anguish, she pushed forwards, away from the edge of the bell tower. Her neck pressed against the knife and a bead of blood welled on her skin.

To Cat’s relief, Ana moved with her, relenting just enough not to cut her throat.

“I tried, Ana,” she murmured, taking another step, forcing the pirate to shift or kill. “I tried to save him with everything I had.”

She shifted.

Tears prickled in Ana’s eyes again, but not from sorrow. Cat saw rage in her once-friend. And regret too, bitter enough to taste.

“By the Sea and the Song,” she hissed, the holy words turned into a curse. “And when Valerian didn’t listen? You found someone else to tell. You always were so good at that, whispering, collecting secrets. Selling information to the highest bidder. And I suppose no one pays so well as the Meridian Empire!”

Cat was no fighter, but she was a gambler. When she swiped an arm, knocking Ana’s hand away, she bet well. The pirate, a warrior even in her wool dress, could not bring herself to fight back.

“I did what any good pirate would do,” Cat snapped. The truth of it rang between them like the bell in the tower, impossible to ignore. Her knife was still in her boot, but Cat was not stupid enough to draw it against Anamina Rualcon. “I took the money. I protected myself, because no one else ever will.”

Ana threw her a look of disgust, as if Lady Rose was refuse in the street. She went to her knife and, with a quick flick of her foot, tossed it into the air to catch and return to her sleeve.

“You’re not a pirate. You’re worse,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re a traitor, Widow Rose. To Valerian, to the pirate republic.”

Free from the archway, Cat tried not to think of the very long drop down to the courtyard. Nor the letters on the desk, which Ana very smoothly planted herself in front of. It was a clear message. She would allow Cat her life, but little else.

“The republic,” Cat spat, her disgust radiating. “The republic was doomed from the start.”

“You never did have much faith. I told Valerian as much once. In the Song or in what we built,” Ana scoffed at her, almost amused. “No matter how much you love that woman, she will never understand. I’m sorry I was right.”

It was a blow meant to hurt her, and Cat felt it like a dagger through her heart. Lucky, then, that my heart has turned to stone. She brushed it off as best she could, refusing to be dragged backwards through a storm of memory.

“Understand what?” she sneered, dropping all her pretenses. There was no more use in them. “Suicide?”

To her surprise, Ana grinned silver, the Seawolf once more.

“This is a betrayal, the worst kind. To yourself, to your heart—and to the Lyrian Sea. You will rue the day you chose the Empire, and the losing side,” she said, her voice stern.

“The losing side?” Cat sputtered. “Ana, you’ve spent too long in your tower. One side did lose, and it was not the Meridian!”

“Think what you wish, Widow Rose. This war is not over,” she warned. “And the Lyrian’s punishment will be worse than anything I can give you.”

Cat’s eyes narrowed.

A betrayal of the sea.

She turned the words over in her mind. They were familiar, distantly so, and Cat racked her mind for an answer. She knew the Arcayans swore on the sea and prayed to it, upholding their Song. In their eyes, to betray the sea was the gravest of transgressions.

The answer was obvious. This was an Esperese church, but Ana would never serve Esperese gods. Not really. Not in her heart.

“This tower isn’t a ruin, is it? Not abandoned, not forgotten,” Cat breathed. She thought of the Arcayan priest in the market. Her eyes flicked over Ana, taking in her roughspun robe. “You should be wearing indigo like the rest of your order.”

The other woman seemed to curl, as if retreating into a shell.

“You would not understand, and you would not believe,” Ana said again. Her voice took on an odd tremor, like struck metal reverberating between her words. Before Cat could think to question it, the pirate woman lunged, and Cat tensed, bracing for a blow. Only for Ana’s hand to catch the chain of her pocket watch, still looped in her belt. It broke with a ring of gold, followed by the crunching sound of glass and gears beneath a boot.

Cat could do nothing as Ana dug her heel into the mechanism, the shattered image of a fading rose splintered against the floorboards. Cat’s heart twisted, feeling the crush of Ana’s rage as the watch ticked one last wobbling second. Then the clock stopped forever, never to keep time again, its years of service finally spent.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to give Ana the satisfaction of her anger, or her pain.

“You always did like the shiny things Valerian gave you,” the Seawolf said. “Too much.”

“Quite the accusation from a pirate.”

At that, Ana sneered one last time. “Get out of my sight, Cat.”

“Gladly,” she snapped, pressing the scarf to the wound on her neck. It was small but dripping, and she could hardly get blood on her only decent dress.

Her steps were quick, but she paused at the top stair, looking back. Her eyes flicked over the desk to the letters waiting to be sent gods knew where. Then to Ana, a guardian in her tower. And finally to the twisted remains of her watch.

“I’m surprised you would not kill me for this,” Cat said plainly.

Ana only shrugged, her rage turning to insulting pity.

“The way I see it, you’re dead already. It just remains to be seen who will do the deed,” she replied.

Cat swallowed hard, a lump in her throat.

“The Meridian Empire will never let you go. Not truly. And the republic, the pirates—Valerian—they’ll never forgive,” Ana continued. “Take that back down the volcano with you.”

There was nothing Cat wanted more than to run down the stairs, into the jungle, back to the port, and onto a ship. Any ship, to anywhere it would take her. But she held her ground, one hand against the stone wall, the rough feel of it keeping her anchored as she looked into the bitter abyss of Ana’s black eyes.

“You should leave these islands while you still can. Go back to Arcayo, at least,” Cat said. For once, it was not a calculation or even a lie. “Governor Osprin will hunt down every pirate in the Lyrian. And you are not so hidden as you think.”

Ana’s anger slipped, if only a little. But it did not disappear. After a long moment, she waved her hand, dismissing Cat as if she were a beggar at the door.

“I’ll stay where I am. Sell my head if you must.”

Chapter Sixteen Before

THE SHE-PIRATE, THE one Captain Kane called Ana, waited outside his cabin. She paced a circle around the council room, unable to stand still, a shark forever moving. Cat tried not to be afraid, but trembled when the woman smiled, showing her silver teeth again.

“This way, my lady,” she said, beckoning Cat forwards. Ana’s sleeves were rolled, revealing a braided tattoo on her wrist. It matched the one on the captain’s chest, inked above his heart.

Cat could not help but stare at the tattoo and wonder. It would be no shock to learn Captain Kane shared his bed with a member of his crew, particularly one so beautiful as Ana. For she was beautiful, in a fierce, furious way, like a crashing wave or a waterfall. Not like Cat, who felt more like a painting. A piece of porcelain. Fine but immobile, unmoving. And silent.

She followed Ana mutely back on deck, and then below it. She kept her feet as best she could, trying to be steady against the rocking motions of the sea. Questions ran through her mind—how did you become a pirate, what will the captain do to us?—but Cat was spent. It took all her bravery and boldness to face down Valerian Kane. She barely had the will to walk, let alone interrogate a pirate woman with silver fangs.

Ana navigated the warren that was the lower decks of the Covenant, leading Cat down cramped stairwells and passages. She glimpsed the bunk room of swinging hammocks, endless stores of food and plunder, the cook’s galley, the gun deck rammed with cannons. Crawlspaces and portholes. Though she knew little of ships, Cat knew enough to realize where they were heading.

To the brig.

The ship’s jail was deep in the hold, tucked away amongst the cargo. The low, damp space felt stifling, the air far too close, a single greasy oil lamp burning in the corner. It was barely enough to illuminate the bars sectioning off one side of the room, forming a cell against the curved wall of the ship’s hull.

Two men turned towards her, their faces shadowed in the gloom. Ryman’s eyes were swollen from crying and spittle drooled from his gag. He hiccupped against the fabric, his tears thankfully spent. Fell, on the other hand, jumped to attention at once, his silver eyes shining like an animal peering through the gloom. He had long worked his gag from his mouth, Cat noted, and chose not to extend the same courtesy to her husband.

She did not blame him.

“Are you well, Lady Rose?” Fell said, pressing his face against the bars. Rare concern pulled at his features, his brows furrowed.

Cat nodded. She braced herself, expecting Ana to throw her in with the other two. Lady or not, she was a prisoner, another bit of plunder rescued from the Venerable.

But Ana did not move, flanking her as if she were just an innocent bystander.

An innocent bystander with two wicked knives.

Cat swallowed, finding her voice. “I am well, sir. I have treated with Captain Kane.”

Fell bared his teeth, disgusted. By the thought of a Meridian lady bargaining with a pirate, or the title she afforded Valerian, Cat could not say. Perhaps both.

“And what did he demand of you?” the Meridian officer muttered, a wash of pink spotting his cheeks. She did not miss the way his gaze flickered over her thin shift.

Her body heated at the implication, something curling in her core.

“Three hundred crowns,” Cat answered quickly, before her mind or Fell’s could run away with worse thoughts. Though three hundred imperially minted crowns were certainly a terrible price of their own.

Ryman whined behind his gag.

“My thoughts exactly,” Cat muttered, agreeing with her husband for once. Then she remembered Ana at her side, sharp-eyed and sharper eared. “But it will have to be done. I’m certain we can pay in installments, with promissory notes from the bank in Archenport to be underwritten and repaid from our vault in Brycam City.”

Cat kept her eyes on Ryman, her gaze hard and desperate, willing him to understand. Willing him to be intelligent for once in his rotten, spoiled life. She had never been so grateful for a gag in a man’s mouth.

Fell, at least, perceived. He gave a short nod. “Of course. You will pay him upon arrival in Archenport,” he said dryly. “And what of me?”

“You are to be ransomed back to the navy,” Cat answered.

His flush deepened and his head thunked against the bars. “I should hardly bear the shame of it.”

“You should be used to shame by now, you Meridian dog,” Ana said lightly, one eyebrow raised. “Unless you’re finished serving distant masters?”

Fell’s lip curled, his shame turning again to disgust. “I serve the Crown and Empire. It is an honor and a duty. I don’t expect a pirate to understand that.”

“Oh, we understand what it is to serve, more than you know,” the woman replied, sharpening with distaste. Her eyes flicked over him from head to toe. Whatever she found, she did not like.

“Suit yourself, dog,” she added, spinning on the heel of her boot.

Before Cat could make sense of things, the door to the little room opened and slammed shut again, leaving her behind. Not locked in with her husband and the lieutenant, but still just as trapped. It was almost more insulting, to be left unbound, with little more than an unlocked door to keep her in place. Cat Rose was no threat to a ship filled with pirates. She was no threat to anyone at all.

It made her skin crawl.

Her eyes lingered on the door, long after Ana had gone. Weighing her options. To remain in the little room, in self-imposed imprisonment . . . or to cross the threshold to gods knew what.

They will only bind me too, she told herself, taking a seat on an overturned bucket. Her hands still trembled, and she knit them together in her lap, hoping to hide her quivering fingers.

“Captain Kane said half the pirates in the Lyrian Sea were once men of the fleets,” she said softly. “Is that true?”

Against the bars, Fell gave a shrug. “I doubt half.”

Her eyebrows rose. “But some?”

“I suppose.” Fell busied himself examining the cell wall, made from crossing bands of iron. “There are always deserters, justified or not.”

“Justified?” Cat prodded, her curiosity flaring. In her head, she tried to picture the other sailors aboard the Covenant, their faces blurring together. Which served in the Meridian navy once? Which might hold sympathy for us now?

A strange look crossed Fell’s face and he halted in his study of the cell.

“Not every captain is as skilled, fair, or evenhanded as Captain Quine,” he said tightly, his jaw clenched. From grief or anger, Cat could not say. “But they’re traitors, all of them,” he added, sharper. “And the imperial navy is well shot of their like.”

On the bench, Ryman let out a stifled noise that sounded very much like a preening courtier clearing his throat. Given the circumstances, Cat almost laughed.

Fell rolled his eyes but was more sympathetic. He gestured with his bound hands, pointing at the gag in Ryman’s mouth.

“Do you promise not to start screaming again, my lord?” he said wearily, reaching for the scrap of fabric.

Cat perked up from her bucket. For once she felt as if she might have some control over her husband, holding the upper hand in their marriage.

“And promise not to say anything foolish?” she offered.

The pitiful lord gave a jerky nod, and Fell acquiesced, dragging the gag down his chin. The officer winced, wiping his hands clean of Ryman’s drool. The lord jumped to his feet, his cheeks going red with fury.

“Foolish?” he exploded, pointing at her through the bars. Gone was the soft and simpering lord, replaced by a man pickled with rage. “You’ve indebted us to a pirate captain and promised an unpayable sum! In imperial mint, no less!”

Cat told herself there was no reason to feel shame, but heat crept across her face anyway. “I tried to save us—”

Ryman’s bound palms slapped the bars and Cat flinched.

“I’ve half a mind to sell you to the ship instead and rid myself of your idiocy once and for all,” he snarled, his red-rimmed eyes too wide, black pupils eating up the watery blue. “Though I doubt you would fetch any real price, stupid, useless woman that you are,” he added with a glare to wither flowers in bloom.

He is a stupid man. He should be dead already. His opinion holds no weight here, Cat told herself, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood again. Useless. The word stung more than stupid, and Cat could not help but curl a little, her spine bending to make herself smaller. She felt torn by too many wants—to scream back at him, to reach through the bars and rip his hair out at the root, to go stalking through the ship to find a saber. Anything would do.

But she did not move. All her wants were only dreams, unreal and unreachable. She was Lady Rose, wife to a terrible, pathetic man. All she could do was sit on the bucket and stare back at him, holding on to her shrinking dignity.

Ryman’s breath came hard and fast, nostrils flaring like a bull loosed from a pen. Again, his eyes raked over her, catching on her bare collarbone.

“What else did you offer the captain, you wanton bitch?” he breathed.

Before Cat could open her mouth to protest her innocence, Lieutenant Fell rounded on Lord Rose. Their difference in height was never so apparent, the navy officer towering over Ryman not just in stature, but confidence. The kind of confidence that came with knowing one’s way around a sea battle.

“Lieutenant,” Lord Rose sneered, flicking his eyes over Fell from head to toe. He licked his fleshy lips, looking like an overgrown toad. “This is a private matter between a lord and lady. It is not the concern of common men like yourself.”

Despite the circumstances, he seemed to relish the rank he held over the naval officer.

Cat swallowed hard, eyes darting between both men. Fell was an officer but lowborn, bound to duty. In Meridia, he would have to scurry away from men like Ryman Rose.

Fell heaved a sigh, his shoulders rolling like a ship on a wave.

“I’ll not suffer this,” he muttered, lunging.

We are not in Meridia anymore, Cat thought, her jaw falling open.

In an instant, Ryman dropped to a knee, one leg kicked out from under him. His howl of pain was quickly stifled as Fell shoved the gag back into place, far more forcefully than the pirates ever did. While the lord screamed into the wadded rag for gods knew who, the officer pushed him back on the bench, bound fists raised in warning.

Lord Rose’s whining died in an instant, his eyes fixed on Lieutenant Fell’s closed hands and bone-white knuckles.

“Touch me and I’ll make you wish the pirates left you in the water,” the officer said, his dark hair spilling loose around his face. It shrouded him like a hood.

Thoroughly cowed, Ryman nodded, drawing his knee to his chest to rub at the growing bruise beneath.

Cat watched it all without blinking, entranced. The ease with which Lieutenant Fell subdued her husband was enviable at the very least. She knew he was a navy man, an officer in wartime. And an orphan before that, certainly hardened by the cold streets of colder cities. She was not surprised he could handle himself in a fight, nor was she surprised her soft-handed husband folded so quickly beneath Fell’s fists. But it was still something to witness after all her life in a birdcage, watching the world between the bars, the lines of rank and aristocracy so deeply carved.

She found her voice shakily.

“I bargained the captain down as best I could,” she said, trying to offer some kind of explanation. It was a foolish price to agree upon, and she did not want to seem foolish now, not in Fell’s eyes. “There is no money, nothing liquid at least.” Desperation wormed through her words, hoping to make him see. “There was nothing else I could trade.”

Behind the bars, Fell held her gaze too harshly, as if willing himself not to follow the implication.

But there is no implication to make, Cat knew. She remembered how awkward Captain Kane seemed in his cabin, offering her a coat to cover herself. Somehow, she doubted he would trade his golden ransom for one made of flesh, even if she had offered.

“Nothing he would take, at least,” she said, a little more forceful.

Fell gave a sniff.

“He is a pirate. Taking is all he knows,” he answered. But he narrowed his eyes, his thoughts clearly racing. “Hold the ruse. They will have to sail for Archenport to collect payment. Those waters are heavily patrolled by the fleet. It is a great prize you have offered this ship, Lady Rose.”

Then a small but true smile split his face.

“And an even greater trap,” he murmured.

Cat’s heart leapt in her chest, and she shot to her feet, reaching for the cell. The bars felt cold beneath her palm, her fingers curling on the iron.

“You really think so?” she said, matching Fell’s grin.

Triumph rushed through her, an unfamiliar feeling. She had few victories in this life, all of them fleeting, if not defeats in disguise. Doing something right, doing something useful, felt like lightning in her skin.

Tossing his black hair out of his eyes, Fell leaned closer to the bars, their faces only inches apart. “With any luck, you’ll lead Captain Kane to his death,” he whispered.

Cat gripped the bars tighter, until the iron bit into her skin. But the pain felt better than the twisting sensation in her gut. She told herself it was just the ship and the rocking waves of the sea. Not the thought of luring pirates to their well-earned doom.

“Hold the ruse,” she echoed, for herself as much as the other two. Her eyes flashed over Fell’s shoulder, finding Ryman on the bench. “Can you do that, at least?”

His brow tightened, a sullen look in his eyes. But Fell was threat enough for him to behave. Stiffly, Ryman nodded his head.

“Good,” Cat said, looking between the two captive men. “Let’s hope they take the bait.”

Footsteps echoed in the passage, and she clamped her mouth shut, returning to her bucket as quickly as she could. In the cell, Fell stood over Ryman, a clear threat to keep silent.

The door swung open on screaming hinges to reveal Ana again. She smiled a wide, taunting smile as she looked at the men in the cell, then Cat.

“Thank you for staying put, Lady Rose,” she said. It felt like being teased. “You’re an obliging sort, aren’t you?”

Hold the ruse, Cat told herself. It was enough to take the edge off the stinging insult.

“So I’m told,” she muttered, looking down at her bare feet. Her toes wriggled against the rough floor, growing colder in the damp hold of the ship.

In the doorway, Ana tossed her black hair over one shoulder, the dark waves curling with sea salt.

“Good, let us keep it that way.” She extended a hand, gesturing for Cat to follow.

Cat blinked at the woman’s fingers. Another chill went down her spine. “Is there . . . more needed of me?”

Someone shuffled in the cell and a body leaned against the bars.

“Captain Kane may treat with me now,” Fell growled behind her, but Ana didn’t bother to look at him.

She only moved her hand again, waving for Cat.

“Orders were for Lady Rose,” she said, her eyes somehow darker than the shadows. “Come along.”

Glancing around the brig, Cat knew better than to argue. Her safety relied upon remaining in the good graces of Captain Kane, and her ability to lie. A great ransom hung in the balance, or at least the pirates believed it did.

And secretly, she was more than eager to get away from Ryman and the dank cell, even if it meant leaving Lieutenant Fell behind too.

“Very well, Miss Ana,” she muttered, rising from the bucket.

This time, Fell did not try to argue with her. Even he knew when to admit defeat, or at the very least, stay quiet. Cat glanced at him over her shoulder, holding his gaze until she reached the threshold. Then the door swung shut behind her.

“Miss Ana,” the pirate woman echoed, shaking her head out in the passage. Her strange accent seemed to thicken when amused. “I do not think anyone has ever called me that.”

Though Ana was the shorter of the two, her strides were quick, forcing Cat to hurry to keep up. She bunched her shift in one hand, so as not to be caught up in her skirts as they climbed through the ship.

“What do you like to be called?” Cat said, eyeing a vast hold of cargo. The crates and chests and packages were mismatched, clearly taken from several different ships.

Perhaps Kane is not so inexperienced a captain as I thought.

Ahead of her, halfway up a ladder, Ana paused, one arm through a rung.

“My name is Anamina Rualcon. So they call me Anamina Rualcon, or Ana for short,” she answered bluntly, shrugging.

“Does it mean anything? In your language?”

At that, Ana laughed and shook her head.

“Does your name mean anything in your language?” she replied, an impatient look on her face.

“Well, I assume,” Cat could only mumble, her face hot. “My first name is Catrine, a family name. And Rose—is not my name, but his,” she added, gesturing in the vague direction of the brig.

That seemed to soften Ana a little. “I never understood that custom, taking names from one to force upon another. But that is the way of you crown worshippers, isn’t it? Shoving yourself into every corner you can find.”

To that, Cat could say little. It was true of course. The colonies were proof of it, in the Lyrian and across the map. Ships of the Meridian, trade outposts of the Esperese—they seemed to crisscross the known world. Raising flags, claiming lands, drawing borders that never existed before. But it was hardly her concern. Cat was just a speck, and an imprisoned one at that.

Across the narrow passage, Ana bared her teeth, a finger tapping a shining incisor. Cat shrank back, but after a moment she realized it wasn’t a threat, but a thoughtful tic.

Ana tapped her tooth again, making a ringing sound. “I do have another name, one I earned in your language.”

“And that is?”

“The Seawolf,” she said, hauling herself up the ladder.

With a will, Cat forced herself to follow. And tried not to linger on exactly what the nickname meant.

“I think I shall just call you Ana,” she murmured, climbing to the next deck.

Light streamed around the edges of the gun ports, now shut. But it was enough to illuminate the long stretch of cannons lining either side, all black and silent. They faced outwards to port and starboard, along the broad sides of the ship. The iron barrels were longer than a man, and thicker around, set on wheeled, wooden frames. Each looked like a horse in a stable, well-groomed and cared for, accompanied by neatly coiled rope and an ordered pile of iron shot. Down the line, the silhouette of a cabin boy swabbed out the interior of a barrel, using a rag on a stick. Another pirate, a grown man, examined a longer gun facing forwards, perpendicular to the rest.

Cat knew very little of guns and warfare but had seen enough in the last few hours. The cannons of the Covenant were not to be trifled with. Terrifying as they were, she forced herself to look anyway, her own silhouette a dark shape in the gleam of an iron barrel. Ana’s wavered next to her, loping along.

“Where are you from?” Cat asked, glancing sidelong at her. “I apologize, I do not know your accent.”

“I would not expect you to. You are still new to these waters, with most of your time spent on a single island, from what I hear,” Ana replied.

From what I hear. Cat blinked in the gloom, turning the words over. Only three men aboard knew anything of Lady Rose, and she doubted Fell or Ryman were sharing stories with Ana.

Somehow, the idea of Valerian speaking about her felt like a comfort, though she could not say why.

“I am of Arcayo,” Ana continued.

“Crownless,” Cat muttered without thought, drawing another smile from the she-pirate.

“Exactly. Crownless. No kings of ours, no kings of yours.” She had a proud look on her high-boned face.

“I admit, I cannot fathom such a thing.”

“I can’t fathom being a lady. I’d make a terrible one. Never did like to oblige.” Ana’s voice turned thoughtful. “But why should we?”

Cat wrenched her eyes away from a pile of cannonballs to glance at her escort.

“Survival, I suppose,” she said dryly.

Ana’s eyes narrowed, not in challenge, but confusion. “What have you ever had to survive?”

Cat’s first instinct was to soften, to go silent in the face of the question. Indeed, she was a lady of the Meridian and born to more than most, despite her own hardships. But it was hard to ignore her surroundings and the circumstances that brought her to Captain Kane’s ship. Not to mention Lord Rose himself, gagged and bound in the brig.

“Besides my loathsome husband, the Venerable exploding out from under me, and being taken captive by pirates?” Cat said evenly as they climbed the midship stairs, emerging out onto the main deck of the Covenant.

The light was nearly blinding, and Cat had to shield her eyes. But she heard Ana’s honeyed laughter.

“Obliging, but sharp,” Ana said over her shoulder. “You are a puzzle indeed.”

She slid along past her fellow crewmen, busying themselves mending sails and braiding rope, swabbing decks, stoning the timbers, and cleaning pistols. Cat remembered well enough from the crossing six months prior—to work a ship was to work endlessly. There was always some task to be done, but she was surprised to see pirates so diligent in their toil. Navy sailors and merchant crews were dutiful, of course. But she never pictured pirates sewing up shirts or cooking. It seemed far too mundane. Yet here they were, the men and few women of the Covenant, as dedicated to the ship as any law-abiding crew.

“The Captain always did like puzzles,” Ana said suddenly.

“He’s a puzzle himself, your captain,” Cat responded without thinking.

Ana grinned over her shoulder. “What do you mean by that, Kitten?”

Kitten. The term of endearment should have made her angry, but there was no insult to it, no sting. Nothing but Ana’s sharp-eyed curiosity and amusement.

“I mean he seems a pile of contradictions,” Cat answered, choosing her words carefully. “A Meridian man turned pirate. And he seems young for a captain. Not to mention all this business about the sea singing for you—”

“Ah, yes, I see. You’ve never met a believer before. But how would you?”

“A believer? In what?”

Grinning, Ana slowed and spread her arms wide, gesturing to the shimmering turquoise sea. “In the Lyrian. In the Song of wind, tide, and sun. Can’t you hear it, Kitten?”

There was nothing but the lap of waves and the grunting toil of sailors, but Cat tried to listen anyway. It was of little use, and she flushed, feeling foolish for the attempt. There was no god in the world but gunpowder and coin, a truth she learned more every day.

But a few words lingered in her mind, clinging like barnacles to a ship’s hull.

May the sea always sing for you, she remembered, thinking back to the storm and the Venerable before she was blown apart. At least the prayer had brought her comfort, giving her something to hold when all else was beyond reach.

“I would tell you how Valerian came to believe as we do, but I suppose that is his story,” Ana said. “How he grew legends of his own. You know, his enemies say he has salt water in his veins instead of blood?”

Cat scoffed. “I sorely doubt that.”

“Watch him sail into a storm and see how you feel then,” Ana replied with a grin.

In response, Cat slowed, her pulse quickening. She knew the path beneath her, towards the quarterdeck. After all, she had just walked it only an hour ago.

Back to the captain’s quarters.

She looked up to glimpse the man in question, framed by the open door into the council chamber. Before Cat could protest, Ana led her inside, a hand tight on her upper arm. Though Ana was the smaller of the two women, Cat knew better than to struggle. She did not want to run afoul of the Seawolf.

Valerian Kane stood across the table, hands braced on the back of a chair. Again, he seemed too tall for the room, his neck bent to allow some space between the crown of his golden head and another lamp dangling askew. His stormy eyes followed Cat as she entered, her steps heavy. She stopped as soon as Ana allowed, keeping the wooden table between them.

Once more, Cat shuddered in her shift, wishing for a change of clothing.

“Is there more you wish to discuss, Captain?” she forced out.

Then something thumped in the next room—his own quarters. And the door banged open, revealing a huddle of Kane’s sailors. They shuffled out with arms full, clutching sheafs and rolls of paper, a collection of books, and one of them an entire drawer of clothing pulled clean from the armoire. Cat gaped at them as they passed, all three men wrinkled and sun worn, so pickled by the sea she could hardly guess at their ages. They nodded at Kane and Ana as they went but were careful not to meet Cat’s scrutinizing stare.

“Hardly,” Captain Kane replied, releasing his grip on the chair, his long fingers uncoiling.

Then he stooped, retrieving an unseen sack from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder as he stalked around the table.

“You will tell Ana if there is anything amiss, or anything you need,” he continued, closing the distance between them.

Cat breathed in the scent of tobacco and salt water. And something new. Alcohol, she realized, the bite of it a ghost on her tongue.

The captain did not break stride, skirting around her towards the open door. “If you must touch the books, put them back in order—”

“The books?” Cat sputtered as she whirled. “I don’t understand?”

One arm against the door frame, the other still holding the sack, Valerian Kane gave a sigh like a secretary facing a mountain of paperwork. Indeed, Cat felt like an imposition beneath his withering gaze.

“I’m afraid the Covenant is not well suited to travelers of your station,” he said, emphasizing the word with all the disdain he could muster. “There are no free cabins to be had, and I will not turn out a member of my crew to let a Meridian lady kick up her feet. I’ll not have you whining in my bunkroom either.”

In the corner, Ana stifled a laugh.

Captain Kane did not share her amusement, his expression grim. “We are traversing the Furies, and my crew won’t have their rest disturbed when they can steal it.”

A flush heated Cat’s cheeks and a retort danced on her tongue. I am hardly a disturbance compared to a crowd of rowdy, drunken pirates, she wanted to snap. Then she remembered the bunk room, filled with swinging hammocks and snoring, stinking sailors. There was no comparison between that and Captain Kane’s spacious cabin.

In the doorway, still leaning to accommodate his own height, the pirate captain raised an eyebrow. The motion illustrated another little scar, a nick of pearly white parallel to the brow over his right eye.

“Is there something you wish to say, Lady Rose?” he said pointedly.

Her reply was swift and equally pointed.

“Thank you, Captain.”

His grim manner dissipated a little, like a storm passing out to sea.

“That’s what I thought,” he replied, nodding once to Cat, then her escort. “Give your requests to Ana. She will see to them.”

“As best I can,” Ana offered, still amused.

And then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

“I should like some different clothing,” she muttered once they were inside the captain’s quarters. To her relief, Ana was quick to oblige, seeing herself out.

Cat examined her prison with far more interest than an hour before. This was no longer Captain Kane’s cabin, the finest room on an impressive pirate vessel, but all four corners of Cat Rose’s universe. For however long their voyage took.

Or until Kane figures out we are near to penniless and worthless to a man like him.

Part of her wanted to collapse on the tiny bunk, which Kane appeared to have tidied. The blankets were at least pulled up and smoothed. She blushed at the thought of a pirate captain preparing his bed for her, no matter the circumstances.

There was a small looking glass in the corner, and Cat dared to check her reflection. Her insides flipped again.

Red as a poppy, hair hopeless with salt and humidity, eyes bloodshot, half naked. I look like a rat drowned and wrung out to shrink in the sun. Disgusted, she spun away from the mirror, turning to the rest of the room.

Indeed, Captain Kane did seem to have prepared his quarters, after a fashion. The desk was bare, most of his papers and maps collected by his men, the rest filed away amongst the endless shelves. She paced the floor, idly examining the wood planks for any more bloodstains. To her pleasant disbelief, she found none. And while the armoire was now missing another drawer, no doubt packed tight with Kane’s effects, the rest of it was neatly shuttered.

She did not bother long with the chest in the corner, still screwed into the floor. Iron bands crisscrossed the chest, each one set with locks of varying sizes and metals. Even if I knew how to pick a lock, I would hardly know where to start, Cat mused, turning to the bookshelves.

Some of the books were covered in a layer of dust. Belonging to the ship’s previous captain, no doubt. They were the kind of books a naval officer would enjoy—long-winded tomes of Meridian history, almanacs from years past, and even a few leather-bound genealogical records denoting the great families of the Meridian Empire. Cat sneered at that one and considered throwing it overboard. Her husband would be in there, Lord Rose and his ilk marked down in fading ink.

Her own family would not merit a mention. They were country nobility at best, and the worst kind. One generation of new money, only to be squandered by the next.

“Useless,” Cat said aloud, shoving the book of noble blood back onto the shelf where it belonged. Forgotten, and gathering dust.

What seemed so important in Meridia was so trivial here in the Lyrian Sea.

She eyed it through the windows, watching the sun shimmer on the waves. The horizon looked calm, all remnants of the terrifying storm blown away. The wreck of the Venerable was long gone, now miles behind them and well on its way to the seabed. Even after six months, she still could not fathom the brilliant color of the water, somehow brighter than turquoise, and infinitely more beautiful. The sun gleamed over the waves, beginning its slow descent.

East.

She blinked and pressed her face to the window, forehead against thick glass warmed by the Lyrian sun. Hurriedly, Cat took her best measure again. Indeed, they were past noon now, the sun climbing down from its high pinnacle.

“Archenport is to the north,” she muttered, raving to herself like a madman. The sun rises in the west, sets in the east. Rises west, sets east. “The sun should be there.”

She tapped the glass, pointing. Her mind spun, and indeed she did feel mad, or at least stupid.

Perhaps I am wrong. I know nothing of these things, she told herself as she went to the books again, hunting through the papers until she found a folded map of the Lyrian Sea.

But I know where the sun sets.

With a flap of parchment, she unfurled the well-worn map and laid it on the floor. It was almost as tall as she was, more detailed than any map she had seen before. Lines of ink dotted islands she did not know existed, and tight scrawl crammed the margins in differing handwriting. She guessed this was another captain’s map before it became Valerian Kane’s.

Now on the ground, bent over the map with squinting eyes, Cat traced the drawn waves of the sea. Her fingers walked the miles, finding Rosby, a little spit in the southern arc of the Furies, between an archipelago called the Hook and the larger islands. Then she found Archenport, marked on Beacon Island. Far to the north.

Her fingers shook as she eyed the horizon again, and the arc of the sun against it.

Captain Kane had lied.

He was not sailing to Archenport.

Chapter Seventeen After

SHE EXPECTED THE way down the volcano to be easier than the way up, but her body ached with every step, absorbing the hard shock of stone underfoot. Cat lamented each minute, though it cemented a truth she knew all too well.

Nothing in this world is ever easy. Such is the way of the Lyrian Sea.

The climb to the old song tower, and Ana, seemed a waste. There was no escape to be found, only disdain and accusation. Ana charged her with betraying Valerian, which Cat did not deny. But betraying the sea?

It seemed preposterous. The sea was no kingdom, no nation to swear allegiance to. No matter what the broken remnants of the pirate republic might say.

This war is not over.

That chilled her more than anything. To think Ana was so delusional as to believe the pirates could somehow recover from a killing blow—or that something else lay in wait, something Cat herself could not plan for or fathom. Her thoughts swirled, following her down like a storm cloud. By the time she reached the lower hills, her frustration threatened to boil over.

At least I warned her of Osprin, she thought. It was a small comfort to think Ana might pass the information along. It might even nudge a few more survivors to flee.

But not Valerian, Cat knew, anger flooding her again.

Her temper was not helped by the sight of Jasper Fell waiting at the bottom of the jungle path. He was red faced as his merchant captain’s coat, looking more like a burnished apple than a living man.

She came to a halt on a broken spit of rock, a long-weathered step split in two. From her vantage point, she could see most of Alvaris, the harbor shimmering blue between the rooftops.

Fell and his sailors fanned out beneath her, all shiny with sweat.

You have only made it a few yards up, Cat wanted to taunt them but decided not to make matters worse. Men responded so poorly when confronted with their flaws.

“You stay right where you are, she-devil!” Whisten barked, shaking a fist at her. His bracelet of prayer beads rattled.

Cat pointedly did not move. “Fear not, Mr. Whisten, I don’t intend to run off into the jungle.”

“Again,” Fell said, his voice acid.

“Gentlemen, what news have you gleaned from the commander of Alvaris?” Cat said brightly, a false smile splitting her face. She still gripped her stolen scarf, her blood spotting the patterned fabric.

“Don’t play coy, Cat,” Fell snarled up at her. He clambered over the next step and took her by the elbow, his hand warm through her sleeve. “We’ve wasted precious time looking for you, and now I’ve half a mind to shackle you to my wrist.”

Well surrounded, Cat had no choice but to let him lead her down to the others.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Captain?” she said, batting her eyes. “Half my worldly possessions are on your sorry excuse for a ship. You knew I was coming back.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Captain,” Whisten said, looking Cat over in disgust. His black eyes lingered on the hem of her dress. “That’s a heavy swing of her skirt. I venture she sewed a fortune into her clothes.”

Perceptive as the lieutenant was, Cat waved him off with a laugh, fluttering the folds of her dress for good measure. “Have you been looking at my skirts, Mr. Whisten?”

It was more than enough to quiet the disagreeable lieutenant for the rest of the walk back into the city, though Cat heard him grumbling along at the back of their line. She carried on with her head held high, curling her arm so that Captain Fell held her like an escort at a ball, and not a jailer.

“What exactly was your little jaunt into the jungle?” Fell muttered. Beneath their feet, the stone pathway turned to packed dirt cut with cart tracks.

Cat weighed her words carefully. “I met with a friend, looking for information. I was unsuccessful.”

“Is that the truth?” Fell’s steel eyes met her own, sharp as a blade.

In reply, Cat tipped her head and pulled her hair back to reveal the long cut on the side of her throat. It was no longer bleeding but obviously still fresh.

“I’d say so,” she answered, letting Fell’s eyes linger on the arc of her neck. “I’m lucky she did not slit my throat.”

The streets of Alvaris grew hotter as another hour tolled from another church. Cat raised a hand to shade her eyes against the glare and wished for a hat.

“She?” Fell prodded, leaning closer.

“No wonder the navy is having such a difficult time finding the pirates. You have no idea who to ask, or who to listen to,” Cat scoffed, exasperated. “Women know things too. More than most men, I would wager.”

A smile that could only be described as “shit-eating” split Fell’s face. He laughed openly, and Cat fought the urge to swat him off her arm.

“So you asked another woman where Valerian Kane is,” he said, delighted by her discomfort. His grip on her tightened. “I did not know you had a rival for his affections, Cat.”

In spite of herself, Cat’s cheeks flamed.

“She is a friend,” she snapped, annoyed with him and his wretched smile. “Or was.”

He did not relent, using the swelling crowd of market traffic to bump his shoulder against hers. This close, Cat could at least stop squinting, using the shade of his hat to her own benefit.

“You’re running short on those, you know,” he said.

Her relief in the shade was short-lived.

“Thank you for noticing, Fell,” she replied, looking at him sidelong. Her voice changed, softening. “But you’re still my friend, aren’t you?”

Captain Fell reeled back with a cold look. After so many years, Cat could see he knew better than to take such obvious bait.

“So long as you remain useful,” he said dryly, urging her onwards.

“Ah, yes, that is the definition of friendship,” Cat muttered, letting herself be herded along. Until she looked up to a collection of whitewashed buildings, and beyond them, the limestone walls of the Alvaris fort guarding the harbor.

She halted in her tracks and dug in her heels, fast enough to force Fell to break his hold. He rounded on her in an instant, one hand flying to the pistol on his hip. In the street, his men reacted, pressing in to surround Cat lest she try to run again.

“Enough of that, Jasper, you’re not going to shoot me,” Cat said, rolling her eyes.

Fell dropped his hand, leaving the flintlock where it lay. “One day I might,” he grumbled. “Now what?”

She glanced up at the fort, then back to Fell with a withering stare. “Where are you going?”

Realization dawned across his face more quickly than Cat expected.

His eyes narrowed. “You never intended for us to interview the commander of Alvaris.”

Cat only shrugged back at him, too aware of Whisten and the others at her back. “Like I said, Fell, women know more than you think.”

The bulldog lieutenant gave a wet, rasping laugh. “Are we to interview every fish wife and tavern maid in the city, then?” he said, chuckling around at the crew.

“No,” Cat said, refusing to give Whisten more than a passing glance. “Do you know what a skirt ship is?”

Despite his merchant’s coat and the battered tricorne, Fell drew himself up straight as a line, heels together, arms pressed to his sides. Cat half expected him to salute.

“I am an officer of the Meridian navy. Of course I know what a skirt ship is,” he snapped.

Cat placed a calming hand on his shoulder in the most condescending way she could. “Of course, Captain, though I know such a practice is beneath you,” she said. “Pirates, on the other hand. Quite the appetite.”

As he would a spider or a piece of lint, Fell brushed her fingers off. “What are you proposing?”

“If the pirates are operating from a new place in the Lyrian Sea, they will have need of resources,” she explained. “Food, water, rum. And prostitutes.”

She did not miss that most of the sailors of the Fledge looked intrigued, if not eager, at her words. Prostitution was not forbidden but certainly frowned upon in the so-called civilized parts of the Lyrian. Though that hardly stopped sailors from pursuing their pleasures. The hypocrisy of it was not lost on Cat. Many a fine officer sneered at a whore in the street before dropping money in her hand that evening.

But not Whisten, who managed to look even more disgusted. Or Fell, whose cool demeanor returned, icy as his eyes.

“Follow the whores?” he offered.

She nodded. “Find the pirates.”

*

THE SUNSET TURNED the Alvaris harbor the color of blood. Cat shuddered at the sight, looking out from the gunwales of the Fledge to take in so many warships anchored in scarlet. She wondered if the sea had looked like this six months ago when Harry Morovant and his ramshackle armada sailed against the Meridian fleet. And were slaughtered for it.

She forced herself to breathe the fresh air, smelling salt instead of the iron tang of blood. It calmed her a little, enough to survey herself one last time. Her dress from the morning was discarded, half-stiff with sweat and stained with mud from her pointless climb. Now she wore the second-best dress she had packed, the black fabric tightly fitted and cut beneath her collarbone. Terrible for travel but good enough for city streets. Cat knew the low neckline made her amber eyes seem warmer, her tan golden, and even her freckles more refined. There was little to be done about the state of her curls, so she braided them away from her face and tied them with a gold ribbon to match her eyes.

Even without a looking glass, Cat surmised she cut a fine figure, her narrow waist and flared hips accentuated by the skim of her skirt. She was certainly older than most of the girls she would encounter, but she would not look it.

At least not in dim candlelight, she thought, pinching her cheeks for color.

“You’re not going to run off again, are you?”

She turned to see Fell approaching, his boots a rhythmic drumbeat on the deck.

Gone was the ridiculous merchant coat and tricorne hat, leaving him bareheaded. He had done his best to clean up too, donning cream breeches, polished leather boots, and a loose white shirt beneath a blue silk brocade vest with silver buttons that matched his eyes. If Cat did not know his character, she might think him dashing, with his piercing look and glossy black hair.

“My things are still on your ship,” she said wearily, gesturing in the direction of her cramped cabin.

“You and I both know you would leave everything behind if it meant saving your own skin,” he said.

Cat glanced back at him, her brow tight. “Tell me about the state of my skin, Jasper Fell. You’d know better than me.”

She did not mistake the way he looked at her. Not as an officer would a lady, or even a man would a woman. Fell watched her as he would a snake, waiting for her to strike.

“So long as you do as the governor asks, you will be granted a full pardon, and everything the Meridian Empire owes you,” he said evenly. “I promise you that.”

There was no use in pointing out how little his promises meant. Cat could still feel the heavy damp of the prison cells beneath the fort.

Together they descended from the deck of the Fledge to the docks of Alvaris.

As in the morning, there was a flurry of activity as ships came in for the night or sailed out into darkness. Sailors, merchants, porters, and servants scurried despite the falling shadows. Across the market and city skyline, lanterns flared to life, flickering warm and golden. The pink-washed buildings flushed like rosy cheeks and music drifted through the humid air, the streets still clinging to the heat of the day. While the ordered chaos of the market did not disappear, it moved, drifting from the square plaza at the waterside into the various taverns, parlors, and clubs dotting every street corner. Laughter and jeers spilled from every open doorway and cigar smoke wafted through the windows, perfuming the city with an all-too-familiar scent.

Cat could not help but breathe deeply. For a moment, the smell was a memory, as good as stepping back through time. Her eyelids fluttered, drifting shut. She was no longer in Alvaris, but Archenport a year ago. Still caught in the throes of the pirate republic. No governor, no king. No law but the law of the sea. No empire but what they made themselves.

And it was already crumbling, Cat thought, opening her eyes to the city in front of her and the truth she always knew.

“Mr. Whisten seems relieved he was not asked to escort us in this endeavor,” Cat said, glancing back towards the harbor. The Fledge had disappeared, swallowed up by larger vessels.

Fell tossed back his head and laughed, the long line of his jaw sharp in profile. “Mr. Whisten is more priest than sailor these days, and shockingly faithful to a little wife back in Meridia,” he said, chuckling. “But the others were not so pleased to be left behind.”

“I could hardly turn up on the doorstep of a brothel dragging six men behind me,” Cat replied, turning them onto the wide avenue. “One is enough.”

Beneath her arm, Fell seemed to stiffen, and his gait slowed. She did not miss the way his throat bobbed, the bare skin jumping over the tied collar of his shirt.

Cat fought a smile, amused by the endless contradictions of Jasper Fell.

Sea battles did not frighten him, but a brothel certainly did.

“So, I am to pose as a customer?” he prodded, sounding unsure for once.

“Will that be difficult for you?”

Cat could not help but tease him, leaning close enough to smell sandalwood.

Her smile widened. “I know you would never pay for the pleasure of a woman’s company, even now when you can afford it.”

Pink tinged his cheeks, and Fell swallowed again. “And what will you do while I wait?”

A flush of pleasure washed over Cat, as if she had just gulped down a glass of spiced rum or burning taquil. She inhaled deeply, smelling tobacco again. This time, it did not remind her of the pirate republic and its dying days, but the Widow Rose in her triumph. When the tavern spilled over with all manner of patrons, and Cat ruled them all.

“News of Osprin’s violence in Archenport is well known by now. I am a simple barmaid fleeing the Meridian Empire and the noose. Looking for work, looking for somewhere to go,” she offered. Then her voice rose an octave, her refined Meridian accent replaced by something rougher. “My darling Bobby was just a ship’s mate on the Harmony. He survived the fleet’s arrival just to face the gallows. And I had to run,’afore I hang next to him,” she finished, sniffling. Her eyelashes fluttered for good measure. “Sometimes I think I should have.”

A corner of Fell’s mouth lifted, his cold, iron eyes fixed on her face.

“You are a frightening woman, Cat Rose,” he said, more impressed than insulting.

She grinned back at him. “I do my best.”

*

ALVARIS AT DUSK thrummed and the first stars twinkled in a purple sky. Cat ventured they were due for a storm to break the heat soon, but no clouds rolled in, leaving the endless constellations unobscured. Until the buildings closed in, tiled roofs mere feet apart, some connected by flowered vines and arcs of fresh washing, shirts and skirts hanging like flags.

Cat could not help but think of Archenport again as they walked, another brothel looming in her mind.

The governor’s mansion.

Six months ago, an enterprising madam named the Duchess held sway over Osprin’s estate, her business well-established. But not so anymore. The Duchess was smart enough to abandon Archenport at first sign of the Meridian fleet, fleeing with whatever she could carry. Most of her boys and girls were not so lucky. They were charged with fraternization or piracy itself, and executed with the rest in the early days.

Abby All-Smiles, hanged. Billy Charm, Blushing Henry, Theria Wallace, all hanged. Executed by governor’s order for the crime of survival.

I almost hung with them, Cat thought as she led Fell deeper into the city.

I still might.

A fiddler played at the doorway of a nearby tavern, beckoning customers next to a painted sign of an ale tankard. Cat bypassed him neatly, maneuvering around a crowd of Esperese merchants making their rounds.

When they turned a corner, Fell’s jaw dropped open and Cat’s smirk curled.

A long row of lanterns flickered behind red glass, painting the street in a wash of scarlet. All manner of people—men and women, sailors, servants, officers, traders, maids, and nobles—thronged along the curbs, a crowd that rivaled the market. Some drank from dusty rum bottles, others crystal glasses. Many smoked cigars and pipes, the air thick with clouds of heady smoke. It felt like stepping into a fog or a mist rolled in from the sea.

“It’s the whole street. How can it be the whole street,” she heard Fell murmur, his wide eyes scanning the thrown-open windows and doors.

“Welcome to the Paradise Quarter,” Cat muttered as she pulled Fell into the crowd. The red oil lamps lit their way, marking every archway alongside a beaming man or woman, all of them dressed in bright green silk.

“I can’t believe the Esperese governor allows this,” he said, incredulous.

She rolled her eyes. “The Esperese have always been more tolerant of prostitution. Probably because they make them pay taxes.”

Revelers ducked in and out of adjoining buildings, but most flowed towards the largest structure on the street. The villa towered over the red lanterns, its windows lit with the same scarlet glow. Doors opened onto its courtyard, the mahogany panels banded with iron. There were no guards to filter the crowd, and people passed through without issue, most of them content to glimpse within the famed brothel. Cat could already smell the jasmine blooming and hear the undercurrent of gurgling fountains.

“Most of these people aren’t here to partake in Paradise,” Cat said over her shoulder to Fell. “The Quarter has its fair share of entertainment outside the bedchamber.”

She gestured along the street level, where musicians performed for pennies and taverns dueled for customers. Captain Fell lingered, clearly eager to drift into a bar instead.

But Cat pulled him along, following the tide, until they washed up into the courtyard of the villa. Cat admired the doors as they entered, marveling at their complexity. A master artist had carved the mahogany into an intricate pattern of tropical flowers: jasmine and orchid and lobster claw. And beneath the perfectly placed petals, curving bodies in various states of undress, all their faces tipped skywards to the stars.

The courtyard was less chaotic than the street, but just as boisterous. Both men and women of the Quarter, marked by green silk and red flowers in their hair, roved through, smiling at potential customers. Others sat, some two to a chair, to preen and watch. The patrons were just as varied. Cat spotted gray-haired tycoons, vibrant young officers, and rough-handed laborers keen to spend what little coin they had saved. She was not the only woman amongst them either, making it easier to blend in. Most, Cat noted, looked as she did, well-dressed and wide-eyed, on the arm of a man or woman escorting her.

Cat was careful to keep her face downturned, using the shifting shadows and lantern light to her advantage.

She doubted there were any pirates brave enough to sail into Alvaris these days, but if they were, they would certainly be in the Quarter. Not to mention any one of the Duchess’s girls and boys who managed to flee Archenport. They would know Cat Rose on sight. And she could not risk being recognized, not in a crown colony.

Not yet.

Servants deftly navigated the courtyard, carrying rum, taquil, and wine for the patrons. As a tavern proprietor herself, Cat was impressed by their quickness. Glasses did not remain empty for more than a few seconds. The more the customers drank, the more likely they were to pay into the coffers of the Paradise Quarter.

Some patrons were quick in their endeavors, filtering into the adjoining houses, following their chosen companions for the evening. Their silhouettes flickered in windows behind sheer curtains, leaving little to the imagination. Cat ventured the courtyard would echo with cries of pleasure and delight if not for the chatter of many voices in many languages, the music of the fountains, and the fiddler songs filtering in from the street.

She had never taken anyone here by the hand, but she still warmed at the thought. There were more than a few attractive men bearing red flowers, all doing their best to entice patrons. She could not help but eye a lean figure with long blond hair, his shirt discarded to show a sculpted chest and tattooed arms. But when he felt her glance, raising his eyes to Cat’s, a cold wave rushed her. His eyes were molten brown—the color of earth, not the sea.

You would not find him in a brothel, nor should you wish to, she chided herself.

The largest fountain gurgled in the middle of the courtyard, complete with two naked women basking in the shallow water. A third poured wine into their mouths, laughing as another man watched all three of them. It was hardly the most scandalous sight in such a place, but Cat wondered if Jasper Fell might lose his nerve. He stared openly, face red as the lanterns, forcing Cat to move him along.

“If you’re going to gawk, don’t be so obvious,” she hissed. “Or pay for their time.”

He sputtered as they moved, ever a nuisance. “As you noted, I have never paid a woman for her time in my life—”

“Say it louder,” Cat said, her eyes a flash of warning. “You know I don’t need you here. Go back to the ship if you must.”

Some of the blush receded from Fell’s face and he adjusted his vest, smoothing it into place. He leaned, teeth gritted, putting himself at Cat’s eye level. Despite the surroundings, his discomfort did not outweigh his resolve.

“I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not that much of an idiot,” he said.

Cat could not help but heave an exasperated sigh, made more taxing by the tight fit of her bodice.

“Then find yourself a good vantage point, don’t make a fool of yourself, and let me work.”

His steel glare sharpened. “I’m still not clear on what you intend to do, exactly.”

She threw back her shoulders, knowing exactly what it did to her collarbone and breasts. To his credit, Fell’s gaze never wavered from her eyes.

“Would you like the details?” Cat murmured.

His lips twisted. “Certainly not.”

“Good,” she spat, unhooking her arm from his. “Have a drink, keep an eye out for sailors, eavesdrop if you can. Try not to look so out of place. If I’m not back in an hour, wait longer.”

“Cat—”

But she spun on her heel, leaving Jasper Fell to fend for himself in a garden of temptation.

Chapter Eighteen Before

BY THE TIME the sun set red into the horizon, Cat had the lay of Captain Kane’s library. And more importantly, his collection of maps and navigation charts.

She slotted the geography of the Lyrian Sea together in mismatched papers, until she had almost the full span of the islands laid out like a feast across the cabin floor. Along with a compass and sparing glances at the horizon, she tried to figure out their course, or at least where the Covenant might be heading. But it felt useless. There were hundreds of islands of the Lyrian Sea from towering volcanos to tiny, tidal keys.

We could be going anywhere.

Kane’s wishes be damned, Cat made a mess of his cabin and piled the most promising of his books alongside the patchwork map. She sat beside them in a borrowed dress, yellow skirts pooling around her crossed legs. She tried not to think about her equally borrowed undergarments as she read, scanning page after page in hopes of understanding a bit more of the world she found herself in.

She did not know what to look for. But she knew she must learn all the same.

You’ll learn. We all do.

His words still echoed in her mind, no matter how hard Cat tried to keep Valerian’s infuriating voice from her thoughts. Somehow, he managed to be both taunting and encouraging at the same time. It annoyed her to no end. And motivated her too.

You’ll learn.

Captain Kane’s library was more extensive than Cat expected, from the accounts of the first continental explorers to navigate the Lyrian Sea to an illustrated guide of Lyrian flora to scriptures from Meridian or Esperese churches. There were the published works of famous sea captains from the Meridian Empire, diagrams of various guns and cannons, medical journals, and charts of the shipping lanes. Not to mention sheafs of letters varying from naval dispatches to private correspondence, all from the captain and crew who used to the sail the Covenant before Kane seized her.

Cat pawed through these, skipping over letters to wives and sweethearts, bankers and debt collectors, children, parents. Curling script from the officers, spiky scratch from the enlisted men. They spoke of storms and bad water and hardship. Official reports and harried notes of anguish or hope or love.

Even the glimpses were enough to make Cat’s head spin, the weight of their words immense upon her shoulders. She swallowed against a sick feeling and tried not to think of the men behind the letters, their last thoughts imprisoned to ink.

The previous commanding officer of the Covenant, a Meridian captain named Edgar Errol, left an unfinished letter, dated only two months ago.

Two months since Valerian won such a prize and became captain of his own ship.

How he did such a thing, Cat feared to wonder. It felt near impossible to balance the man who awkwardly offered her a coat with a man who might kill a ship full of sailors. But she could not forget the bullet hole in the next room. Most likely it marked the end of Captain Errol, who would never finish the letter to his wife and daughter back in Brycam City.

Two months a captain, she told herself, filing the piece of information away.

It was the most she would get about him, to Cat’s chagrin—and a small amount of pride too. His logs were gone, along with his more detailed navigation charts, a manifest, or any schematics of the ship. Clearly, Kane thought enough of Lady Rose to keep her away from his writings.

Cat put aside the correspondence, hunting instead for more immediately useful information. She blazed past a few leather-bound books written in odd script, even the individual letters inscrutable. Somehow the pages smelled of salt water and she guessed they were rescued from the sea, though the paper showed no sign of water damage.

She settled for more maps of the Lyrian, roving between nautical charts the size of wagon wheels to small scraps covered in scribbles. Her eyes darted between the little speck that was Rosby Island and the far more important places. To the north, amongst the Stills, was Archenport. In the middle of the map, the Esperese patrolled the Furies from their strongholds on Prospera and its smaller islands. To the south was the Hook, a looping archipelago anchored by Arcayo.

She traced the outline of the island with a finger, thinking not of what the Meridian books said about the crownless island, but something more real. Ana, an Arcayan herself, with her tattoos and her laughing manner, formidable and beautiful, first mate of a pirate ship.

It was difficult to read in the dimming light, the sun now fully below the horizon. But Cat did not miss the swooping lines of ink, drawn over the Arcayan island. A braided circle, three lines woven together.

Her eyes narrowed, trying to place the symbol for a long moment.

“Oh.”

She sat up straight, the image of a man’s chest searing in her mind. A gold chain, a scarred-over tattoo. And another beneath it, a circle of three braided lines.

As she stared at the ink, the shadows of the cabin darkened completely. There would be no more reading this night. Unless . . .

“I need a light,” Cat said to no one.

*

AS BELOW IN the brig, no one had bothered to lock the door to the captain’s quarters.

After donning an overlarge coat to defend from the sea spray and lacing up her borrowed shoes, Cat steeled herself for the main deck. Somehow, she grew more ridiculous by the hour. First, she was a drowned rat. Now she felt like a beggar girl from the Brycam docks, with frizzy hair and cobbled-together clothing.

Her skirts swept over the floorboards of the dark council chamber, and she was careful to avoid the bloodstained wall. One hand clutched an unlit oil lamp, while she held out the other to maintain her balance against the gentle rocking of the ship.

Cat paused at the adjoining door, her heart a drum. Somehow, going out onto the ship felt like breaking a rule, though no one had given her any.

Do pirates have rules? she wondered, pushing open the door before she could lose her nerve.

She expected a raucous show on the other side, a bevy of pirates enjoying their rationed rum and the cool night air. Instead, she met a half-empty Covenant, with most sailors seemingly below to sleep.

Of course, she scolded herself. On the Venerable, when not in service fighting a storm or other ships, any man who had the time to sleep would be sleeping. She supposed it was the same here. Especially after the events of the previous day and night, chasing a navy ship through a battering storm, only to blow their prize to pieces.

A figure moved about the rigging: a sailor checking and rechecking knots by lantern light. Another swabbed the gunwales, shuffling along with a rag and a bucket. So it was. Quiet chores and a quiet ship.

Except for a threesome playing cards beneath the mainmast, the group of them gathered around a low table. They chortled in low voices, trading hands and winking coins. A lantern burned next to them, throwing off just enough light to play by.

With a start, Cat remembered herself and the oil lamp in her hand.

“I don’t suppose I can bother you for a spark,” she said, approaching like a mouse creeping towards crumbs.

All three looked up from their game in stunned silence. Though their faces ranged, one man as different from the other as a man could be, they wore the same look. Each carried the harshness of a life at sea, in rough, sun-worn skin and dirty hands. In crowfoot eyes born of squinting into the sun. Scarred, tattooed, with metal teeth or pierced ears. These were hard men, killers and pillaging rogues.

And completely frozen in the face of Lady Rose.

Cat glanced between them, confused by their varying degrees of shock.

Have I said something wrong? Do I really look that horrible?

Hastily, she held up the dead lamp in explanation.

“I have no striker myself,” she offered, biting her lip. Though the pirates were certainly more dangerous than she ever could be, they seemed to shrink from her presence.

One of them, a bronzed Esperese man with a cap of curly black hair, nodded his head back at the quarterdeck.

“You should return to your cabin,” he said hastily. His warm brown eyes darted, catching the light. “The captain would not like you wandering.”

Cat could not help but laugh, in spite of herself. The three pirates and their distant manner were almost comical against her circumstances, imprisoned and held for ransom. She raised an eyebrow as she looked them over.

On the Venerable, she had done her best to ingratiate herself to the crew, to separate herself from her loathsome husband and his poor behavior. It felt like a game for her to play, helping to pass the hours on the naval ship. Not to mention a strategic decision to hopefully earn friends amongst the officers of the fleet.

It could be the same here, Cat thought.

“I am but a lady of the Meridian,” she said with a precious curtsy, her borrowed skirts fluttering. She lowered her gaze, lashes fluttering against freckled cheeks in a way she knew most men enjoyed. “I can hardly bring any harm to the likes of you or your magnificent ship.”

The Esperese man did not respond, grimacing at his hand of cards, but the pirate next to him raised his head. He had umber skin and the lantern light gleamed off his naked scalp, shaved clean to show a tattoo over one ear—an eagle in flight, body arched and wings wide. The symbol of Itzima, the mightiest kingdom of the Southern Continent.

“The Covenant is a beauty,” he offered, showing Cat a little white smile. His cards splayed in his hand like a peacock’s tail.

From her vantage point, the game was easy to spot. As she watched, the Esperese man threw down a pair of cards, black swords, with an exasperated sigh. The other two pirates jeered and eagerly added coins to the pot, smelling blood.

Cat smelled it too.

“Is this Red River?” she said, bending forwards to inspect the cards, her eyes going wide as a child’s. If I look stupid, so be it. “I know this game.”

The Itziman gave her another smile, nodding. “Indeed it is.”

But his compatriot, the third pirate, tried to shuffle her off. He stood up from his stool with a jolt and pulled a striker from his pocket.

“I’ll attend to your lamp, my lady,” he offered, striking flint against steel. Sparks danced and guttered like shooting stars. They illuminated his face for a moment, showing ruddy cheeks and a red-blond beard to match his hair.

“You sound like a man of Allisport,” Cat said, her lamp still dangling at her side. His accent was unmistakable.

He only quirked his head, the striker still in hand. “Born and raised. Now shall I light that for you?”

But Cat pressed a hand to her mouth. She felt like one of the pirates at the table, carefully choosing the cards in her hand.

“Oh, sir, I am so sorry for the news,” she murmured, her voice laced with pity.

The pirate’s red brow furrowed, grim lines deepening across his forehead. Still seated, his compatriots looked just as baffled, if not intrigued.

“What news?” he demanded, the striker forgotten in his hand.

“You have not heard,” Cat said softly, shaking her head. “I am sorry to have said anything, but—oh, it is just so horrible.”

When the pirate waved her to his seat, she took it without protest, folding herself down at the card table.

“What are you talking about?” The Meridian pirate drew up another stool for himself and leaned in next to her, a picture of concern. “What of Allisport?”

Her breath caught with a well-calculated hitch, as if she were only a lady speaking out of turn. Cat wished for a fan to flutter, to hide a nonexistent flush. Part of her cringed to use the news of Allisport in this way. Somehow it felt like twisting a knife.

But am I not at knifepoint too?

This was not like country dances, the room filled with pompous men and fawning ladies, all of them trying to entrance the other. Or worse, Ryman’s parlor after their marriage, where he once boasted of his nonexistent triumphs, trying to squeeze a loan out of the few lords stupider than he was. And Cat could only sit there, smiling into her wine, silently screaming.

She would not be silent now.

All three pirates stared as the spray of the sea washed over the deck. They seemed to be holding their breath.

Cat swallowed, as if fighting to speak the words aloud. It was an easy part to play.

“The Esperese fleet crossed to Meridian shores. They burned half the city to the ground,” she muttered, eyes downcast. To the men, she would look too affected to meet their gazes. In truth, she studied the cards already piled, discarded from the game, counting them. “We learned as much only yesterday.”

The Meridian pirate let out a low curse.

“Burned Allisport,” he said in disbelief. His face reddened, flushing the same shade as his hair. “By the gods.”

Across from him, the Esperese pirate leaned to pat him on the shoulder. “My apologies, Brimley. You had family there, yes?”

“S’pose I should be grateful my mam up and died last winter,” Brimley replied, sniffing hard. He scrubbed at his eyes, but no tears fell, his face only growing redder.

“Cavallid,” the Itziman muttered, nudging at the Esperese. “What is Allisport?

The bearded pirate gave him a sharp look. “A city in the Meridian Empire. A city for sailors.”

“A city for half the navy,” Brimley said, his voice thick with emotion. “The Meridian fleet will be in tatters.”

“Then it is a good thing you no longer sail for it,” the Itziman replied shrewdly.

“Indeed, Mr. Garedo,” Brimley muttered.

Cat blinked at the pirate, looking at him through a new lens. “You defected? You left the navy?” she said with true surprise. She tried to picture him in a naval uniform, with a tricorne hat and a clean-shaven face.

Nodding, Brimley settled back in his seat. “Aye, two months ago.”

Then he sailed with Captain Errol. He served on this very ship when it was captured. Cat did her best to keep her face blank. She could not help but think of the letters in Kane’s cabin, written by men she assumed were dead.

Brimley was proof of another path.

“How did you hear of Allisport?” he said, voice gruff.

“Another ship brought word to the Venerable and Captain Quine.”

Word of Allisport, and their orders to sail back across the ocean. But the trio of pirates did not need to know the last part. Information was Cat’s only weapon. She did not intend to squander anything too soon.

“Quine was captain of the Venerable?” Brimley winced. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Cat blanched. “You knew him?”

“I knew his reputation,” he said, his focus now back on his cards. Frowning, he played a black star in reverse, altering the direction of play. The course of the river. “He was far softer than most captains of the navy.”

Softer. After only a few days on Captain Quine’s ship, she would hardly call the man soft by any measure. But he was certainly fair and just with his crew. After all, he held the other ship so they could write letters to send back to Meridia. She supposed it was a great kindness, in his position, to hold against the waves a little longer and allow his men to grasp for a little bit of home.

Cat said nothing, and the hand went around the table in silence, from Brimley to Garedo to Cavallid. She turned their names over, committing them to memory. All three of them were fair enough at the game. But Cat’s eyes glittered, following the cards, counting them off in their suits. Sword, stars. Crescents, diamonds. And hunting through the deck for the single red X. To draw, to play, or to accuse.

It looked like a game of luck, but Cat knew better.

Softly, she put her lamp down before laying both hands on the table. A pile of pennies glittered inches away. Little compared to the size of her ransom, but still more than she had.

“Do you mind if I join the next hand?”

*

CAT PILED HER winnings neatly on her edge of the table: two pearls, a turtle shell bowl, ten pennies, and one silver Esperese coin winking in the light. After losing so much to the Lyrian Sea, the little pile felt like a treasure hoard. Cat could not help but errantly stroke the coin, feeling the stamp of the Esperese cross beneath her finger. A voice in her head told her to finish the game, stand up from the table, and sweep her winnings into her skirt. To leave with something, small as it was. But that voice was weak, fading with every hand.

Besides, she could hardly leave the table, and the men gathered around it. Their stunned silence and stilted words were long gone, replaced by an amiable manner Cat had not enjoyed in a very long time.

The smell of rum wafted from her left side, where Brimley sat giggling into his ration, his hand discarded after his purse ran dry. But he remained, ribbing Garedo and Cavallid as they steadily lost hand after hand to a Meridian lady. And he wasn’t alone. Two other members of the crew joined him to watch, the cabin boy Ratter and the grizzled old cook named Cook.

It was a moonless night, the stars ever brighter for its absence. They glittered beyond the shadows of the sails, pinpricking the perfect black of the sky. Cook was good enough to bring another lantern, and the six of them huddled in the little circle of warm light.

“She’s going to bankrupt you two if you don’t come to your senses,” Brimley chortled, showing uneven teeth. “Put it up and go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep, Brimley,” Cavallid snapped from behind his fanned cards.

“And miss all the fun?” Brimley sloshed back another mouthful of rum. “Hardly.”

Cat kept her cards face down on the table, lifting them only enough to glimpse the symbols beneath.

Garedo was far steadier than either of his companions, neither drinking nor rising to anger. But he sighed at his cards, clearly disappointed with the hand dealt.

“We should all go to sleep soon,” he muttered. His sable-brown eyes lifted from his cards to the blackness beyond the rails of the ship. “These are the Furies. We should take advantage of the good weather while we can.”

Cat lifted the corner of a card again, though she had her hand memorized. Then she sighed and looked around the table, offering the silken, polite smile of a lady.

“Gentlemen, you may quit whenever you like,” she said with a wave of a hand. “I’ll not keep you from your bunks.”

They responded with riotous laughter, even Cavallid chuckling into his cards. He shook his head, black curls falling into his eyes.

“We’ve got her on the run. This hand’s ours,” he said, elbowing Garedo.

“Think what you like, Mr. Cavallid,” Cat said with a prim look. “But I mean it. I’ll not have you falling asleep at your stations on my account. After all, it is quite a long journey to Archenport. You need all your strength.”

Across the table, Cavallid gave a shrug and a snort. “Hardly, we can make the run to Drowning Key with our eyes shut.”

Drowning Key.

If it was a slip of the tongue, Cavallid gave no indication, nor did the others.

Cat checked her cards again to give herself a moment to think. She chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to recall the map laid across the floor of the captain’s cabin, with its numerous keys, the little spits of sand too small to be deemed an island. She wondered if Drowning Key was one of them, marked in smudged ink, their true destination revealed.

“Of course you can, you’re able sailors, all of you,” she said graciously, watching as Cavallid discarded a pair of crescents. Beside him, Garedo’s face twitched infinitesimally.

With his own turn, the Itziman turned over a black star and added it to the pile.

Cat clucked her tongue and Garedo froze, his hand still extended. Again, Brimley laughed into his bottle.

“But not so able card players, I fear,” Cat said, her lady’s smile shifting into a far more devilish smirk. “Mr. Garedo, I believe you hold the X.”

For a long, silent moment, Garedo did not move, as if under some spell. It was enough to make Cat doubt her own counting, her own hand, all the tells she noted over the course of the game. Until the Itziman’s face pulled into a warm grin and he tossed his cards across the tabletop.

The X glared up at them all, the ink red as blood.

“Lady Rose, I think you may be a mind reader,” he chuckled, shoving the pot at her.

“Just lucky, Mr. Garedo. Or as lucky as you can be while being held prisoner,” she added, to another roar of laughter around the table.

But for Cavallid, who slid back his stool and threw up his hands. “I’m finished, finisio!” he grumbled, dipping into harried Esperese and back again. “I cannot afford this. I did not leave the sugar fields to go into debt to someone else.”

Metal clinked as Cat piled her winnings.

“Mr. Cavallid is right, we should all turn in for the evening,” she said, her mind already back in the cabin with the map and the books and Drowning Key.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

The familiar voice cut the sea air like a knife, and Brimley leapt to stand, swaying on unsteady feet. Garedo and Cavallid reacted less strongly, though both turned to face the silhouette standing just beyond the circle of light. Cat did not miss Cook doing the same, with Ratter hiding behind his back, the little boy reduced to a bundle of nerves.

She could not blame him.

The sudden appearance of Captain Kane was certainly cause for worry. Especially for Lady Rose.

How long he had observed them, hidden amongst the many shadows of the deck, Cat could not say. But she forced herself to watch as he prowled towards the lantern, the long length of him stepping into the light.

He looked as he had earlier, albeit with a salt-stiff jacket thrown over his white shirt. The collar was still open, his chain a flash of gold alongside the mysterious tattoo. The ring in his ear gleamed to match, as did the chain around his wrist. Valerian Kane was not disheveled by sleep, and again Cat wondered how long he had watched them play. It made her shiver, despite the mild night air.

“Captain, we were just finished,” Brimley said, tucking the rum behind his back.

A long-fingered hand clapped down on Brimley’s shoulder and Captain Kane spun him around.

“How long have you sailed for me, Mr. Brimley?” he said curtly, reaching for the bottle.

Brimley’s throat jumped over the collar of his shirt. “Two months, sir.”

“Those navy habits are hard to break aren’t they,” Kane muttered, shaking his head. He brought the rum to his lips, pulling a swig without so much as a wince. Then he winked, mouth curling into a grin.

Around the table, Garedo and the other members of the crew laughed, but Cat did not. She held her composure, one hand on her cards, the other on her winnings, lest Kane send her scurrying back to her cabin.

“Fear not, Mr. Brimley, there’ll be no beatings on my ship,” Kane added, waving the pirate back to his chair. Brimley sat with a relieved look, his flush receding. “Unless you deserve it, of course. And a ration of rum on your own time hardly warrants such a thing.”

“Aye, Captain,” he said, scrubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, Captain. Forgot myself.”

Still laughing, Cavallid patted him on the arm. “We’ll unwind you yet, Brimley.”

To that, Brimley nodded again, though he did not retrieve the rum. Cat could not help but feel a swell of sympathy for the sailor, defector though he was. She leaned in her seat, close enough to whisper.

“Did Captain Errol beat his men?” she mumbled, searching Brimley’s face.

He glanced back at her, brows raised in shock. “You’d be hard pressed to find a captain who doesn’t, Lady Rose.”

A sick sensation washed over her, too quick to blame on the rocking ship or the Lyrian waves. Cat fought it down with a swallow, cursing her naïveté and cursing herself for showing it so plainly.

“A navy captain,” Kane said sternly, still standing over the table. “That’s not our way, on this ship or any other that flies the black flag.”

Cat held his gaze, even as her cheeks flushed. His superiority, or at least the assumption of it, felt like a slap in the face.

“No, you only rob, capture, or kill innocent travelers,” she snapped, the mask of a Meridian lady sliding off. It even took herself by surprise, and she drew a breath, avoiding the wide-eyed looks of her gambling companions.

“You should go to sleep, Lady Rose,” Captain Kane replied, his indifference shattering the last of her composure. “All that indignation must be exhausting.”

Around the table, Kane’s men went silent. Quietly, Cavallid pulled at a flask, eyes darting between lady and captain.

Cat’s hand curled on the silver coin, clutching it as she would a prayer bead.

“I’m accustomed to it,” she snapped.

“I’ll bet you are,” Kane shot back.

Lip curling, Cat wished for fangs. To be a predator, dangerous in her own right, in need of only herself. So far from who Catrine Rose truly was.

The coin warmed in her palm. It grounded her—something she had earned and not been given. Something won with her wits.

Wit can be a weapon too.

Slowly, her snarl became a mischievous grin.

“Speaking of bets,” she said brightly, turning back to the table. “Mr. Garedo, would you care for another hand? Mr. Brimley, I can spot you if you’d like to deal back in?”

Neither answered, their eyes flying to Captain Kane. Waiting for his approval, or his command. But Kane did not look away from Cat. She could feel his glare on his face, the weight of his tempest stare unyielding.

“Captain Kane, you can take Mr. Cavallid’s chair,” Cat added, still smiling.

Behind Cook, the little cabin boy Ratter’s jaw dropped. Cook was no better, pressing a fist to his mouth. The rest looked on as if waiting for a scale to balance. Or a lit fuse to explode.

Then the captain matched her grin, laughing once. But the sound echoed long after it should have, struck like a chord in Cat’s chest, her heart a vibrating string.

With a flick of his hand, he motioned for Cavallid to rise. The pirate did so without question, hurrying to give Kane a place at the table. And the captain obliged, lowering himself into the seat across from Cat. His eyes never left hers, their blue-green sparkling.

“Deal me in,” Valerian Kane said.

Cat’s hands were already flying, the paper cards a blur beneath the lantern, the circle of light the world entire.

Chapter Nineteen After

THE PARADISE QUARTER was more than a scarlet-washed inn and a row of taverns—it was a warren of buildings at the edge of Alvaris. Little alleys and passageways connected the grand central courtyard to kitchens, storerooms, servants’ quarters, apartments, and offices. Namely, all things required to run a business and run it well. But hardly suitable for the eyes of patrons and customers. They were kept to the tiled floors and silk-curtained rooms, in chambers appointed for the evening’s pursuits.

And Cat knew better than to look for answers in places she would not find them.

With Fell safely left behind, she abandoned the courtyard and went back to the street. Under the glow of the red lanterns, she turned a corner into a shadowed alley that ran alongside the Quarter. There were fewer folk here, but she was not alone, forced to skirt by knots of people smoking, drinking, or devouring each other. None paid her much attention.

As with most city buildings, the kitchens were at the back, separated from the main structure in case of fire. Light glowed in the windows and a chimney belched smoke, the smell of roast chicken and sweet peppers filling the air. There was a great scuffle of activity at the open doors, where servants filtered in and out, carrying food through the small herb garden. It was nothing for Cat to slip through herself, into a realm far from the courtyard.

Cooks and maids attended to their tasks, stirring pots of stew or chopping vegetables, while one unlucky woman sat in the corner skinning a rabbit. None seemed to notice Cat, who passed like a shadow into the servants’ quarters.

Her first obstacle came in the form of a reedy woman with a high bun of blonde hair, her face powdered white. The makeup was not enough to hide her age, the bits of white clinging to the lines next to her eyes. The red flowers in her hair seemed crushed, and Cat surmised she had just come from a job.

“There’s a mess needs cleaning in the main house,” the woman said to Cat in Esperese, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. Judging by her stilted accent, Cat could tell she spoke Meridian far better.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Cat offered, her own Meridian accent rougher and put upon. “I’m looking for work.”

The woman’s white face fell, her frown emphasized by a shock of red painted on her lips. Her eyes flicked over Cat from head to toe.

“I can’t say they’ll take you, dearie, but follow me. I’m Elisabeth, by the way. Us Meridian girls need to stick together,” she said warmly, scooping an arm around Cat’s shoulders. “Are you from Brycam? You sound like it.”

“Close,” Cat said, letting herself be led along the corridor. By her own bearings, she guessed Elisabeth was leading her back to the main house of the Quarter. “I was born in Ganbell. Then made my way to Archenport. And now here.”

At the mention of Archenport, the woman’s whisper-thin eyebrows shot into her hairline.

“I take it you’re not happy about the Meridian return, then?” she said with a meaningful look. “Or you would’ve stayed.”

Cat let her breath hitch, as if stifling a sob. “I would have if I could. But I am—I was—”

The other woman was quick to comfort her, rubbing her shoulder as they walked. “I see. You were one of the Duchesses’ girls?”

Cat gave a trembling nod.

“I’m sorry,” Elisabeth replied softly. “I heard she took everything and ran.”

Her sympathy was genuine, the arm around Cat’s shoulders warm and embracing. Cat felt a twinge of remorse for the lie. But not enough to stop.

“She did,” Cat said.

Music and smoke wafted through the air again as they entered the more public areas of the house, and Cat glimpsed the courtyard through a window. She tried to catch sight of a blue silk vest or a familiar head of black hair, but Jasper Fell was no longer at his perch.

Likely he escaped to a tavern, hoping to protect his ill-defined sense of dignity.

“And that’s not the worst of it,” Cat added, drawing closer to Elisabeth.

They ascended a staircase, passing a pair of lovers giggling their way back to the courtyard. Elisabeth was good enough to let them pass before dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Did you have a lad?” she breathed, her grip tightening on Cat. “Beneath the black flag?”

Beneath the black flag. Cat had always laughed at the phrase. It seemed too noble for pirates, not to mention overwrought. At least in her experience, the pirates of the Lyrian were straightforward men and women, who bothered little with etiquette or confusing codes of honor, let alone nonsense like titles. Even the sailors who defected from the fleets or the few gentleman pirates abandoning lordships for the buccaneer’s life were not so strait-laced. At least not for long. No matter their origin, pirates held to their shared ways. They served their captains, their ships, their crews. They fought and plundered, raiding ships of all flags, be they cross or sun or skull. They always took care of their own. And they valued two things above all—their coin and their freedom.

But while they lived beyond any crown or kingdom, there was a cost.

Cat knew it intimately, remembering the price so many paid upon the gallows.

And the price she paid to keep one man from the noose.

Elisabeth gave her another squeeze. “I’m sorry, dearie. What was his name?”

To that, Cat only shook her head, as if it were too painful to say. Truthfully, she did not want to add any more details to the lie and potentially tie herself up later.

“Well, what’s your name?” Elisabeth prodded.

As she had many times, Cat gave the false name she always reached for.

“Sara,” she said, though she could barely remember her dead maid’s face anymore. “I can work anywhere that’s needed. Laundry, kitchens. On my back—”

“Hush, we’ll get you right,” Elisabeth replied, resuming their climb up the stairs. “I’ll take you up to Key Keeper, and she will find you something. Even if it’s just a bed for the night.”

Cat bit her cheek to keep from smiling.

“What about you?” she said.

As she expected, Elisabeth responded eagerly.

“Ah, me. Not much to say, I suppose. I sailed when I was just a girl. Couldn’t find work in Brycam so I signed an indenture to serve a merchant family in Willemsport. Spent three years trying to pay off the contract before I realized I would end the term poorer than I started.” Her white face tightened. “I stowed away on a ship bound for Alvaris. Suppose I could have just waited for the war to turn like everyone else. Last I heard my merchant master went screaming across the ocean as soon as the fleet gave up the Lyrian.”

Cat felt a pang of sadness for Elisabeth. Hers was not a unique story, nor difficult to parse out. Poor, uneducated, with few options in Meridia: To be a servant, a poor man’s wife, or a beggar. So, she fled for the Lyrian Sea, and whatever it could give her. Like so many, she found herself crushed beneath a contract of indenture. She probably couldn’t even read what she signed back in the docks of Brycam City and had no idea what she was getting into. It was a common tale, especially among the pirates and prostitutes and all others who lived in the shadows of “proper society.” Cat only hoped this life was more agreeable to her.

If Elisabeth noticed Cat’s pity, she did not show it. The woman was light in her steps, leading them to another door on the landing.

Before she could push it open, Cat stopped her with a gentle touch.

“For your trouble,” she said, fishing a coin from the pouch at her waist. Her lie was small, but regret gnawed at her in a way she did not like. As with most feelings, Cat hoped money would squash it dead.

But Elisabeth was quick to flash a smile and wave a dismissive hand. “You seem like you need it more than I do, love.” Then she paused, again looking over Cat’s appearance. Her narrowed eyes traveled slowly, starting at Cat’s worn leather boots and moving upwards. “May I?”

Cat startled. “Yes—”

Fingers skated over the edge of Cat’s bodice and Elisabeth pulled, shifting the fabric down to sit lower and tighter across her chest. Before Cat could say another word, Elisabeth’s hands went to her hair next, twisting lose a few short pieces of chestnut curls to frame her eyes.

“There,” Elisabeth said, pushing open the door. “Now you may have a shot to impress Key Keeper.”

“Impress me with what, Beth?” a weary voice said from the adjoining room.

Hands clasped, Cat followed Elisabeth into the little office tucked away in the labyrinthine pleasure house. She expected something like the Duchess’s salon, done up in silk with a sideboard of expensive liquor, but instead found little more than a closet with a window, and a wall of shelves bursting with ledgers. Cat stifled a laugh, too closely reminded of her own inventory folios stacked in the closet of the Widow Rose.

Elisabeth went to the desk shoved in the corner, where an older woman sat squinting through thick glasses at another open ledger. She had a careworn face and iron-gray hair tied back with an oxblood scarf. But her full brows were still jet black and furrowing deeply. Cat found herself reminded of Moseley, cleaning up after everyone else with an exasperated smile and a blunt remark.

“This is Sara,” Elisabeth said, pointing back to Cat, who folded herself into the corner. “You said you needed new girls, so here you are.”

The Key Keeper peered at Cat over the rim of her glasses. It was an apt name. Even sitting, the ring of iron keys at her waist jingled like the finest jewelry. Cat ventured the keys were worth their weight in gold.

“Girls, Beth,” the Key Keeper muttered. “Not spinsters.”

In the corner, Cat pursed her lips but kept her eyes downcast. She reminded herself of the part she was playing—a mousy, desperate woman would not respond with a cracking retort. But she could not help but wonder if a little powder might do her some good. Cat Rose was not a young woman anymore, and the Lyrian sun was not kind to Meridian skin. She sucked in her cheeks a little, trying to sculpt her face into something more pleasing.

“I am but thirty,” she said softly, glancing up to meet the Key Keeper’s shrewd stare.

The older woman scoffed. “And you look it.”

Heat flamed in Cat’s cheeks, but again she held her tongue.

“She worked for the Duchess before she fled,” Elisabeth offered.

That seemed to intrigue the Key Keeper, who quickly shut her ledger. Again, she looked over Cat, this time with a softer eye.

“Is that so?” she murmured, tipping her head. Then her tanned fingers swept in a flicking gesture, dismissing her employee. “Back to the floor, Beth.”

To that, there was no argument. Elisabeth was back at the door in a second. “Good luck,” she said with a fleeting smile.

Cat offered the same. “Be safe.”

When the latch clicked, she took a hesitant step towards the desk and smoothed her dress. Cat did not know the Key Keeper personally but knew her reputation. Like the Duchess, she was the madam of the Paradise Quarter, managing a great number of folk with efficiency. But she also navigated within the bounds of Esperese law and bureaucracy. As a businesswoman herself, Cat knew to be impressed. And careful.

“I can cook and clean. Whatever you need,” she said, keeping up her ruse. “I just need—a place to land.”

In her chair, the Key Keeper sighed a little. With her iron-gray hair, still shot with strands of jet black, and the burnished bronze color of her skin, Cat guessed she was of Itziman descent, hailing from the Southern Continent.

“I can imagine,” the woman muttered, tsking. “I suppose it just isn’t worth operating in Meridian ports. Too much trouble, too much risk, even if they still pay for the pleasure of our company.”

Cat nodded along, her head bobbing in a desperate way that felt embarrassing. “It does seem that way.”

“Well, let me look at you.”

The Key Keeper was shorter than expected, groaning a little as she rose to her feet. Her maroon dress fell about her in intricate folds, the garment well-made despite the plain appearance. It set off her deep brown eyes so perfectly that, for a moment, Cat thought she could see back through time, to the younger years of the Key Keeper. When she had a different name, and likely served a different madam. Certainly, she was beautiful then, as she was regal now.

Then she stuck her hands in Cat’s mouth, forcing her to stifle a sharp yelp.

“Good teeth,” the Key Keeper muttered, inspecting Cat’s incisors. It took all her will not to bite down.

At least the madam was fast, releasing Cat’s jaw to study her eyes, then her hands, before squeezing around her bosom and even her bottom with sure, quick motions. Holding steady, Cat wondered if this was what animals felt like when driven to market and weighed for slaughter.

“Not as bad as I expected,” the madam said, patting her on the arm.

Cat worked fiercely to keep her face straight. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I can keep you in the kitchens, and if a place opens in the main house, I suppose you could try your hand in the evenings. But I’m not running a charity. This is a business, and the collectors in town treat us like it,” the Key Keeper said and returned to her ledger. “I’ve taxes to pay, Sara.”

“I truly appreciate it,” Cat said, dipping into a curtsy. She was careful to make her movements clumsy, more suited to a common prostitute than a Meridian lady. Even a fallen one. “How often do places open?”

The madam shrugged. “Shouldn’t be long. There’s a great deal of movement with the Meridian navy returning to the Lyrian Sea. Girls like you, moving on, seeking new work. Chasing old work.”

Cat felt like a sail catching the wind, finally on course. “I see.”

“I suppose most of your lads died. Heard about that even here.”

The madam paused in her work, quill frozen in hand. “Sounded like a massacre.”

“It was,” Cat said, a real tremor in her voice. She did not have to act to summon the pain of such memories, and the fear of them too. Governor Osprin’s brutal reign was impossible to forget. But still a valuable card to play. “I don’t think your girls will be chasing long. The new governor in Archenport made himself very clear.

Behind her glasses, the Key Keeper’s eyes darkened. “Clear about what?”

“He’s hunting every pirate in the Lyrian Sea, and anyone still aligned with them,” Cat warned.

Sighing heavily, the Key Keeper nodded and pushed the glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She seemed already weary at the thought. “I’ll be here when my girls come scurrying back from Arcayo.”

The name of the island nation rang clear as a bell, resounding in Cat’s head. She suspected as much but still reveled in the confirmation. It was a heading. And proof beyond her gut instinct. Proof enough for Fell, at the very least.

“Certainly Nera can only hold so many skirts,” Cat mused, weighing the look on the madam’s face.

“If they stay on the island.”

Want rose up in Cat, gnawing at her insides, but she held fast to the ruse. “Where else would they go?”

The older woman only shrugged. “Somewhere in the Hook. You know the black flag as well as I do. It’ll be some island on no map, somewhere the crowns have not yet swallowed.”

“That number grows fewer and fewer every day,” Cat sighed.

And the illusion of Sara, a desperate and broken woman, sloughed off her as if she were a snake shedding its skin. She supposed that was not so far from the truth. Her back straightened and her hands went to the top of her dress, pulling it back into a more comfortable place.

“Thank you for your time,” she said.

Behind the desk, the Key Keeper looked perturbed, making to stand.

“I beg your pardon?”

A coin sang through the air, the silver catching the candlelight. It landed with a clink, but the madam didn’t break focus, still staring at Cat’s face. Her black eyes sharpened behind her glasses, her face turning to carved stone. It was not difficult to imagine how such a small woman commanded the entire Paradise Quarter, and everyone in it.

“Worked for the Duchess, you say,” she muttered, whatever motherly kindness she bore disappearing with Cat’s ruse.

“Worked with,” Cat answered neatly. Her mind was already down the stairs, back out into the courtyard to find Fell and return to the Fledge. To continue onto the next step of a swiftly unfolding plan. But she lingered, letting the Key Keeper look her over.

“I see,” the older woman said. “If it’s the Duchess you’re looking for, I can’t help you. There’s been no word since Archenport was reclaimed. And frankly, there better not be. For a madam to abandon her own like that,” she clucked her tongue with derision, shaking her head.

“You would not say that if you saw the gallows of Archenport,” Cat replied, her mind a forest of nooses. “Besides, the Duchess doesn’t need anyone looking after her, least of all me.”

“Then who do you seek, pray tell?” The Key Keeper folded her arms around her middle, the key ring jingling at her waist. “Because you’re certainly looking for someone, Sara.”

She drawled the name, the deceit of it on full display.

Cat weighed another name in her mind. She had not seen Valerian Kane in a brothel in many years, and she doubted he would step foot in one within a crown colony. Besides, it was too precious a card to play.

“I never expected to see a song tower in a crown harbor,” she answered instead, watching the twitch of amusement cross the other woman’s face.

“I am a purveyor of flesh, not stone. What would I know of such things? I am but a simple woman.”

“Aren’t we all, madam?” Cat mused. How often she slipped behind such a mask, using the downfalls of her sex to their rare advantage. “For all the sighs under this roof, there are whispers too.”

With that, she drew another coin from her purse, this one flashing gold, stamped with the image of the Meridian lion. It joined the silver on the desk.

The Key Keeper eyed it, then Cat’s purse. Three more coins slid across the wood, and she smiled.

“You have your answer, I think,” she said, pocketing the money.

Cat hummed low in her throat. “The Arcayans paid to build the tower?”

The older woman leaned back in her seat, hands spread wide. “You are clearly no stranger to the Lyrian Sea, or the crowns that feast upon it. Everything is for sale, be it flesh or rum or sand or stone.”

The truth of it was undeniable, as real as the coins still clinking in Cat’s purse.

“May the sea always sing for you, madam,” Cat said, turning for the door.

“And you,” the woman called after her as she left. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

I don’t, Cat thought, swallowing down a thousand different things to say.

Her face burned, cheeks suddenly red. Doom loomed over her from Archenport, the noose ever-taunting. But Valerian was doom of a different kind. And she did not intend to escape one predator just to fall to another.

Cat took the most direct route back through the main house, keeping her eyes forwards on the path ahead. Even so, she glimpsed flesh and parted lips around every corner, undulating silhouettes rippling behind silk curtains, their shadows dancing on the walls. Between the many candles strewn throughout the building, and the even more numerous bodies, the air was tight and humid. Cat gasped in relief when she made it back outside, the night breeze a balm on her flushed skin.

She scanned the crowd, looking for the beacon of a silk brocade vest. But the red lantern light turned everyone a similar shade of scarlet, until so many varied faces and bodies seemed the same. Cat was quietly glad she had not sampled any of the drinks circulating through the Quarter, lest she lose her head entirely.

Then she finally spotted him. Not exactly where she left Fell an hour ago, but close enough. He sat beneath the gnarled branches of a flowering tree, fuchsia petals half obscuring him from the people milling around. But it did not hide him from a particularly valiant young woman, her white-blonde hair adorned with red flowers, as she tried to pry some attention out of him.

Cat smirked, watching him give one-word answers and sip tightly at a half-empty glass of spiced rum. His face pulled at the flavor. She had never known him to favor rum, but supposed the wine was too poor for his refined tastes.

He leapt to his feet when she approached, passing the glass off to the hopeful woman without so much as a glance. It finally did the trick, and she flitted away with a roll of her eyes, quick to find another customer.

“Am I interrupting?” Cat said with a raised brow.

Fell shot her a withering stare.

“Very well,” Cat laughed. “I’m sorry you were so tortured by the company. Did you at least hear anything of use?”

Fell sneered over his shoulder to an officer in green uniform, holding court amongst a gaggle of eager, beflowered men and women.

“I didn’t fight that Esperese officer,” he said. “Though the pompous ass certainly deserved it.”

Cat rolled her eyes and pushed him towards the street, away from his more violent urges.

“I suppose that’s a triumph,” she said dryly. “You would’ve been dead before I returned.”

“You think I couldn’t have bested him?” Fell snapped, his words slower and sliding together.

Cat had to fight her grin. He had clearly drunk far more than she realized in their time apart. At least it made him manageable; she was easily able to steer him out into the street, past the taverns and musicians towards the docks, the Fledge, and some much-needed sleep.

“I think you would have bested one man only to be subdued by an entire battalion of Esperese sailors,” she offered.

Fell smiled dreamily. “At least a battalion.”

“At least,” Cat echoed.

“What of you?” he said, leaning heavily on her arm. “Do you have any idea where to look next? Or do you have more terrible things to put me through, Cat?”

He said her name quietly, his voice thicker.

As many terrible things as I can, Cat thought, her mind trailing back to Ana, still ensconced in her tower. How she would have liked to feed Fell to the Seawolf. But Ana was not her ally, not anymore. Just like the man next to her.

He never truly was.

“You put me in a cell with a warrant of execution hanging over my head,” she replied.

He rolled his eyes. “Not really—”

“I could do many terrible things to you before we break even again, Jasper.”

“Even?” His playful manner disappeared in an instant. Though drunk, his gaze was piercing. It made Cat think of Ana and the dagger at her neck, the cut still healing. “We have not been even since the day we met, Catrine Rose.”

She stopped short, letting Fell stumble on a few paces. He lost his balance but never fell, righting himself against a dockside rail. When he turned back to face her, Cat was already glaring.

“What is that supposed to mean, Captain?”

Her blood blazed beneath her skin. Not even, she thought, raging inside her mind. It was ten years ago, but she still remembered the day they met, when Jasper Fell was a lieutenant outside the bars of her crumbling cage. When he smirked at her as if she were just another stupid woman to charm.

She expected him to wilt or wave her off, but the rum made him bold.

“You know exactly what I mean, Lady Rose. Don’t pretend like you were some lowly indentured flung into the Lyrian Sea.” He stalked back towards her, closing the distance between them. “You are a noblewoman, no matter how poor or unlucky you claimed to be.”

“Claimed?” Cat snarled back, never giving ground. “You remember Rosby. You remember Ryman. You know what I came from.”

“And you know the same of me.” He did not relent. In the dim light of the evening, the torches of the dock burning odd reflections in the water, he seemed young again. But the scar through his left eyebrow remained, testament to the Venerable, and all that came after.

“You know how hard I had to fight, and how much higher I had to climb,” Fell growled. He still smelled of his expensive oil beneath the rum, and Cat knew why. It was a shield as much as his medals, as much as his neatly combed hair and freshly shaved cheeks. He clung to the appearance of perfection, of wealth, of higher standing. “You know how much further I have to fall, Cat.”

“It is not the height of the fall, but how sudden the stop,” Cat replied, raising a hand to her neck for good measure. Her fingers curled and for a moment she felt rope instead of her skin. “Don’t pretend we’re even, Captain Fell. I don’t care what class you were born to. You are still a man in this world. And I still have a noose around my neck.”

The torchlight turned his silver eyes to hellish red.

“Let us hope you found something to loosen it,” he said, leaning closer. Between the folds of his shirt, his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. “What did you learn tonight?”

Cat did not flinch. Neither moved, each staring at the other, the city beyond little more than shadows. In the silence, Cat weighed her options, counting the islands of the Lyrian Sea. She could say any name, choose any point on the map. Drag Fell deeper and deeper, farther and farther. Push him until he could be pushed no more. Let him chase his own tail, keeping him as far from Valerian as the sea allowed.

But his eyes gleamed, what care he carried for her eclipsed by a desperation Cat knew all too well.

The need to survive.

The balance, if there ever was one, threatened to tip.

Her lips parted and she chose the truth, even though it tasted like blood.

“Our heading,” Cat finally said. “Arcayo.”

Chapter Twenty Before

SMOKE ROSE IN a steady trail, the smell of tobacco and rum heavy over the card table. Cat could almost feel it on her skin, warm and light as the touch of a hand.

Captain Kane held a cigar between two fingers, a cloud of white curling through his teeth as he studied his cards. Cat studied him in turn, looking for tells. Or so she told herself, eyes skittering from his long fingers to the way his pulse thrummed in his neck.

He was thoughtful in his gameplay, never rushed, not like the other pirates, who slapped down their discards eagerly, as if Red River depended on speed above all. Cat surmised that no one would rush Valerian Kane. Not aboard his own ship, at least. He was smart, patient, strategic. He let others move first so he could move better. When Garedo and Brimley found themselves trading back and forth, their cards a furious storm, their captain made quiet moves, using the pair as a distraction. It all made for a far more challenging opponent, and Cat had to stay on her toes, focusing on the card counts as best she could.

The clouds of smoke made it more difficult, drawing her eyes away from the cards to the disconcerting curve of the captain’s mouth, forever fixed in a crooked smirk.

Slowly, he laid down three diamonds, and Cat forced herself back to the task at hand.

Sixteen diamonds played—

“Where did a Meridian lady learn Red River?”

Kane’s voice shattered her thoughts, and Cat pursed her lips, annoyed by the endless distraction of him.

“If you knew any Meridian ladies, you would know that is a stupid question,” she said pertly, looking down to her cards. Smirking, she passed two cards to Garedo on her left. He took them with a grumble.

“Almost every salon or party I’ve ever attended ends in a card game. For those who are still awake, at least. I spent many an early morning playing while waiting for my husband to come to his senses,” she added, letting Garedo wallow. “And my sisters loved cards. Crossed Swords, Skulls, Red River, Jolly, Whistling Jane. We used to play them all, before I left.”

Kane raised a golden eyebrow, the small scar above it pulling white. “To marry Lord Rose?”

“That is the reason most girls leave home,” Cat replied. Then she remembered herself and the place where she sat. With nothing but sails and stars overhead. “At least, that’s how it is back in Meridia. I assume it is not so for your Ana, or the other ladies of the crew.”

“You may be surprised how many women trade marriage for the main deck,” Kane chuckled, his laugh rolling down Cat’s spine. “Tell me about these sisters. Were they as lucky in their unions as you?”

Cat shifted on her stool, surprised by the odd line of questioning. Judging by the faces of the other pirates, she surmised they were too. But it was not difficult to guess after Kane’s motive.

He is losing the hand and wants to set me off-kilter.

Her toes curled in her shoes.

I can do that too.

“I hope not,” she answered, heaving a wistful sigh. “Helena was engaged when I left, and the others were far too young to be out in society yet. It is difficult to get news of home here. Personal news, I mean.” At that, she leaned into Brimley, who now stood at her shoulder to watch the game. “Again, I am sorry to have brought you word of Allisport.”

Across the table, Kane’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, he dragged from the cigar and blew a cloud of fragrant smoke across the table.

“What of it?” he said tightly.

Cat shook her head, rueful. “Another casualty of the war. The city was burned by the Esperese.”

To her shock, Kane’s mouth curved, lifting into a half smile. He seemed almost triumphant, as if the victory was his own and not Esperin’s.

Hardly the response warranted, even from a pirate.

“I do not expect you to mourn, Captain Kane, but show some respect,” Cat said. “Allisport was home to thousands, including Mr. Brimley—”

“I’ve seen it myself, thank you,” he bit back, ashing his cigar into her turtle shell bowl. Cat wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to scold him.

Only for Kane to cut her off again.

“You hold the X, Lady Rose,” he said neatly, his stormy eyes intent on hers.

With all the will in her body, Cat squashed the urge to swat the cigar from his hand. Instead, she threw down her fan of cards, the red X buried among them. Gasps went around the table from the others, both in triumph and surprise.

“Well seen,” she muttered, her face warm and flushed. Again, she thought about sweeping her winnings into her skirt and escaping—albeit with a smaller pile than she had possessed five minutes ago. But that would be admitting defeat, in the only place she might hope to hold ground.

Across the table, Kane drew another pull of the cigar. The end of it flared, embers reflecting in his flickering gaze. He did not reach for the varied coins and trinkets.

“Another?” he said, never breaking his stare.

Cat’s fingers curled and something inside her shivered, the sensation fluttering in her ribcage. She did not think she could look away from the pirate, his eyes pulling her in like the coiling winds of a hurricane.

“Shall we sweeten the pot?” she murmured.

He smiled crookedly, leaning forwards. The lantern light gleamed, illuminating the lightest sheen of sweat across his chest of golden-brown curls. Such was the way of the Lyrian Sea, the air thick with heat, even against the spray of the endless waves.

“What did you have in mind?”

Cat flashed a grin. “A question. I ask, you answer?”

“And if I beat you again?” Kane mused.

“The same,” she said, shrugging. She could hardly fathom what information a pirate captain could want from her, let alone use. “You ask, I answer.”

“Perfect.”

Steadily, he discarded his jacket. Then he set to rolling his sleeves, white cotton sliding up over his forearms. Another tattoo, black against tanned skin, marked the inside flesh of his arm.

Cat traced the dark spots of ink with her eyes, seven dots in seemingly random order, as he began to shuffle the cards.

*

IT WAS NOT like the early mornings in the parlor of a country estate or a city townhome, where tiny glasses of sherry and pots of tea went round, numbing and waking the players in equal measure. Young lords too filled with life to sleep gambled alongside old aunts too filled with aches. And Cat played amongst them, awaiting a husband too drunk to stand, passed out in a closet somewhere, snoring into a pile of linens. She would take their scraps of money and baubles, but few played with anything of real value. It was not proper for nobles to carry currency, and certainly not to balls or parties. Most winnings were better left on the table. Her pride was the pot, to be gloated over later when they rumbled home in a rented carriage. Or, gods forbid, walked.

It had been a difficult life, filled with regret and disappointment. But not so difficult as the one she lived now, where every tide seemed to bring another hardship or obstacle—none so currently frustrating as a pirate captain with a wicked smile and a vicious mind for cards.

The once-patient Valerian Kane now played at a furious pace, forcing both Cat and the other two pirates to keep up like whipped horses. Gone was the prudent, slow player of a few hands ago, replaced by a smirking demon who delighted in the frenzy. Cat barely had time to keep count but somehow it thrilled her. She gritted her teeth, holding back a manic grin of her own. Each card thrown was a bullet dodged or fired, and her heart jumped with every reveal. Diamonds, crescents, swords, stars. The symbols burned against her eyelids, a brand in black ink.

There was no denying which two players warred for control of the table. Cat barely glanced at Brimley or Garedo, only watching their hands to keep count. The captain was the same, lifting his eyes from his hand to flicker over the cards—and Cat’s face. Her heart jumped then too, every time she glimpsed a flash of storm green.

Garedo discarded two crescents while handing another three cards to his left. Kane took them unflinchingly, his tanned face still, fingers quick and sure as he shuffled the cards in his hand.

Cat struck without warning or hesitation.

“Captain Kane,” she said, watching as he raised an eyebrow. “You hold the X.”

Low whistles went through their audience, and even Ratter, half asleep on a coil of rope, sat up to watch the fallout.

But Kane only folded his cards together, eyeing her over the flaring embers of his cigar.

Garedo and the others looked on in stunned silence, waiting for their captain to react and dictate which way the wind blew for them.

“You knew Garedo held it,” Kane murmured, his face torn between shock and amusement. He pointed at her with the cigar, stabbing the air. “You waited for him to give it to me.”

Shaking his head, Garedo stared at his cards. A deep flush spread over his brown cheeks.

“Like I said, mind reader, sir,” he grumbled under his breath.

Kane did not reply.

“You’re out of this round, Captain,” Cat said serenely, reaching for the cards still tight in his hand.

He did not relent, making her pull them from his grasp. Her fingers grazed his, her nails raking over rough knuckles. She expected to shudder at his touch. There was no telling where the dirty hands of a pirate had been. But she felt only the warmth of him, and not the cloying, humid kind she had come to know in the Lyrian Sea. He felt like fire in a hearth, welcoming and bright. The kind to keep out a chill, to make you feel safe.

Cat knew he was anything but. They were the foolish thoughts of a foolish woman, already mad after a few hours of imprisonment. Valerian Kane was a pirate captain and her captor, holding her for ransom. No matter what his hand felt like.

She withdrew quickly, shuffling the cards of Kane’s hand with the rest of the discard pile, to be redistributed with the damning X, buried once more.

It did not take long for Cat to sniff the card out again, dispatching Brimley with ease before Garedo landed square in her sights.

“Mr. Garedo—” Cat began, only to have him frown and slap his cards down.

“Yes, I know!” he said wearily, shoving back from the table to throw up his hands. His pile of winnings was depleted, dumped into a central pot that now belonged to Cat.

Her thoughts were not on the spoils. At least, not the kind measured in coin and trinkets.

Kane’s cigar flamed out, reduced to a stub of paper and burned tobacco. He squashed it on the heel of his boot before tossing it over the gunwales, to disappear into the blackness of the sea.

“Well, ask your question,” he said finally, facing Cat. One tawny eyebrow arched in challenge, as if they were opponents in a duel.

Cat thought of the map laid out in her commandeered cabin, and the words Brimley let slip not an hour ago.

“What is Drowning Key?”

The smug look wiped clean off Kane’s face. On the table, his hand twitched. He motioned for Cavallid’s flask, which the sailor dutifully handed over. The captain swigged, and Cat did not miss his throat bobbing over his open collar.

“I will not bother asking where you heard that,” he snapped, glaring around at his men. Blushes and stammers followed his gaze, though their explanations mattered little. He waved them off, looking at Cat again. “Drowning Key.”

“Yes,” she replied tightly. “What is it?”

Kane took his time to reply, taking another swig from the flask instead, making her wait, his eyes never leaving her own. Again, Cat felt as if they faced each other across a shooting ground, and not the card table. But she refused to relent, her hands folded primly in her lap. She had more than enough experience sitting and staying silent, waiting for men to speak.

“An island, a small one, easily overlooked. Of little consequence to the Meridian Empire,” he finally said, his words carefully chosen. “And it isn’t on any map—at least not the ones left in my cabin.”

It was a poor answer, if an answer at all. Cat gritted her teeth, cursing herself for not being more specific in her question—and cursing him for seeing her intentions so clearly. Her mind flashed to the patchwork map on the cabin floor, painstakingly slotted together.

And useless.

“Where—” she blurted out, but Kane shook his head.

“You’ll have to win another hand for that, my lady,” he said, already shuffling the cards.

This time, Garedo and Brimley did not bother dealing in. They left the captain and the lady to their battle, the cards flying back and forth, both gamblers sparking like hot coals.

Only a few minutes passed before Kane had Cat up against the wall, the X burning red in her revealed hand. She was breathless with the speed of her loss and barely had time to react before he flung his question across the table.

“Who brought the Venerable news of Allisport?”

Cat blinked rapidly, caught off guard. She expected more questions about her sisters, her previous life, even her husband and their bank account. Naval intelligence wasn’t exactly her area of expertise, and he knew that. But she collected herself, trying to think, to remember what felt like years ago.

It was only yesterday, she told herself, chiding her memory.

Though it felt like admitting defeat, she broke her gaze and looked down to the table. It was too difficult to try to recall anything with Captain Kane staring at her so intently. She studied the worn woodgrain instead, tracing the whorls in the cheap pine.

“The Paladin,” she finally murmured, the name of the other Meridian vessel swimming up to the front of her mind.

Then it was the captain’s turn to look away, his narrowed eyes shifting to the sailor next to him. His crooked smiles and warmth were both gone, candles snuffed out.

“Brimley?” he said. “What do you know of that ship?”

The drunken mate did his best to uncross his eyes and be useful.

“Commanded by Captain Kent,” he sputtered, wobbling in his seat. “Part of the northern division, patrolling the Stills.”

Kane clapped him on the shoulder in thanks, though his face remained stern, his brow furrowed. “Either Captain Kent was very lost or he was sent south,” he muttered to himself. “Where—”

“You have asked your question already, Captain.”

Against all odds, Cat spoke evenly, her voice level and firm, though her fingers trembled in her lap. It was one thing for Captain Kane to dictate the rules of their escalating game. But another entirely for her to do the same.

And Kane knew it too.

“You are aware, Lady Rose, that I hold you prisoner on this ship?” he said quietly. Somehow it was more terrifying than a shout. “This back and forth is merely a formality. If I want an answer to a question, you must give it.”

It would certainly be easier, she told herself, to answer whatever he asks, to tell him whatever he needs, until I hold no more use. But that felt wrong too, for more reasons than one. She had questions of her own, her only leverage in the cards. And there was her original plan to consider. The wind in the sails was a firm reminder of the clock ticking, the waves pushing them onward to wherever this mercurial captain willed.

And at the end of their voyage—the truth. Lord Rose had no money to ransom them. Cat would need something else to trade. Could it be friendship instead?

She tried to weigh what little she knew of Captain Kane. He was a pirate, a plundering marauder, a criminal who stalked the high seas for prey. A shark in human skin. And yet he bore the same calluses as the crew. He dove through the wreck of the Venerable alongside them. Brimley had willingly defected to a pirate’s command, choosing the unknown prospect of Valerian Kane over the navy. And he seemed better for it, grateful even.

Perhaps the captain was fair as he appeared, willing to hold to the rules of their game, even as he flouted every law of kingdoms and empires.

But what do I truly know of him? she wondered, hands still shaking.

The silence seemed to last all night—and yet only a moment.

The shuffle of cards broke the quiet, Kane’s deft fingers tracing the rough edge of the paper. He flicked through them, never breaking eye contact with her, his gaze like a hammer, and Cat the nail.

Finally, the cards slid across the uneven table, one by one, and he dealt a new hand.

Cat breathed a sigh, relief loosening the tight coil in her chest. But not for long. Kane defeated her almost immediately, the X all but burning her fingers.

“Where was Kent headed?” he said, shuffling once more.

This time, Cat did not have to rack her memory.

“Longdawn.”

A flurry of glances swept around the table. Even Brimley, glazed over like a drunk at a tavern, shot a strange look at the captain. Kane returned it, shuffling longer than he needed, the rhythm of the cards mirroring the muscle jumping in his cheek. Long strands of golden hair fell into his face, putting him half in shadow. But his eyes remained, glowing with the lantern light.

The next hand was not so fast, but just as ferocious. From the start, Cat caught a wave of luck, and she rode it hard, pushing more and more coins into the pot. Kane seemed distracted, and she seized on the opportunity. Another pile of coins, another ring of metal on metal as he matched her ante.

Until there were no more trinkets and pennies left to play, the table empty in front of her, all her winnings thrown to the center in an impressive heap.

It roused Kane from his thoughts, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Shall we make the call,” he said, fluttering his cards like a lady’s fan. “You have nothing left to bet.”

The wind rustled, the sails rippling overhead. A bronze curl blew across Cat’s eyes, and she tucked it away with her free hand. She did not miss the way Kane’s eyes followed the movement.

“Not quite,” she said, another gamble unfolding.

There was no mistaking the furious scarlet flush that spread across Brimley’s face or what it implied. But Cat ignored his assumptions, and whatever else the crew might be thinking.

Women have more things to trade than men like to think.

Kane eyed his cards again, then her. “Intrigue me, Lady Rose.”

Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared to face the captain as she would an adversary. And an equal.

“I bet my freedom.”

It was Cook who laughed first, breaking the surprised silence with a guffaw close to a shot from a cannon. Ratter followed, giggling like the little boy he was. Cat held her composure, even while her newfound companions cracked smiles. Garedo, Brimley, Cavallid. They all chortled, dismissing her as easily as they welcomed her in.

Her grip tightened on the cards and her frustration grew. It was the same as having a curtain torn away, lifting an illusion. She was not a pirate, not a friend. She was, at best, cargo.

But Kane did not laugh. He did not even smile. And that was enough; Cat latched on to a sliver of hope thinner than the last curve of a waning moon.

“Your freedom is already agreed upon,” the captain said stiffly. “Lieutenant Fell will be ransomed, as will you and Lord Rose.”

Cat was undeterred.

“You can keep the men. Sell them both,” she bit out, slapping her cards face down. “I’m talking about me. Just me.”

At least Kane was good enough not to make her wait, to let her dangle on a hopeful thread. With a tilt of his head, he tossed his cards face up. Cat felt each one of them like a blade, cutting her hope to pieces.

“I fold, Lady Rose,” he said, standing up from the table with a scrape of his stool. The others leapt to match him, leaving her seated. And surrounded. “I’m a pirate, not a gambler. I’ll keep the prize already in hand.”

Then Kane gestured for Cat to do the same, his palm raised and open. Like the rest of him, the flesh was callused and scarred by the harshness of the sea. Cat could not help but remember the brush of her fingers on his, the rough skin warm and real.

Steady as she could, Cat stood up from her stool, weathering the gentle rock of the ship.

“Now off with you, Lady Rose,” the captain ordered. “Take your winnings and go.”

Winnings. Her eyes widened, looking from Kane to the tabletop. The pile was nothing to sneer at, her silver coins and hard-won treasures gleaming. Without question, she dragged an arm across the table, sweeping everything into her skirt. She would take inventory later.

“I still need a light,” she said, her free hand gripping the lamp that sent her out on deck in the first place.

She almost expected Kane to grumble. But he obliged with another wave, gesturing for her to follow. He set a quick pace, giving her no time to argue as he turned for the quarterdeck, and her cabin. The crew scuttled away into the darkness of the ship, disappearing to their bunks or other pursuits with only a few errant whispers.

Cat shook off thoughts of them all, too focused on keeping the coins tied up in her skirts as she hurried to catch up. With the game behind her, the rush of energy quickly faded. She dreamed of the little bunk as much as the maps she wanted to study. All together, her exhaustion and her determination were enough distraction. She barely noticed the path as she followed Kane into the council chamber, his own lantern held aloft. Only a few hours ago the same way filled her with dread. Now she just wanted to hurry into the cabin and shut the door in his face.

He seemed to feel the same, reaching for the door to her borrowed quarters without so much as a backwards glance.

The lantern light fell on his forearm, illuminating the strange dots of a stranger tattoo. And Cat could not help herself.

“What constellation is that?” she said. If not for her full hands, she might have reached out to touch the inked stars. “Or should we return to the table so I can win the right to ask another question of my captor?”

Kane froze at the door, fingers on the latch. A muscle ticked in his cheek. Pirate though he was, he obviously did not like being reminded of certain crimes.

“I’m not your captor, Lady Rose,” he ground out.

“But I am a captive. A prisoner,” she said archly. “You said so yourself.”

When he rounded on her, a look of frustration on his face, Cat only raised her dark lamp still in need of a flame. Now he did grumble and used his lantern to light the wick of her oil lamp. Another flame glowed to life, circling the two of them in a bubble of golden warmth.

“It isn’t a constellation,” he said, watching the flicker. His eyes caught the light, seeming to glow. Then he drew back, turning his arm over to hold the inked skin to the light. “It is a collection of islands. Holy places in the Lyrian Sea.”

Cat eyed the markings, trying to memorize the seemingly random pattern. On closer inspection, she realized they were not dots but tiny diamonds, black as oil against tanned and freckled skin. She suddenly wanted to run a finger over them, tracing the invisible paths between each. She told herself it was only the rum talking, though she had only consumed a mouthful when Brimley wasn’t looking.

“Holy to whom?” she wondered aloud.

Captain Kane recoiled sharply, dropping his arm as if burned by her scrutiny. He turned into the shadows, the lantern casting odd shapes on the wall. It made his face impossible to read, his silhouette shifting and changing.

“No gods of yours,” he said, unlatching the door.

Weak light spilled across the floor of his quarters and Cat winced, remembering the absolute wreck of a room left behind. His papers, his maps, and his books were still splayed out where she had left them, in piles she understood but would seem chaotic to anyone else. Even shadowed, Cat could see the look of consternation on Kane’s face, his lips opening and closing like a fish on the shore.

The lanterns turned his eyes to molten gold, chasing away all remnants of storm green. It was like looking into the heart of a forge, into the sun itself.

“I asked you to put my things back where you found them, Cat,” he growled.

His voice was enough to make her knees tremble, low and rough, the kind used to give commands on deck, in storm or battle. She could easily imagine such a voice calling for a round of cannon fire or sentencing a man to die. And yet it was all undone by the last word, said with equal ferocity, but none of the fury.

Her true name.

Cat.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She pushed past him, squeezing between man and doorway. It was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure, her shoulder brushing the hard lines of his chest. He felt solid as a plank of wood, smooth as the planes of the ship itself.

She glanced up at him, inches away, his eyes hot. “I will when I’m finished with your things, Valerian,” she replied, latching the door in his face.

Chapter Twenty-One After

AFTER TEN YEARS in the Lyrian Sea, Cat was hardly sick on ships anymore. Even in the worst of storms, and of those she had her share. But now her stomach roiled, nausea climbing up her throat like a sailor through rigging. She turned into the wind, hoping the fresh salt air would calm her a little. Until she caught the familiar scent. Seagrass. Dying flowers. Rotting wood. And the sweet grove of phoenix trees, still casting a bit of shade across the southern tip of Rosby Island.

Even Lieutenant Whisten was good enough to look away and let Catrine Rose empty her guts over the gunwales in peace.

It was not the smell that disgusted her but the memories that came with it. The first six months of her life in the Lyrian Sea were a ghost Cat thought had been put to rest. But as she eyed the horizon, shivering in the warm sun, she had to admit that was far from the truth.

Cat could still remember what it felt like. To stand on the crumbling veranda and look out at the taunting sea, wishing it would carry her away or swallow her up. To gallop her old mare Sparrow back and forth across the island, like a tiger pacing a cage. Worse still, she remembered the feel of Ryman’s eyes and Ryman’s hands. The sound of his voice, as good as a slap across the face. And the heavy thud of his footsteps up the stairs, followed by the creaking whine of her bedroom door.

She was sick again, retching bile into the waves.

I should have burned the island, torn up every root, salted every patch of stubborn grass.

She wondered if she might be better served in her narrow cabin, to sleep or stare at the walls until Rosby was behind them.

But that felt like admitting defeat. And Cat was done being defeated.

Jaw clenched, she raised her eyes.

The small island was just as she remembered. Shaped like the gentle rise of a whale barely breaking the surface, with a little nub of a hill for a fin, and the smudged shadow of a house where an eye would be. She suspected the building would be little more than splinters now, the wooden frame a skeleton, with only the brick chimney still standing tall. Wispy grass lay green and golden across the sandy soil, the only thing that grew in abundance.

Her hands closed on the portside, nails digging into the wooden railing. Overhead, the sails flapped as the helmsman set a dead-on course for what passed for Rosby’s harbor.

“Would that we had a better option.”

Fell’s voice sounded at her ear, and Cat jumped in her skin, whirling to see the navy captain standing stoic at her side. He looked gray as she felt, hands clasped behind his back, squinting out at the horizon from beneath his hat.

“It isn’t like you to sneak up on people,” Cat muttered, trying to steady her galloping heart. “Usually, your snide comments precede you.”

The captain glanced down at her and frowned, a bitter look on his face.

“I’ve been standing here for five minutes.” He softened a little, silver eyes round. “I suppose you were preoccupied.”

“With what?” Cat replied with icy sarcasm. She wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. “Hopefully your men can be quick about their business.”

Fell dipped his head. “It won’t take long to refill our water stores.”

“Unless the well has run dry or gone sour,” she said, still tasting bile. “It would be so like Rosby to let me down one last time.”

His gaze felt like cold metal against her face, the kind that never warmed no matter how long it lay against skin.

“Will you be all right?” he prodded.

“Enough.” Cat was strong, but not invincible. And she refused to spiral in front of Jasper Fell, even if he knew where the spiral began. “Tell your crew to be fast. For me.”

It felt like begging, and she wanted to be sick again.

“I will.” His reply was swift and thankfully sincere, his eyes holding hers. Cat wanted to look away, but Fell’s gaze was easier to weather than the island fast approaching.

He shifted, leaning down so they were nose to nose, mere inches apart. His voice lowered, filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry for what I said in Alvaris. I know what this place did to you. What it was to you.”

Again, Cat thought of turning tail and fleeing to her cabin.

Again, she did not.

“A cage,” she murmured, eyes stinging.

Next to her, Fell’s stern expression took on a haunting edge.

“An ending,” he offered. “And a beginning too. You must not forget that. One life ended here, and another began.”

Though she was loath to admit it, Jasper Fell was right. She wrenched her eyes away from him to watch Rosby come into sharper focus.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” she murmured, tracing the familiar coastline. Her eyes snagged on the poor excuse for a harbor, little more than a battered dock half-submerged in the water. Sunlight shimmered on the calmer waves, like a trove of jewels set aflame. If she squinted, she could still see the ghost of a ship just offshore, anchored in another time.

Sails tacked, a commotion on deck, blood and gunpowder, the firm hold of a pirate’s arms around her waist. The echoes of a different life.

Her fingers tightened on the rail.

The Covenant.

“I should be grateful,” she murmured as the vision faded. The harbor was empty, the island abandoned again. “After all, this place gave me Moseley,” she added.

Fell was good enough to allow her the cover.

“And me,” he said with a smirk.

Her heart clenched.

“And him,” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

It was enough to sharpen Fell, and he leaned away, putting some distance between them. His smirk became a sneer.

“Ah, yes, him,” Fell said. “Valerian Kane. You know I’ve a bet with myself, Cat.”

His disdain was easier to stomach than his pity, and Cat responded in kind.

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms, matching his stance. “I do love a wager. What is it? Whether or not I find Val?”

“No, I’m quite confident you will.” Fell shrugged and studied the waves, his keen captain’s attention skipping over the water. “But I can’t decide what happens after.”

Frowning, Cat did her best to ignore the sudden rush of unease coiling in her chest. “I thought that was already agreed upon.”

“I know better than to trust your agreements,” Fell replied, his laugh a blade. “Or your heart.”

Her teeth gritted. “So what is the wager?”

“Will you be able to do it?” Silver eyes pierced bronze, and Cat felt cornered. “Will you betray Valerian Kane?”

“That’s an easy bet, Fell,” she snapped, jabbing him in the chest. He did not wear the ridiculous merchant vest today and his shirt was thin. There was no hiding the firm muscle beneath her touch, nor a chest sculpted by years of life at sea.

He did not move, daring her to finish.

“I’ve already betrayed him before.” Her voice carried across the deck, but Cat was well beyond caring about the opinion of Fell’s crew. “What’s a second time?”

He glared down, trying to read her. “That isn’t an answer, Cat.”

“Leave me be, Jasper,” she said abruptly, putting a step between them. “You’ll get what’s promised, and so will the governor. So long as I get what I’m promised too.”

A sudden hunger passed over his expression, as if he were a man starved and stumbling towards an impossible feast. From another, Cat might have mistaken his look for lust. But not Fell. This was ambition.

“I know you don’t like to admit it, but we are alike in our nature, Cat.” He closed the gap between them again, the smell of his sandalwood oil enveloping her. “Perhaps even the same.”

Her first instinct was to laugh in his face, to dismiss the concept outright. But with Rosby looming, their past and present so terribly entwined, Cat could not find it in herself to deny his words.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, reluctant and begrudging. “We both do what we must to keep our heads above water.”

Fell nodded, eyes never leaving her face. “To survive.”

“To survive,” she echoed. It felt like a confession, if not an apology.

My head or theirs.

“Well then,” Fell said, and his mood shifted like the wind. Whatever concern he carried, his intensity seemed to melt away. With a careless flick of his wrist, he gestured out to Rosby. “Would you like to go ashore?”

Cat clenched a fist instead of slapping him, her anger eating up her worry. “Would you like me to be sick again?”

Fell shrugged. “Better on land than my ship.”

“This isn’t your ship,” she said, annoyed but also relieved by their return to familiar ground. It was better to nip at Fell than to suffer his compassion.

“I can’t believe you were ever a Meridian lady,” Fell said, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

Cat only sighed, putting her back to Rosby, her elbows braced behind her.

“On that, we can agree.”

She would not turn around again until they were back at sea, the water stores replenished, and Rosby swallowed up in their wake.

*

THE DAYS OF sailing blurred, as days at sea tended to do. And while Cat felt a peculiar sort of pride for the Fledge, their commandeered little merchant vessel turned clandestine navy ship, she also grew weary of her limited size. Compared to Fell’s Scorpion or the Covenant, let alone grand warships like the Seadragon, the Fledge was a rowboat. Cat certainly felt it, her pacing the decks becoming more maddening by the second. Her cabin was too small, the lower deck too cramped, the main deck narrow and crowded. She was not alone in her sentiments. Like her, Fell and his crew were used to far more impressive vessels.

So, despite their misgivings, every soul aboard was glad to see Arcayo appear on the southern horizon, her green spine of volcanos rising up out of the Lyrian Sea. Even Lieutenant Whisten, staunchly loyal to the Church and suspicious of anything beyond it, looked relieved at the sight.

But it would not last long. Cat knew that keenly.

Most of these men have never been on any island beyond Meridian control, she thought. And Arcayo is not Esperin. She has no god but the sea.

The first song tower was smaller than the one in Alvaris harbor, but a mile away from shore. It stood upon a rock far beyond the curve of the island’s natural harbor, buffeted by the open waves. Like the others, it was white stone, carved with swirling geometrics, a wonder to behold for its artistry. And its resilience against crashing water. As they sailed past, Cat watched a wave splash up over its foundations, sea spray raining against the bone-white walls. Whatever song priest lived there was certainly brave to face the changing tides so far from land.

Or they are confident in their beliefs, Cat thought.

There was no priest in the tower today, unneeded. The clouds were gentle and few, the Furies hardly living up to their reputation during storm season. Cat did not like this false sense of serenity. It felt like being rocked to sleep by a predator, who would devour her as soon as she shut her eyes.

“Have any of you set foot on Arcayo, or in the port of Nera?”

She addressed the skeleton crew of the Fledge, assembled on the main deck at her request and Fell’s command. Most looked at Cat with suspicion or open disdain. But they were not stupid men. Even they knew to listen to whatever counsel she might give.

Cat was unsurprised when no one answered. They were men of the navy, not explorers. Even Fell was silent, clad in the red merchant vest again, and the battered hat. After weeks aboard the Fledge, he truly looked the part of a civilian sailor. But for his clean-shaven face, still painstakingly smooth.

“Arcayo is called Crownless, and for good reason,” Cat called out, raising her voice to be heard over the waves. “She is a sovereign nation, the only one remaining in the Lyrian Sea. The last unclaimed, beholden to herself and her people. Not the Meridian Empire. Not Esperin. Not Itzima. Though all three have tried, and all three have failed.”

Many amongst the crew rolled their eyes, and Lieutenant Whisten sneered, his bulldog jowls shaking. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he muttered.

“You do not strike me as a gambler, Mr. Whisten. But I am. And I would bet on Arcayo,” Cat said, shooting him a glare. “She is ancient, proud, and most of all, a survivor.”

Beneath his hat, Fell scoffed.

Cat took it in stride. “Nera is a grand, beautiful place. But do not let it disarm you. Often times, great beauty hides great danger.”

The still-sneering lieutenant could not help himself. He snickered behind his hand, loud enough for all on deck to hear. “You know that well enough, Widow Rose.”

Cat curled her lip into a terrible smile, baring her teeth. “I don’t think your wife will appreciate you calling me beautiful, Mr. Whisten.”

His round face went redder than Fell’s vest, and Whisten fell silent, his eyes resolutely on his shoes.

“As the lady says,” the captain barked, clapping his hands for attention. The crew snapped to him at once, eager for a command they could willingly follow. “Upon docking, Lady Rose and I will get the lay of the city and stay together in our search. The rest of you will remain on deck to mind the ship.”

Dr. Bryer, the ship’s surgeon, looked puzzled, a gray eyebrow arching. “Should we not split up into pairs to help?”

“I would not advise it.” Cat shook her head. Beyond the prow, Arcayo swallowed the horizon. “As much as I wish to lose some of you.”

She threw a dark look at Whisten, who returned it in kind.

To the dismay of the crew, Captain Fell nodded his head. “Now prepare to make port.”

“Aye, sir,” the crew rang out in unison.

They moved at once, tacking sails and running out oars to maneuver into the harbor. When Cat made to follow, Fell caught her around the arm, spinning her to a halt.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered in a low voice. “I’ll leave you dead in the street if it means getting my men to safety.”

“Do what you like. My corpse won’t stop you,” Cat replied. “But you should stow your flags,” she added, nodding to the pennants streaming from every mast. Then to the grand ensign at the stern of the ship, big as a bedsheet, the Lion blazing on white. It was not the flag of the Meridian navy, but still a flag of the Empire.

Fell hesitated, his reluctance clear as day. “You really think they’ll turn on Meridians? Even merchants? There is no war between Arcayo and the Crown.”

“The Crown would certainly like one,” Cat shot back. “To claim this island as they have so many others. I would prefer not to put anyone on edge without cause.”

It was a sound argument, one even Fell could not deny. He gave a begrudging nod, releasing Cat with a flex of his hand. She wasted no time hastening away to the bow, where she nestled herself as far forwards as she could, alongside the carved wooden figurehead of a falcon in flight. She felt wings of her own, stretching out from her back, ready to carry her aloft. Away from the Fledge, from Jasper Fell, from the Lyrian Sea.

All this could be over in hours, she thought, watching the island and the port grow closer.

Above her, ropes creaked, and the Meridian flags lowered. She smiled as the golden sun of the Empire disappeared, tucked away in the hold.

Then the wind shifted, carrying the damp, clean smell of freshwater instead of sea, mist instead of wave. As near Rosby, tears pricked her eyes again, the memories rising up like a storm, eager to consume her. These were happier, brighter—but bitter too, turned by time and circumstance. Cat gritted her teeth against the onslaught, refusing to be swept away in the echoing tide.

She kept her face forwards, into the wind.

I have never been here without Valerian, she thought, feeling his absence more keenly than she had in months. As if the sun had fallen in shadow, its warmth stolen away.

I never thought I would be here again.

Arcayo was not so large as Prospera, but similar in its natural geography. Both islands were overgrown with blooming green jungles, and volcanic mountains clawed up from the sea. But there were no sugarcane fields here to cut through the landscape like patches on a quilt. Instead, sweet potato farms and guava orchards terraced up from shore, nestled in amongst the ridges and hillsides. Arcayo was well provided for, both by its soil and the sea, as well as through flourishing trade with Itzima. There were no famines here, or economic disputes, not like the claimed islands dependent on the delicate balance of import and export across the ocean.

The Arcayans thrived long before any foreign lord entered the Lyrian Sea, with no reliance on colonies or distant crowns.

Until now, perhaps. She frowned, remembering the newly built song tower in the Alvaris harbor, and the Arcayan priest in the market.

The navy’s return is not the only change, she thought, trying to predict the tipping scales of the world she once understood.

Cat knew Nera, but she knew it with Valerian at her side. She was not so observant then. It was difficult to look beyond the sharp beauty of Valerian’s face, or swim away from the churning pull of his storm-colored eyes. Her eyes stung, her heart twisting at the thought of walking the streets without him. Though Archenport was steeped in memories of it, and riddled with the faces of the dead, the city was still hers. Not like Nera. This place, this city, these people—they were Valerian’s. Here, his absence was impossible to ignore, and the hole he left behind yawned wide, threatening to swallow Cat whole.

She did not lie to Fell’s crew. It was a beautiful place on a beautiful island, every building carved and hewn like the song towers. Walls of white limestone gleamed through the city climbing up the volcano, as if the bones of the island itself poked out of the jungle. A narrow waterfall split the city in half, tumbling from the volcanic heights to travel down the steep slopes to the beach where it flowed into the harbor. The force of the plummeting water cast a sparkling mist over the city. At the right time of day, Cat knew it would be a rainbow, bathing the city in impossible light. Fuchsia-pink flowers climbed along the rooftops, their vines thorny and untamed. The riotous colors under the noon sun—green, white, pink—seemed almost too bright, too sharp, too lush. Set against the turquoise sea, it made for an impossible sight, born of dreams instead of reality.

But reality was never far away.

Cat steeled herself for the approach. Already she counted more than a dozen ships at anchor. Most had no flags on display, and she looked back, meeting Captain Fell’s eye where he stood next to the helmsman.

He gave her a single nod, grateful for her foresight.

The few flags she could see were Esperese, bearing the green cross, or Itziman, flying dark red triangles. Whereas the Arcayan flags were not truly flags at all. At least not in the continental sense. Where Esperin or the Meridian sewed their emblems on heavy sheets, the Arcayans cut strips of fabric in every shade of blue, the swaying ribbons mirroring the shifting tides of the sea. They waved from both ship masts and the song towers guarding the harbor.

All along the deck, the meager crew of the Fledge stared as they sailed. To the men of the Meridian, Nera was a jaw-dropping sight, starkly different from the cities they knew on either side of the ocean.

To Cat, she was a living ghost.

Nera was not a colonial war power and her navy was small, only a few ships lined up neatly offshore, anchored away from the single quay splitting the harbor. They were a bold contrast to the colonial ships built in Meridia or Esperin, with their single masts and shallow drafts, meant to navigate close to shore or upriver.

Hardly too large for the docks—so why anchor them away?

The answer was clear, the city harbor more full than she had ever seen it.

They moved to make room, Cat realized.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, skipping a beat. She could barely breathe as she scanned the ships again, looking for a familiar figurehead or painted name. Or even the black flag she knew so well, a skull with a golden fang, and roses curling around it.

But there was no vessel like the Covenant, no ship to rival the Meridian man-o’-war turned Meridian nightmare. The few warships in the harbor were smaller brigantines, double-masted, sleek and fast enough to run up on heavier merchants.

Cat blew out a low sigh of relief. Her luck was holding.

I need only see it through.

Chapter Twenty-Two Before

CAT AWOKE TO the sound of rain and swam slowly from the depths of sleep. She stretched beneath the blankets, eyes lidded, the world a blur as she roused. Her hands swept over soft blankets, the smell unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Dimly, she wondered if Moseley used a new soap for the washing. Something heavier, with a tinge of smoke and underlying sweetness. Whatever it was, she enjoyed it, turning to press her face into a pillow. Cat savored the minutes alone, glad that Ryman kept his own bedchamber and never lingered until morning. Even so, Moseley and Sara would be along soon enough to pull her from the grasp of a warm bed and fleeting dreams.

Cat’s stretching hands brushed wood instead of the other side of a mattress, her palm hitting the gentle curve of a wall that should not be. And the bed itself rocked beneath her, gentle but ever swaying, as if she were a babe in the cradle.

This was not Rosby.

Her eyes shot open to find a ceiling that was not her own, in a cabin she did not recognize.

She sat up to face the wall of windows, the gray light of a gray day spilling between thin curtains. Beyond, heavy sheets of rain drew across the horizon like a shroud. But not enough to hide that she was on a ship, and quite literally at sea.

The events of the previous day came rushing back in a terrible wave and Cat curled her hands, squeezing the blankets around her body to anchor herself against the onslaught. The wreck of the Venerable, Lieutenant Fell and Ryman in chains. And she a prisoner, no matter how long a leash Captain Kane gave her.

Cat forced down a steadying breath and surveyed the cabin.

Valerian Kane’s maps and papers lay like a rug across the floor, weighted down by anchoring books and trinkets. Her eyes narrowed, tracing the lay of the Lyrian Sea. And what answers she searched for, both within and beyond her grasp.

Beneath the blankets, her toes curled, and she tried not to think about her body tucked between the sheets of a pirate captain’s bunk. It certainly made it easier to sweep the blankets away and leave the surprisingly comfortable bed, her borrowed nightgown brushing the tops of her knees.

She went to the window first, squinting at the rain. The clouds hung low and oppressive but not angry like the storm before. This was just a passing rain, dumping buckets of water and little else. No lightning to split the mast, no furious winds to blow them over. Cat sent a small prayer of thanks to whatever god would listen, though she doubted they truly existed anymore. Her hand curled, wishing for a prayer bead. But hers were gone, smashed or . . .

Or hanging on a chain around Valerian’s neck.

Cat refused to think much of it. He was a pirate, and pirates took trophies. She only wondered what he might take from her this time, if she could not figure out a way to pay his ridiculous ransom demands.

Perhaps he’ll take Ryman’s head, she mused, though she hardly dared to hope.

Outside, the gentle waves rippled with the pouring rain. It reminded Cat of the little ponds in the Meridian countryside, where rain was plentiful, leaving green hills in its wake. Then the wind shifted, and a gap in the relentless downpour appeared a hundred yards away.

“We’re anchored,” Cat said aloud, surprised to see the distant white line of a beach and the soft swell of a hill above it.

Indeed, they were no longer sailing through the Lyrian Sea to gods knew where.

The Covenant had reached its destination.

“Drowning Key,” she murmured.

Quickly, she donned her clothes from the previous evening. The rain put a chill in the air and she was grateful to replace her nightgown with more layers. In the daylight, with her wits about her, she did her best to appear less bedraggled. She belted the skirts over a white shirt and laced her boots, trying to make the borrowed garments fit better around her curves. Her hair was another story, the bronze curls even more frizzy from a night of rough sleep.

Cat tried to card through them with her fingers, but to no avail, the knots untamable. She chewed her lip and eyed the captain’s chest of drawers, weighing the consequences of searching through his personal effects. The maps were one thing, but this felt like another. Would he be angry? Would she seem improper?

I fear Meridian propriety has gone out the window, she thought, wrenching open the top drawer.

She hardly knew what to expect in a pirate captain’s belongings but was still surprised by the organized array of bits and bobs. Not to mention the odd treasures amongst them.

Loose pearls with a milky shine. A single gold button studded with rubies. A horn inlaid snuffbox engraved with the name of a man Cat assumed was long dead. A comb hewn of real ivory. Coins from every crown, odd seashells with pearlescent whorls, a few scarves with faded patterns, leather cord and ribbon to tie back his hair. Her fingers trailed the length of one tie, the worn leather soft to the touch. She tried not to think of it winding tight around a brace of salt-waved, golden hair.

Blushing, she seized the ivory comb and shoved the drawer shut, only to hesitate one more time. A few blond hairs clung to the teeth, catching the light like spun gold.

I’ve already slept in his bed, she scolded herself and dragged the comb through her tangled locks before she could lose her nerve. It tamed the length enough to braid a crown around her head. She tucked the ends back into the braid, doing her best without hair pins. Hardly perfect, but suitable enough.

Still, she despaired of herself in the tarnished mirror. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, her skin dull, her hair a desperate braid. But there was little else to be done. Cat had no rouge or powder to aid her appearance. She would wear her freckles and nothing else.

In the time it took her to dress, the rain had thinned, revealing more of Drowning Key. It was barely a beach and a huddled green hill, waves foaming up on the shore. An abandoned dock stuck out into the sea, black and broken, unusable to any ships. Half of it was submerged, water ebbing over rotting planks.

No wonder they call it Drowning Key, she thought, hustling from the cabin and through the council room beyond.

Cat could not help but feel a little excited, though she had no idea what the day or Drowning Key held for her. Somehow, regardless of everything, waking up in the captain’s cabin of the Covenant felt better than waking up on Rosby.

Sounds of the crew on deck filtered through the room, along with the pattering rain. Cat shoved open the door to the main deck—just to be shoved back inside by a woman’s arm.

“Good morning, Ana,” Cat said, straightening herself. Being polite was easier than being flustered. “I was hoping to get some air.”

Ana stared back at her with an incredulous look, her curly black hair slick and wet, the rest of her soaked through as if she had gone swimming in her clothes.

“Perhaps wait for the weather to clear,” she said haltingly, as if the other woman had lost her senses. Then she flapped a brown hand, indicating for Cat to turn around. “Besides, you’ll hear more from the captain’s cabin than you will from the deck.”

Cat tipped her head, peering around Ana’s body through the doorway. Rainwater puddled over the threshold as crew hurried about, shouting to each other in the varying languages of the Lyrian Sea. Cat saw Garedo and Cavallid among them, as well as Brimley moving at a much slower pace. She supposed he was still worse for wear after his night of heavy drinking. But there was no shock of gold in the gray, no long-limbed captain prowling amongst his crew with a glinting smirk.

“Hear what?” she said, returning her attention to Ana.

The pirate woman only grinned and gave Cat another push. “Just go. You’ll thank me later, Kitten.”

Though Ana was shorter, she was far stronger and sent Cat scuttling backwards. The Meridian lady knew better than to fight the Seawolf. Anyway, she was more intrigued than insulted as she went back to her cabin cell.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, pausing at her door.

“Because I’ve never met a lady before, but something tells me you are strange for your kind,” Ana answered with a shrug. “And I like strange things.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.” Cat sniffed, followed by a resounding burst of laughter soon muffled by a slamming door.

Cat mirrored Ana, scurrying back into her cabin and latching the door behind her. She went to the windows first, hoping for some clue as to what was going on. But the view had not changed, the rain still hissing over the gentle waves in the shallows. Frustrated, she managed to shoulder open the smallest window on the starboard side of the gallery and poked her head out.

Rain spattered her face, but she barely felt it, too numb to move.

There was another ship drawn up alongside the Covenant. Bigger, grander, more ferocious in every way. Painted golden script, painstakingly maintained, read Seadragon below the ornate taffrail, itself carved in the image of a ferocious beast with gilded jaws. The black flag hung heavy from the stern staff, the ensign big as a sail, unmistakable. The white skull leered on jet black, a smiling mouth with a red arrow in its teeth.

Cat narrowed her eyes against the rain, her breath catching in her throat.

I’ve seen this ship before.

“Morovant,” she murmured.

*

WHEN FIRST SHE made her crossing, Cat knew little of piracy, and only then what gossip and books could tell her. After six months on Rosby, she knew barely anything more. After one night on the Covenant, she ventured she had a stronger grasp at the very least.

Captain Morovant commanded the Seadragon, a vessel even larger than the Covenant, big enough to challenge even the men-o’-war of the fleet. And Valerian Kane was his lieutenant, or first mate until very recently. It was no wonder he was still sailing in tandem with his mentor, especially if this was his first hunt. This rendezvous was certainly agreed upon already, to divide the spoils of the Venerable.

Or what was left of them.

Pressed up against the door, Cat waited tentatively for the first muffled sounds of conversation. Minutes passed, marked by a clock ticking valiantly in the corner. It was nearly broken, the seconds too long, but Cat tried to find comfort in it. It was either that or smash the thing for good.

Perhaps this is all a trick and Ana shoved me back in here as a joke, she thought. Certainly, they would meet on the grander ship. Certainly, Morovant would not come down to Valerian, but make Valerian come to him—

Beyond her cabin, a door hinge squeaked, and Cat inhaled sharply, holding her breath. As if whoever arrived might hear her across the room on the other side of the door. Both were men, muttering to each other in low voices. And there was no mistaking either, despite the long months since Cat last heard Captain Morovant’s triumphant laughter.

Their footsteps echoed as they entered, Valerian’s light prowl soft in contrast to Morovant’s heavy tread.

Quietly, Cat sent a burst of gratitude towards Ana, wherever she was on the ship.

Morovant’s voice had a melody to it, audible even behind the door. There would be no mistaking his lilt for Valerian’s rougher tone.

“I suppose we’ll get the worst out of the way,” the older captain said, a clap resounding through the council chamber. “I see no prize anchored alongside the Covenant.”

“Let no one say Harry Morovant is unobservant,” Valerian muttered, sounding amused. He laughed alongside his mentor; the two sounded more like father and son than two pirate captains.

But for their sharply differing appearances, Cat might have assumed they were.

Steps continued thumping, the voices growing closer as they rounded the table. There was a creak as someone sat down in a chair, followed quickly by a thunk—like a boot on the tabletop.

Cat guessed that was Valerian, meaning Morovant still paced.

“Did you sink it?” the older captain said, his jovial tone dissipating.

Valerian drew a heavy breath. “Not intentionally.”

Someone’s hand slapped the table with the sharp ring of metal. Morovant’s jewelry.

“I told you, running up on another vessel at the edge of a storm—it’s dangerous, unpredictable. For you and the prize!” Morovant scolded, his adornments jingling. Cat imagined him shaking a finger in Valerian’s face. “No matter how keen a sailor you claim to be.”

“It was barely a thunderstorm—”

“Valerian.”

The melody was gone, Morovant’s voice turning lethal.

“If you worry about my ability to read the sea, you should not have made me captain of this ship,” Valerian answered tightly.

“It is not you I worry for! If it were you alone against a hurricane, it’s you I’d bet on. I may not believe in the same things you do, but I believe in you, my boy.” The floor creaked as Morovant resumed pacing, circling closer to Cat’s door. “Alas it is not you alone on this ship. You have a solid crew, but we are all men. And men make mistakes.”

“I trust my crew,” Valerian answered evenly, a chord of something deeper in his voice.

“Men make mistakes,” Morovant said again, albeit more gently.

Valerian scoffed. “The captain of the Venerable certainly did. If he’d maintained his powder stores properly, all would have gone to plan, and I’d have quite the prize on my hands. Even Goa would have licked his lips at the spoils.”

“Well, the Lyrian claims the prize now.” Morovant sighed and Cat heard a cork popping free of a bottle, followed by the slosh of liquid into cups.

“May the sea always sing for you,” the older captain said, their glasses clinking.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Valerian echoed.

Silence fell between them. Cat supposed they sipped watered wine or ale, as it was not even noon. But then one could never tell with pirates. For all she knew, they could be gulping rum.

With a smack of his lips and the scrape of a chair across the floor, Morovant sat heavily, groaning the way old men did when they moved.

“What did you manage to salvage?” he said, more liquid sloshing into his cup. “You know Goa. The Prince of Merchants will find a buyer, no matter the product. Certainly you took something from the wreck.”

Low laughter spilled from Valerian Kane, the sound so deep Cat could almost feel the vibrations of it through the door. Her skin crawled, what little warmth she had felt last night disappearing in an instant. That’s all I am. Salvage, she thought, waiting for the captain to detail his meager prize of a destitute lord, his even more hopeless wife, and one snarling Meridian officer.

“Lady Rose?” Valerian’s voice called out, and Cat almost fell back in surprise. She bit her lip tightly and clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling any sound.

But it was no use. The laughter rang again.

“I assume you are listening at the door,” he said.

Cat could easily imagine his smirk. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of her presence, summoned like a whipped dog. But it would do her no good to remain behind the door, caged by her own choices and her own fear.

Steeling herself, she gently undid the latch.

“Captain Kane,” she said curtly.

She barely glanced at him as she stepped into the chamber, a single glimpse enough to get her bearings. Valerian sat a few feet away at the corner of the long council table. He certainly did not seem worse for a night of gambling and drinking—he was well used to such pursuits, Cat assumed. Nor did he try to look presentable for Captain Morovant. Like the rest of the crew, Kane was wet all over, having left a trail of watery footprints across the floor. His sodden hair was pushed back from his face, most of it tucked behind his ears, but for one strand that had slipped free, dangling by his left eye in a way that made Cat’s heart skip. He had a boot on the chair next to him, a wineglass held lightly in one hand. The other twisted the chain around his neck, her prayer bead dancing on the golden thread. She saw it for the taunt it was.

Valerian Kane had taken from her already; nothing could stop him from taking again, if he so chose.

It made her shiver . . . and not entirely with fear. Though Cat could hardly admit it, even in the echoes of her mind.

Then her eyes fell on the other pirate, far older and more dangerous.

“Captain Morovant,” she murmured, her voice softened as she dipped into a curtsy.

At the head of the council table, Harry Morovant laughed too, his empty wineglass discarded. The hat she remembered was on the table next to him, green to match his coat, the feathered plume drooping and wet. His hair was the same, sopping black curls falling about his shoulders along with his furious beard. With a glimmer of amusement, he drew a pipe from his velvet coat, the fabric set with an impressive line of silver buttons, bright as the jewels around his wrist and the many rings on his fingers. His pipe was equally opulent, a masterwork of carved ivory and tortoiseshell. If not for the circumstances and the wet clothing, he might have looked at home in the Meridian court.

But Captain Morovant was no preening courtier. The dagger at his hip, bejeweled but well-used, was testament to that.

“Lady Rose,” he repeated, as if turning her name over in his mind. His hands moved deftly, packing tobacco, though his black eyes never left her face. “I’ve seen you before.”

“On the Credence,” Cat offered, her voice slightly unsteady.

Morovant’s eyes danced. “It seems every ship you set foot on ends up captured.”

Cat clenched her teeth. “Or sunk.”

At that, the older captain grinned, standing to light his pipe from one of the oil lamps. He gripped the neck between his teeth as the tobacco burned. His eyes reflected the sparking embers, his gaze burning like hot coals.

“If I believed in superstition,” he said, blowing out a ring of smoke, “I’d tell Valerian to send you to the deep.”

Valerian drained his glass and noisily set it down, drawing Cat’s attention. He smirked up at her.

“I do believe in superstition, and I am still deciding,” he said, though there was no bite to his words.

Strange. Cat did not expect his familiarity, even after their battle of wits the previous night. But the presence of Captain Morovant did not make Valerian stiffer. On the contrary, he seemed more comfortable in the company of his superior.

Cat wondered if there were truly ranks of hierarchy among the pirates, as there were in the navy and Meridian society. Perhaps not, she thought, glancing between them. Dangerous as they were, neither seemed it now. Morovant puffed on his pipe, pacing again. He looked older than she remembered. Up close, she could see the first threads of gray in his black curls, the dark strands streaked like a night sky filled with lightning. He had wrinkles around his eyes from squinting into the glare of the sun, and lines around his mouth. From smiling, Cat realized with an odd jolt.

Valerian was a sharp contrast. Young and golden, lean where Morovant was short and giving way to roundness. But she could see the beginnings of the same lines on Valerian, next to his eyes, around his mouth. Lines carved by the sun and joy.

“So, you’ll ransom her back to that pissing fool of a husband?” Morovant said, speaking as if Cat were not in the room.

It rankled, and she chewed her cheek, trying to hold her tongue.

“That pissing fool is in the brig,” Valerian said smugly, leaning back in his chair. It tipped beneath him, two legs rising off the ground in shaky balance. “Along with a Meridian lieutenant.”

Morovant’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose. “A lieutenant?”

Hold the ruse.

Lieutenant Fell’s words echoed in Cat’s mind, and she clung to them. They still had to sail for Archenport eventually if Valerian wished to collect on her promised ransom. And though there was no money to pay, there was still a trap to be sprung. The Meridian navy would certainly overtake the Covenant and the crew with it, freeing them from capture. Hope gripped her—but strangely. Fading, weakening. Changing. Not because she believed there was no way off the Covenant and back to Rosby. But because she feared there was.

Her chest tightened.

“I’ve sent Ana to collect the other two,” Valerian said distantly. “She should be back in a moment.”

“The Seawolf for a first mate. I must say, I’ve never seen a woman rise so high on a ship before.” Morovant loosed another cloud of smoke. “But you always were full of surprises, Kane.”

“I certainly try to be,” he answered, glancing sidelong again, raking Cat with his tempest eyes. “Much like Lady Rose, who has taken to destroying my cabin.”

Morovant froze in his pacing, grinning around his pipe at the implication. Cat could not help but sputter, her cheeks flushing hot as Valerian casually finished his wine.

“He means his library. Books. Maps. I have an . . . interest,” Cat forced out, stumbling through an explanation. “And Captain Kane was good enough to cede me his cabin. For the duration of my imprisonment.” Her voice turned icy. “I am grateful for his hospitality. And his distance.”

Valerian’s grin deepened, but he said nothing more.

“Surprises indeed,” Morovant mused with a shake of his head. “Lady Rose, when you are safely returned to your parlors and dull parties, speak kindly of us.”

I shall do no such thing, Cat wanted to snap. Besides, she doubted there were any parlors and parties to be had in the Lyrian Sea. At least not in her experience.

When Ana arrived, she did not bother to knock on the door, all but kicking it down to march Lieutenant Fell through at gunpoint. Ryman hobbled along behind them, hands bound but otherwise unfettered, with nothing moving him forwards but his cowardice. Cat grimaced, seeing he was no longer gagged. Fell, on the other hand, was shackled at the wrists and ankles, forced to shuffle, the metal clanging with every halted step.

Both men were bedraggled after a night in the brig and Ryman had a very suspicious stain down the front of his nightshirt. Cat assumed he had been sick on himself, and felt a pang of pity for Lieutenant Fell, who looked liable to murder her husband at first opportunity. Though truly, she knew he would not. Jasper Fell was an officer of the Meridian navy, bound to honor and duty. He would not risk all that for the sake of annoyance.

Unfortunately.

Fell stared at her across the room, taking in her appearance as she took in his.

Compared to the two men, Cat knew she looked positively bright-eyed. Her pity quickly turned to guilt. I spent the evening playing cards in the fresh air and slept in a real bed, while Fell spent it shackled to a bench with Ryman moaning next to him.

“Are you well?” Cat said, her concern for Fell alone. He met her eye with a single nod, his lips resolutely pursed, black hair about his shoulders. But for the raw red skin where his shackles chafed, he seemed otherwise intact.

Ryman was not so stoic.

“I am dying!” he wept, collapsing against the table.

Ana rolled her eyes, her pistol still trained on Fell. “You’re not dying, Slug. Now stay on your feet. I don’t want to mop up any more of your slime than I have to.” She even kicked him for good measure, and Ryman rebounded, springing up straight.

“I’ll have you drawn and quartered for that, wench,” he hissed.

The Seawolf only grinned back at him, her silver teeth bared. It was more than enough to cow Ryman into trembling silence.

Leaning against the wall, Morovant gave a low whistle and clucked his tongue. “I do not envy you, Valerian,” he chuckled, gesturing between the prisoners with his pipe. “Well, what is to be done about them?”

He questioned Valerian like a teacher prodding a student, and the younger captain certainly answered like it.

“A ransom will be paid by Lord Rose for the release of himself and his wife,” he said quickly. “And the officer has yet to decide.”

“The choice is yours, Pirate.” Fell’s shackled hands curled into fists. “Ransom me or shoot me dead.”

Sparks flared in Morovant’s eyes. He looked Fell over with something like hunger, as if measuring him up.

“So you will not choose the black?” he asked, sounding almost mournful.

Cat suspected Jasper Fell would be a boon to any ship, remembering his actions during the storm. And afterwards, in the wreck of the Venerable.

The lieutenant scowled and spit on the floor in front of Morovant’s boots.

“That’s what I think of your flag,” he said.

While Morovant glowered, Valerian gave a winning smile and sprang up from the table. Stalking forwards, he clapped Fell on the shoulder. The lieutenant went wide-eyed and shrunk away, but Valerian did not relent, gripping him around the neck like an old friend. An old friend holding on a little too tightly.

“Exactly as I expected. Thank you for being so predictable, Lieutenant,” Valerian said. Side by side, the two men could not have looked more unalike. Jasper, dark-haired and silver-eyed, a bound wolf. And Valerian, golden and grinning with a storm in his gaze, a lion prowling free. “I will send word to our man and begin proceedings.”

While Fell glowered, Valerian only grinned wider.

Behind them, Morovant shrugged. “Simple enough. Not the prize you hoped for, but life rarely goes the way we expect. Well done, Captain Kane.”

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” Fell hissed and tried to twist out of the pirate’s grasp. “But the navy will hang the lot of you soon enough.”

Valerian dropped his arm, letting Fell stumble. “You’ll be lucky if the navy remembers to pay your ransom, Lieutenant,” he said, gesturing for Ana to escort him out. “They have far larger problems on the horizon. Or so Lady Rose tells me.”

Jaw clenched, Cat swallowed a sharp retort, glaring at Valerian to avoid the curious look from Fell. At least the lieutenant was good enough not to open his mouth.

She wished she could say the same for Ryman.

“Captain, might I make a request?” Lord Rose sniveled, his bound hands reaching out.

Valerian neatly dodged his pale fingers. “Depends on the request.”

“My wife—she is not one to do well on her own. She is a simple thing, you understand. A bit daft. And she has great need of me,” the lord said, cutting a sharp look at Cat.

Cat flinched, not with fear but disgust. Again, she felt the crushing weight of life on Rosby press down on her shoulders.

“Certainly, you would not allow me to be separated from her?” Ryman begged. “Just the single night was torture.”

“Was it, Lady Rose?”

Her head jerked up to find Valerian staring, a shadow of amusement on his face, strands of golden hair falling into his eyes.

“Excuse me?” she blurted out.

He took a step closer and folded his arms, tanned forearms bare beneath rolled sleeves. Over his shoulder, Ryman’s watery stare held her in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Was your night torture?” Valerian said clearly, careful to enunciate, every word sharp as a blade. He did not smirk, but the ghost of it was there, ready to unfurl.

As before, it sent a thrum through Cat’s body, like a piece of metal struck with a hammer. Blood pounded in her ears, whipped on by frustration. And strangely, an odd sense of delight. Her lips did not move, her tongue a dead weight, for there was nothing she could say that would not end in punishment.

To share a bed with Ryman now, or enrage him later?

She despaired of either outcome.

And she hated how much Valerian enjoyed her predicament, sandwiched between two terrible paths. He watched her closely, as he would a balancing set of scales.

Then, to her relief, he relented, turning away.

“You may join your husband in the brig, if you are so inclined,” he said over his shoulder, throwing her a lifeline.

She stifled a smile and looked at the floor, receding into a soft-spoken shadow. “I would not add to their discomfort with the burden of my company.”

“There you have it, Lord Rose,” Valerian said brightly, flitting his hand. “Away with you.”

With another well-placed kick, Ana got Ryman moving, though Cat did not miss the ugly look he shot her as he fled. Fell was more subdued, shuffling once more, Ana’s flintlock pointed at his spine.

When the door shut behind them, muffling the sound of the rain and the lieutenant’s ringing shackles, Cat finally exhaled.

“Lady Rose, you are dismissed as well,” Valerian said, gesturing in the opposite direction. Now he looked at her without any mirth, his face taking on a harder edge.

Cat wasted no time and gathered her skirts, fleeing the room as quickly as she could. She had suffered more than enough of Valerian’s needling, and did not want to linger in Captain Morovant’s presence much longer. Amiable as he seemed, Cat knew better than to assume a pirate in command of a vessel like the Seadragon was not dangerous.

Better to leave the card table while she still could, with whatever winnings she had in hand.

Of course, that did not mean she could not continue listening at the door.

If Valerian cared to stop her, he did not show it, returning to their discussion at the same volume, without any regard for the eavesdropping lady in his cabin.

“Now what of these larger problems on the horizon?” Morovant grumbled, pacing once more.

“I think the Meridian Empire is losing the war,” Valerian answered, a ferocious desire dripping from his words. “Their days in the Lyrian Sea are numbered. If not doomed.”

Chapter Twenty-Three After

A GRAND PLAZA ran the length of the Arcayan shoreline, tiled with green and white stone to match the city of Nera and the jungle. The paved ground ran straight into the water, with canoes anchored against the tile. They bobbed in the gentle current, painted in varying shades of seafoam and turquoise.

A waterfall made the air damp but not unpleasant, dragging a cool curtain through the air that made the otherwise oppressive heat bearable. It was no wonder the Arcayans chose this place for their grand city, long before the continental crowns even knew the islands of the Lyrian Sea existed. Cat felt her hair frizzing already and donned a straw hat, tying it in place to at least protect her face from the sun. She had collected more than enough freckles on her voyage—she did not need any more.

And I need not show my face so carelessly here, she thought, adjusting the brim just so.

The hat was not all she retrieved from her cabin, though she was careful to hide her heavy purse beneath her skirts, and another pouch in her bodice, tucked between her breasts. Her pack she made sure to leave behind, conspicuously discarded on her narrow bunk. But this time she did not leave her flintlock pistol, small as it was. That she shoved into a pocket, the weight of it both a burden and a balm. She’d bought it years ago, the gun small enough for a lady to carry unnoticed, but not so small as to be useless.

Captain Fell’s flintlock was far more impressive, a permanent fixture on his hip. Cat eyed it as they disembarked, the polished steel and silver adornments catching the sun. She had only held it once, briefly. But she would never forget what it felt like in her hand.

“We’ll be back before dark,” he told his crew before descending to the quay.

There was no port officer waiting with his ledger, as there would have been in another city. Not because Nera did not have them, but because the harbor was too full of vessels. While many passengers disembarked along the quayside, more jumped out of little boats ferrying crews in from the larger ships at anchor, spilling people onto the beach or up onto the plaza. It made for a crowded, chaotic sight, filling the air with tangled shouts in Esperese, Meridian, Itziman, and Arcayan. So many languages wove together, Cat only caught the edges of words she could barely translate.

She spotted fair-skinned men of the Meridian, ruddy with the sun, alongside swarthier Esperese, all dressed in jackets, breeches, and boots. The Itziman sailors looked more like the people of Arcayo, with darker skin, black hair, and sculpted cheekbones to cut glass. Most wore oxblood robes cut to the knee, belted with braided leather, and some sported gold medallions in the silhouette of their king, in contrast to the islanders who had no such monarch.

The Arcayans were far more varied in their clothing, dressed in gauzy white shifts for the heat or deep-green or blue silk patterned like a parrot’s wing, shimmering as they walked. And all were armed, with pistols or with short, thick blades equally suited to gutting fish, cutting through jungle growth, or stabbing an opponent. Many wore glossy feathers in their hair or around their wrists, set with gold, opalescent shells, orange coral, and turquoise beads.

“So many crews,” Fell muttered in her ear, sounding delighted. He was just as observant as Cat, taking in the many ships and varied sailors. “No wonder the whores of Prospera set sail.”

“Not just the whores,” Cat replied.

Indeed, there were many sorts of people making up the crowd. Not only hardened sailors and Arcayan folk, but what looked like foreign civilians too, with all manner of luggage. There were even children throughout the crowd, clutching at their parents or each other. It gave Cat pause; she slowed her pace, puzzled by their presence. These were not cabin boys fresh from the ships, but toddlers and little children with dolls, even infants still in arms. Colonials, settlers, farmers—the kind of folk she would not expect to flee the Meridian. And yet here they were.

But there was no time to linger, and Fell’s guiding hand pushed Cat along.

Another song tower, taller than any other building in the city, loomed over the plaza. Mist spiraled around it, leaving drops of condensation dripping down the carved face. While Fell gawked up at the intricate stonework, Cat dropped her eyes, reluctant to look.

She expected Fell to sneer at it all, to look down his nose as most noble Meridians would. Instead, he gazed at the tower with awe.

“I suppose it is magnificent,” he muttered under his breath.

You should see the inside. Cat remembered the spiral staircase and the roving priests, their voices raised in song. And Valerian beside her through it all.

She shook her head, clearing the image from her mind, and directed Fell away from the tower. The Widow Rose had enough still-bleeding wounds. She did not need to tear open another.

“Let me guess, you’re leading us to another street of sinful pleasures?” Fell said.

Cat bit her lip, trying to get her bearings. “I’m sorry to say we’ve learned all we can from the brothels. You’ll have to visit Nera’s pleasure houses on your own time.”

It’s the taverns we want now, she thought, letting her feet carry her. They knew the way, even if she could barely remember.

There were no signs on the streets or buildings, not that Cat would have been able to read them. Instead, the limestone structures were carved to their function, figures and symbols hidden within the braiding lines of stone. Snapper and long-jawed baracud swam around the arches of a fishmonger’s hall, while the crescent-shaped coins of Arcayo decorated the walls of the overrun port office. A carved pot on a stone fire boiled over the door of a spice house, its windows ringed with stone peppers and bunched vanilla beans. Cat’s mouth watered as they passed, and she dreamed of dolphinfish cooked in spice-fired embers, salty skin sizzling off the flesh. Her hunger was matched only by her appreciation for long tables of pearls and polished gemstones in varying shades of Lyrian blue, a staple of the Arcayan jewel houses.

While cities like Archenport seemed at odds with the tropical islands, the Arcayan capital was in perfect harmony, bejeweled and adorned by the bounty of the Lyrian.

It was no wonder so many crowns sought to claim Arcayo.

And no wonder Valerian loves her so much, Cat thought, her appetite disappearing as cold dread settled in her stomach.

The mist made the air tolerable, the sun not so strong, but she was glad for her straw hat.

Without thinking, her arm slipped into Fell’s, pulling him closer.

“What is it?” he muttered next to her ear.

Cat did not answer nor break stride, but she kept her face bowed.

Just until they were through a particular knot of men on the corner, all of them sun-broken, their fair faces battered by the Lyrian Sea. In their salt-stained clothing, long hair poking out from beneath worn hats, they looked like any other group of civilian sailors. But Cat knew better. She eyed their exposed hands as she passed, noting the telltale sign of gunpowder burns and blade-cut scars. A few had tattoos, black ink trailing along forearms and wrists. For a split second, she dared to peek out from beneath the brim of her hat.

Her stomach flipped as she met a smirking pair of eyes. Not green as a storm, but deep mahogany, near to black and dancing with amusement.

Cat clenched her teeth and kept her steady pace, much as she wanted to sprint into the crowd and disappear. But that would only cause more commotion. And there was nothing the Prince of Merchants loved as much as a good show.

She refused to give it to him.

Goa looked down on her as she passed. While the men around him were ruddy and rumpled, the Arcayan man was anything but, his smooth black hair combed to his shoulders, his shirt and breeches crisp, with beaded adornments in patterned shades of blue. His usual ring, seafoam stones set in gold, glinted on his finger.

It took all of her will not to tremble, lest Fell feel her unease. Goa was a smuggler and a fence, a vital ally to most pirates in the Lyrian Sea. Valerian chief among them. And he was a friend.

Or he had been.

For once in your life, be silent, Goa, Cat prayed. Her eyes flaring wide, she hoped he could read the desperation on her face.

To her surprise, he acquiesced with a shallow nod, letting her move on without a word. It felt like a gift, one Cat did not intend to squander. She hastened on, hurrying to put the handsome smuggler behind them.

But Captain Fell was not so oblivious as he seemed.

“Who were those men?” Fell hissed when they were well out of earshot. He pulled her tighter, forcing them chest to chest. “Kane’s crew?”

She could not help but laugh, feeling lighter after putting some distance between herself and Goa.

“Vex wishes,” she scoffed, glancing back. The crew in question were gone from sight too, swallowed up by the city.

Fell’s eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath the brim of his hat. His suspicion melted to excitement.

“Vex? Captain Vex?” he said. Twisting, he craned his neck to look behind him. “Last I checked, he had quite the bounty on his head.”

“Keep your voice down, you idiot,” Cat hissed, forcing him to keep walking. “I recognize those men from his crew.”

And the Prince of Merchants, of course, the most talented smuggler in the Lyrian Sea.

“But I did not see the Harriet in port. He must have lost his ship—”

Fell stopped her short, arm still hooked. He tried to turn her around. “Let’s ask, shall we?”

She held her ground, digging in. The last thing she wanted was to put herself in Goa’s path again and risk his capricious nature.

“In broad daylight? They’re not even drunk yet. Maybe.”

“I don’t intend to get them drunk. I intend to hold them at gunpoint until they give us every bit of information we want.” He touched the flintlock on his hip. “If not lead us to Kane himself.”

Cat rolled her eyes. “You should still wait for nightfall. Unless you want to end up in the gutter. Or an Arcayan jail.”

To her relief, Fell relented and followed her at a quick pace. “I did not know the islanders had jails,” he said as they stepped onto another road. Stone bottles poured fountains of wine down from a rooftop, the curving white sculpture forming an archway. “Nor any of this, frankly.”

While Fell marveled openly at Nera’s beauty, Cat shook her head.

“What did you expect?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered, shrugging. “A few huts, perhaps? One of their priests singing on the beach?”

“For a smart man, you are desperately stupid sometimes,” she scoffed, looking over the limestone walls. They stood in harsh contrast to the colonial cities, the buildings more beautiful craftwork than any brick mansion or rigid church.

Finally, her eyes snagged on something familiar—the figure of a jaguar, clutching a human head in its paws.

“Ah, yes, this way.”

Fell eyed the great cat with suspicion. “I don’t like the look of that.”

“Then don’t look,” Cat answered, leading him past the jaguar and around a corner.

They were greeted with a long, winding street that zagged, beginning the climb up the city slope. Fuchsia flowers bloomed overhead, thorned branches hooking in a lattice that shaded the street. Taverns, bakeries, food counters, and cacao bars lined the way, with patrons huddled around tables or perched on sills.

Again, Cat fought the urge to stop and savor the delicacies from Arcayo and the Southern Continent. A cornmeal flatbread smothered in tomato jam. Spiced chocolate simmered with chili powder. Spring-green avocado on grilled bread, or cinnamon apples dipped in honey. Fresh shrimp pickled in citrus juice and salt, chased by sweet rum or taquil brought over from Itzima. Meridian food paled in comparison, and Cat loathed the thought of hard biscuits and ale back on the Fledge. She swallowed hard and kept on, promising herself she would return when opportunity allowed.

“Valerian loved that bakery—and this bar,” she told Fell. It felt like a betrayal, even against everything else. To give a little bit more of Valerian to Fell and the Empire, reducing the legend that was Captain Kane to just another man. One who could be found—and killed.

My head or theirs. His head or theirs, Cat thought again, forcing herself forwards.

They edged around a circle of sailors playing bone dice on the curb before she stopped in front of a tall building, its ground floor open to the street.

“If he’s been here in recent days, they will remember,” she muttered, eyeing the establishment.

Fell removed his hat as he followed her in, tucking the tricorne under his arm. “Let’s hope they do. Much as I enjoy touring the varied cities of the Lyrian Sea, I will not return to the governor with nothing to show for our endeavors.”

She took a deep breath, as if the tavern was a cold pool of black waters. Truthfully, Cat would have preferred the deep. Instead, she stepped off the winding road and onto the elevated curb, high enough to keep dry when hammering rainstorms sent floods cascading down the hill. She faced a terrace beneath the flowery canopy, lined by a row of arches opening onto the tavern floor. Sunlight, tempered by the mist and the flowers, rippled across the stone, casting shifting rays of light in all colors. Despite the white stone walls and the simple furniture, all dark-black wood, it felt like stepping into a jewel box.

And stepping back in time.

Cat refused to lose her nerve, or her heading. No matter how many memories threatened to pull her apart with every step she took into the bar. At least Ahuala is dead, she thought. The kindly old proprietor would have known her on sight, but now a stranger tended the tavern floor. And he was more than preoccupied, overwhelmed by so large a crowd of patrons all competing for his attention.

Her hat still low across her forehead, Cat shuffled to an empty table in the corner. Her heart quickened, but she did not slow or tense, her face a mask to hide any emotions bubbling beneath the surface. She stole what glances she could, looking for familiar faces or tattoos amongst the others throughout the main room. She dared not search upstairs, where Ahuala once rented rooms to pirates and travelers alike. Cat ventured they were fully occupied, with so many ships in port.

Heart in her throat, she took a seat on the free side of the table, leaving Fell to slide onto the bench against the wall. In the folds of her skirt, one hand twitched, her fingers tapping each other in time.

Counting.

Will it be enough?

The breath felt heavy in her body. Her eyes darted again, picking out scarred hands and bronze faces.

It must be.

“I suppose it is only a matter of time,” Fell said, sighing as he looked up at the ceiling. While the interior walls were carved as ornately as the rest of the stone city, the ceiling above them was dark-brown wood to match the furniture, slotted together in smooth planks. Unlit lanterns hung overhead, unneeded against the shimmering daylight.

“Until what?” Cat replied, startled by his reluctant tone. Under the table, she counted again, this time her fingers drumming against the smooth grip of her pistol.

“Until the Meridian takes all this for her own,” he said plainly, as if it were obvious. “Or Esperin. Whoever fires the first shot will have quite the jewel.”

His tone was even, detached. And chilling. Cat shuddered to think of an island like this claimed by the Empire or another kingdom, subject to a crown it would never know, thousands of miles away.

But she shook it off, trying to hold steady on her course.

Her laughter was soft, almost lost beneath the many voices of the tavern. With another deep breath, she willingly took the plunge. As it had before the Key Keeper in Alvaris, the mask slipped and fell away from Cat Rose.

“Like I said, Fell, you are desperately stupid sometimes.”

Across the table, he grinned, like they had only returned to their usual game of insults.

“Oh? I think I should procure a drink before I listen to this—”

Her hand darted out and stopped him before he could move, holding his forearm to the table. Fell looked up at her, confused. Then his fist clenched, the muscles going taut as her grip tightened.

Though Fell was the stronger of the two, easily capable of breaking her hold, he did not move.

“The problem is you see the world as you wish it to be, and not as it actually is,” Cat murmured, never releasing his arm. “It was the same all those years ago, when you could not see things changing right in front of you. It’s no wonder they threw you back here, clinging to your orders, eager to prove yourself to men who would never see your worth.”

His lip curled.

“They see it now,” he said hotly.

“Do they?” Cat drawled back at him. Her eyes flickered, finding the silver ring on his hand. The image of the swan stared up at her, the emblem of a bloodline with no name. “Do the lord officers of the Meridian navy, born noble and rich and powerful, all playing at war—do they see you as you are, Captain Fell? A decorated sailor, loyal to the Crown. Or do they see a debtor’s son, an orphan, a victim of the press-gang—shamefully striving for heights he will never quite reach?”

Fell looked like a pot on the boil, ready to spill over.

“I choose to be who I am,” he hissed, muscles like stone beneath her touch.

“So do I,” she murmured. “You are right about one thing. We are alike in our nature.”

The rainbow light gleamed in his silver eyes, turning them yellow, then pink, then the blue-green of a swirling tempest. For a moment, Jasper Fell was not himself but Valerian Kane, sitting across from her in another time, in another life.

But the flesh beneath her hand was not Valerian’s. Cat knew that by feel, even if her eyes deceived her. There was no substitution for the touch or taste of Captain Kane. Fell lived up to neither. Much as she once hoped he would.

“Cat—”

“Look around this tavern—filled with sailors, right?” she cut him off, blinking as the light shifted, and Fell was Fell again. He peered at her curiously, then glanced through the bar. “Are they merchants? Traders? Men of the Empire or Esperin?”

She paused, watching him scan the room.

“Or something else?”

Beneath the table, his body shifted, and Cat knew his free hand strayed to his pistol.

“We’re surrounded by pirates,” Fell said, his voice flat even as anger washed his face red.

Cat nodded once, face still shadowed by her hat. “We are.”

“Pirates you know.”

“Some,” she offered.

Enough.

Across the tavern, someone laughed uproariously as a glass shattered. Neither Fell nor Cat reacted, holding each other’s gaze as they would a rope thrown between them. Both pulled hard, refusing to relinquish their grasp. But Cat felt his resolve weaken, the slight tremor under her hand indication enough.

Jasper Fell was afraid.

And furious.

“Cat,” he hissed, making to move.

But she clucked her tongue, and her eyes sharpened, a flash of warning. With her free hand, her fingers trailed the length of his arm, circling at the hem of his sleeve. Fell snarled under his breath, but she did not relent, pulling the fabric up an inch, exposing a stretch of skin.

And the black edge of a navy tattoo, the paws of the Meridian lion threatening to claw free.

“I’m going to get up from this table, and I’m going to walk out the door. You are not going to follow me. You’re going to stay here for an hour or so. And then you’re going to go back to the Fledge, raise anchor, and sail away from this place,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, but unyielding as good steel. “Without me.”

It was not the strength of her hand that kept him in place, but Fell’s good sense of self-preservation. He glared at her, wild-eyed, all the rage he could not use on full display in his expression.

“Then you’re as good as dead,” he bit out. “The governor will have you hanged.”

“He’ll have to catch me first,” Cat replied smoothly. Then she sneered. “Besides, you know I like to gamble.”

“And if I call your bluff?”

“Only one of us is bluffing, Jasper. And it isn’t me,” she replied, finally releasing his arm.

Slowly, Cat leaned back in her chair, peeking out beyond the brim of her hat. The sailors in the room were armed men of the pirate republic, shattered but not destroyed. And more than enough leverage to send Fell scurrying.

“One shout and I’ll have you in chains or worse. Were you even paying attention at the docks? Did you even see the people around you?” she spat, looking back to Fell. “They are all fleeing your Empire, running from the master you serve. You are in enemy territory, and you would do well to act like it.”

Fell’s cheeks flushed darker, betraying both his anger and his frustration. “You planned this the entire time, the whole chase—you always knew we would end up here,” he hissed. “So it was in Alvaris—just another step in your game. Did you even find anything there, or did you just lie down for some coin to help you escape?”

Alvaris was for Ana, she thought, ignoring the foul insinuation. It was only the desperate insult of an even more desperate man, cornered and facing defeat, if not death itself.

“Yes, I always knew,” Cat said instead, enjoying the furious look on his face.

Until his hand slipped off the table, darting quickly below—to the gun at his hip.

Whatever truce lay between them shattered like glass, and Cat leapt back from the table, her chair scraping across the floor. Still seated, Fell froze, his eyes darting between her and the rest of the room. Her body trembled but she would not show it, not with Fell still so close at hand. Even so, she tasted freedom, the relentless weight of the noose around her neck growing lighter.

“Make the smart choice,” she said forcefully, bending her knees to offer one last mocking curtsy.

Fell took the opportunity to stand, faster than she realized he could, barring the way out of the tavern. One hand was already on her wrist, his grip bruising, the silver ring on his finger digging into her skin. The other remained on his infernal pistol.

“Your crew need not die here, Jasper,” Cat hissed, speaking before he could try to drag her out. “I’m giving you a chance to walk away. A chance you never gave me.”

Fell did not move, the seconds stretching longer and longer. Cat’s pulse thrummed, a hammering flame against his palm. She knew he could feel it, reading her fear as he would the swell of the open sea.

Her breath caught, a scream rising up in her throat. As much as she did not want to send Jasper Fell to the grave, she would if she needed to.

“What was it you told me then, Jasper?” she murmured, searching his face. “Ah, yes. Their head or mine. It stayed with me, the best prayer I’ve ever had. I hear it all the time, in every waking second and in my dreams. My head or theirs. Their head or mine. You know what I will always choose, Captain. What about you?”

His gaze flared, black pupils blowing wide against circling silver.

Cat traced the familiar lines of his cheekbones and long nose to lips thin and pursed white. His brow, dark as a storm cloud over lightning eyes, drew tight.

“For Crown and Empire,” Fell finally hissed, his grip crushing, until Cat thought the bones in her wrist might shatter.

“So be it,” she answered, her free hand tearing off her hat, a spill of chestnut curls flowing over her shoulder. “Remember you did this, Fell. Remember I gave you a chance.”

At his side, the pistol gleamed, his hand hovering at the grip, ready to draw. “Don’t—”

“Men and women of the pirate republic.”

Her voice rang out across the tavern floor, so loud Cat wondered if Ahuala’s ghost might hear it. She shouted down the din of a rowdy afternoon, turning heads throughout the room. As varied as the faces were, in their clothes and colorings, Cat saw the same threads weaving through them all. The wildness all pirates carried, as if their souls had wings.

One of them caught her eye, a head taller than the rest, his ochre face a beacon. The tattoo of an eagle swooped over his ear, wings wrapping from his temple around the back of his shaved head.

“Widow Rose,” Captain Garedo murmured, a speckle of gray in his black eyebrows.

Cat did not reply, her focus still on the room, where every eye now looked to her. Some were puzzled, confused by the disturbance. A handful squinted at her with some recognition, trying to place the woman shouting so loudly while the sun was still high. A few might think her drunk, but she didn’t care.

“Free sailors of the Lyrian Sea,” she bellowed, speaking the words so many knew. It wiped clean any confusion, the pirates of the tavern drawing up tall and stern. “Loyal to no crown, subject to no king, bound to no flag.”

They answered in unison, a few clanging their cups on the bar or tabletops.

“No flag but the black!”

“No flag but the black,” Cat repeated, spitting venom. Power coursed through her, the kind she had not felt in months. She turned her eyes on Fell and his still-bruising grasp. “We have a Meridian dog in our midst.”

Before he could stop her, she wrenched up the sleeve of the arm that held her, baring the mark of the Meridian navy to every eye. In this place, it was as good as a brand. Fell’s face went white as the Lion roared up at the room.

Many voices erupted at once and a few glasses were thrown, ale spilling across the floor.

“Spy!” “Traitor!” “Keel him in the harbor!”

More than a few pirates lunged for Fell, snatching him clean off his feet. Cat twisted, yanking her arm away before she could be carried off too.

While they jeered curses and threats, Fell clung to what dignity he had. “I am an officer of His Majesty’s navy! Unhand me.”

Cat had to shake her head and laugh. It was her death warrant in Fell’s possession, but the captain seemed determined to sign his own.

“Bring him to Captain Vex,” she barked, meeting Fell’s glare over a pirate’s shoulder. He all but snarled at her, eyes mad as a wild horse. “He will know what to do with fleet scum.”

To her relief, Garedo stepped into the fray. The older captain commanded respect amongst the younger pirates, and the bloodthirsty captors froze, Fell still bound up in their grasp.

“Aye, Vex will hold him until the other captains can decide what to do with this imperial wretch,” Garedo said, gesturing for them to move.

Fell kicked out to no avail, his limbs firmly held. Even so, he looked far from surrender, teeth bared. “You’ll regret this, Cat.”

“I promise you, I will not,” she said, watching as he was dragged out. His shouts echoed long after he was gone, carried off into the labyrinth of the city.

To Vex and the other captains, she thought, considering Garedo’s order. Other captains. An electric chill raced over her skin, as if a thunderstorm gathered overhead. But Garedo moved to stand over her, tall as she remembered, and her thoughts scattered.

“Captain Garedo, you are a sight for sore eyes,” she said brightly, embracing him with one arm. “I am glad to see you alive.”

It was the truth, but a treacherous one. Cat watched him for any tell, any twitch of his face that might indicate ill-will. She had not forgotten Ana, who sniffed out Cat’s shifting allegiances immediately. Garedo earned his own command years ago and no longer sailed for the Covenant, but Cat did not know her reputation amongst pirates anymore. And she did not want to linger long enough to find out.

Garedo returned the hug warmly, without hesitation. But though he smiled, sorrow shadowed his dark eyes.

“I was in the Hook when Morovant sailed against the fleet,” he said, as if it were an apology. “Too far to answer the call.”

“Then you were lucky,” Cat replied, perhaps too quickly.

His brow arched, a look of pain on his face. “Am I?”

Cat could only sigh. These men, so eager to die in vain.

“The alternative is to be drowned or hanged,” she offered, collecting her hat from the ground. Swiftly, she tied it back on her head. “I am presently trying to avoid the latter. I will be making arrangements to leave as soon as possible.”

“That Meridian officer.” Garedo frowned, glancing back to the street. “He looked like—”

“He hunted me here, intending to bring me back to Archenport to face the governor’s justice,” Cat said sharply, cutting him off. Indeed, Garedo had seen Jasper Fell ten years ago, but in the brig of the Covenant, a simple lieutenant held for ransom. And Cat would not give him the time to place the face. “The justice waiting for us all,” she added, taking his arm again, imploring him. “I suggest you keep moving too. It won’t be long until the navy spreads through the sea like fever.”

Garedo relented, looking away from the door, back to her.

“Very well.” He sighed. “What of Valerian?”

She was prepared for the storm of emotions coursing beneath her skin, and curled a hand in her skirts, grounding herself against the onslaught. Her face went carefully blank, her voice dry, even as her throat tightened.

“What of him?”

Garedo was kind, but not foolish. He gave a knowing bob of his head.

“I am sorry to hear you have parted ways,” he muttered, putting a hand to his heart. “May the sea always sing for you, Widow Rose.”

She swept into a grateful curtsy, eager to be on her way with the next step in her plan.

“May the sea always sing for you, Captain Garedo.”

Chapter Twenty-Four Before

THE RAIN RELENTED just before sunset and Cat marveled at the sight it left behind.

Impossible pinks and oranges bloomed across the sky, the light shimmering through the last scattering raindrops drifting from the distant storm. It was too beautiful to witness behind glass windows. Without regard for Valerian’s dismissal or Captain Morovant’s ship still anchored alongside the Covenant, she rushed out onto the main deck, skirts gathered in her hands so as not to let them trail over the still-slick planks.

She slowed as she walked to the rail, transfixed by the mystifying beauty around her. The sea bled, mirroring the glow of the sun as it lit up the clouds. The colors ran together like globs of paint, though there was no painter in all the world with such skill. Not in the mansions and palaces of Continent or the studios of the great masters. Cat could hardly blink, loath to miss even a heartbeat of the Lyrian sunset over Drowning Key. Already she mourned its loss, its beauty barely held before it slipped through her fingers.

She leaned as far as she could over the rail, hands braced to hold herself in place. Though she would not have minded tipping into the golden sea.

Will it turn me golden too? Made of impossible beauty, fleeting but unforgettable?

She almost giggled, overcome by the desire to strip off her borrowed dress and dive into the water. It would hardly be difficult. They were anchored in the shallows, the waves lapping gently at the hull, and she knew the water would still be warm despite the rain. There was nothing cold in the Lyrian Sea, not truly.

Nothing but Ryman, she thought, the warmth replaced by the cloying sense of clammy hands on her body.

Reluctantly, she stood back from the rail, holding herself tightly, lest she lose all her restraint and dive headfirst into the waves.

“You should see the sky after a hurricane,” a low voice said.

She whirled to watch Valerian drop out of the rigging, his hands striped red from gripping the ropes. His golden hair, usually loose, was pulled back into a knot, exposing curls at the nape of his neck. He wore a belt of tools slung about his hips, his pistol discarded, but his knife still sheathed at his hip. Worst of all was his shirt, or lack thereof. Cat’s throat bobbed as she fought to keep her eyes on his face. It was surprisingly difficult, the lines of his abdomen, hard muscle beneath tanned skin and golden hair, beckoning to her.

She had seen more of only one male body in her life—Ryman’s, and he looked like a fish belly in comparison. Pale, shapeless, cold. Nothing compared to the carved figure in front of her, golden as the jewelry he wore. Valerian was a pirate of the Lyrian Sea, lean and lethal, as far from her husband as another man could be.

Cat refused to blink, fearing her gaze might shift and betray her.

“If you’re going to send me back to my cabin, I beg you wait until the sun is down,” she replied.

He prowled towards her, his gait loping on the steady deck, compensating for the swell of nonexistent waves. His severity from the earlier meeting with Morovant seemed all but gone, his playful manner returning.

Her hand twitched on the rail, as if her fingers itched to walk the darkening road trailing from sternum to navel.

He angled his face, looking down at her. “And in exchange?”

“In exchange?” she said, rising to the challenge. “I’m already paying you a small fortune for my release, Captain Kane. I’m afraid I have little else to offer.”

A small fortune that does not exist and may send you to the gallows.

Valerian grinned and leaned alongside her, forearms flat on the rail. Up close, he smelled of salt and sweat, neither unpleasant. Cat glimpsed the inked stars that were not stars again, the black dots set at random. They would have looked like freckles at a passing glance.

“Save me another hand of Red River, and you may stay out on deck as long as you like,” he said.

Cat wrenched her eyes from his skin and looked back to the sunset, squinting against the brilliant glare. “I can agree to that.” She sighed. “I wonder if anyone else in the world beholds anything more beautiful at this exact moment.”

The pirate captain was silent for a long moment, unmoving. Cat felt the same, her very speech captured by the swiftly setting sun. And the heat rolling off the man next to her.

“It would be quite the contest to best a sight such as this,” he finally said, his voice rough and low.

She could not help but turn to find Valerian already staring at her. His eyes caught the sun, turning tempest green to shimmering gold. It made Cat’s heart feel like a struck match, igniting in her chest.

“I can understand why so many men believe in gods,” Cat said, looking away again in hopes he did not see the flush creeping across her cheeks. “What else could make such a sky?”

He made a humming sound, like a man balancing an equation. “Some might say moisture in the air. The right angle of the clouds. Our position, the time of year.”

Cat laughed outright. “And what do you say, Valerian Kane?”

“I know no god but the Lyrian Sea,” the captain offered, without any mirth or jest. But filled with resolve. “And she is quite the artist.”

To that, there could be no argument. Cat returned to her viewing, content to watch the sky shift in color and depth, worlds upon worlds layered overhead. Everything seemed to hold its breath, even the gulls in the sky going quiet.

But for the crew of the Covenant still diligent and dutiful in their endless tasks.

“You should let the crew pause their work to watch,” Cat said. Nearby, Ratter the cabin boy hauled buckets below.

Valerian turned back to the horizon, staring at the inscrutable point where sky met sea. “This is hardly the first sunset they’ve ever seen.”

She blanched. “You’re saying this is normal?”

“Above average.” He shrugged, winking at her. It felt like being teased, but not unpleasantly. “And nothing compared to the stars.”

“Ah,” she replied, unable to stop herself from glancing at his forearm again. The black stars—islands, not stars—stood out sharply against the lines of muscle and pearly scars. “I shall be sure to check when night falls.”

His crooked grin flashed. “On second thought, perhaps I should confine you to your cabin again. Can’t have you robbing the rest of my crew.”

Cat bit her lip to hide a smile, quietly proud of herself and her skills at the card table. But it was not like a lady to gloat.

“Winning isn’t robbery,” she said neatly. Then she remembered herself, and the ship she stood upon. What it did, what it would continue to do. Her tone sharpened. “Besides, I don’t think it’s stealing if you steal from a thief.”

The harsher tone snapped something in Valerian, and he straightened up, pushing back from the gunwale.

“I shall keep that in mind,” he said, his smile gone. Then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Watch the horizon. If you see a green flash, then you’ll know for certain.”

Cat blinked, the bright spots of the sun still blooming behind her eyes. “Know what?”

When her vision cleared, Valerian was a few feet away. But he walked backwards, his attention still fixed on her. Again, his tempest eyes caught the light, filling with gold.

“That this exact moment is the most beautiful in all the world.”

Cat did not know what it felt like to be struck by lightning, but she imagined it felt a little like this. Something buzzed beneath her skin, and she half expected thunder to crack overhead, splitting the paintbrush sky.

Valerian did not linger. With a nod, he retreated across the deck to climb up the mainmast with shocking ease. His long arms passed hand over hand, the muscles in his back rippling as he hauled himself up into the sails.

For a moment, Cat forgot the brilliant sunset, following the silhouette of the captain instead. Then his figure disappeared into the crow’s nest and the buzzing sensation faded, sending Cat crashing back to reality. She swallowed hard and turned into the soft breeze, looking back to the horizon where the golden circle of the sun distorted, wavering as it began to sink beneath the waves.

Despite the glare, she watched every waning moment, a shallow breath caught in her chest.

She exhaled at the briefest glimmer of green.

*

THE LANTERN LIGHT of the two anchored ships rippled over the black waters of Drowning Key. Cat curled against the window, tucked into the corner of the gallery, watching the orange flickers through thick glass. She was reminded of Brycam City, its many buildings lit up from within, windows burning against a night sky with no stars. But she had only been in the city for a few days, the memory fleeting, swallowed up by her journey to the Meridian coast. To the Credence.

And then the Lyrian Sea.

She turned her head, cheek pressed against the cooling glass. It felt good, her skin still hot from the glowing rays of sunset. Or so she told herself. Deep down she knew it was not her skin burning, but something deeper.

Was your night torture, Lady Rose?

Valerian’s voice snaked around her, rasping and rough in her memory.

The burn in her skin became an open flame, threatening to devour. Cat wished for snow, for ice, for the plunging waters of a Meridian lake—something cold enough to quench the heat within her. On Rosby, she could at least submerge herself in the bath tucked away in the kitchen. But on this ship, there was no escape. And somehow the night seemed hotter than the day, shadows burning across the cabin.

A thump at the door made her jump, and Cat leapt up from the corner, her nerves on end. She opened her mouth to speak, some small part of her hoping for a low voice to answer on the other side.

The hinges creaked instead and the cabin door swung free, revealing Anamina Rualcon and her gunmetal smile.

“Oh, hello, Ana,” Cat said, trying not to sound put out.

What did you expect? she chided herself, unable to find a suitable answer.

There was a mischievous curl to Ana’s grin. “Were you hoping for someone else, Kitten?”

“I beg your pardon?” Cat sputtered, wishing for a fan. Not to cool herself down, but to give herself something to hide behind.

The pirate was undeterred, sweeping further into the cabin. “Your husband, perhaps,” she offered with an innocent look. “Or the officer in the brig. I’m not one for Meridian dogs, but he seems closer to a wolf. Wouldn’t mind making him howl.”

Sweat prickled at the nape of Cat’s neck and she swept her hair away, trying to let some air get to her skin. She ignored the woman’s crude implications and shook her head.

“No, I would hardly leap to see my husband knocking at the door,” she muttered, hoping to shift the subject.

Ana gave a nod, more serious. “I can see why.” She hooked her thumbs into her gun belts. As usual, she was armed. “He does not seem kind to you.”

Shrugging, Cat tried to twist her hair into a suitable bun, but her curls were incorrigible. The humidity and close air of the cabin had her at wit’s end. How Ana managed, Cat could not fathom, and she did her best not to envy the pirate’s waterfall of black hair, cascading in gleaming waves over one shoulder.

“Most husbands are not,” Cat said, shrugging it off.

Candlelight gleamed on Ana’s teeth. “Then they aren’t proper husbands, are they?”

Cat only sighed and gave up the battle with her hair, letting the chestnut locks do as they willed.

“I wish that were so,” she replied, hands on her hips. “Well, how can I help you?”

“I’m bored,” Ana said plainly as she paced. Once or twice she bent to investigate Cat’s neat piles of books and maps, now organized after a fashion.

“Oh.” Cat blinked at her in surprise. “I don’t have a deck of cards, but if you would procure some—”

She sputtered when Ana seized her by the hand.

“Come along,” the woman said, grinning like a child sneaking out of bed. “Everyone else is already on shore.”

Cat’s surprise deepened. “On shore?”

“Yes, Drowning Key,” Ana explained, shuffling her along. Before Cat could even think to protest, she found herself walking across the main deck, the night air pressing against her face.

Not that she would have protested. Despite whatever misgivings she was supposed to have, Cat could not help but feel a tremor of excitement as she trailed behind Ana. She immediately glanced skywards at the arcing constellations that spattered the heavens like the painted ceiling of the grandest cathedral. It truly was breathtaking, swirls of deeper blue and purple hazing the black.

Their boots echoed across the deck as they walked, and one of the crew left on watch waved them on with a snaggle-toothed grin.

“Don’t worry, Brimley will row us over, you needn’t mind the dress,” Ana said over her shoulder. Then she smirked, glancing over Cat from head to toe. “Though I think a swim might improve it.”

“Well, it isn’t mine, is it?” Cat said hotly, her free hand trying to tug the dress into place.

It was a hair too small, tighter across the chest than she would have liked, but the floral pattern caught her eye amongst the offered discards. She wondered who it had belonged to, and exactly why there was a dress of its like aboard a pirate ship.

Stolen, Cat wondered, or left behind?

“Wait, row us over?” she said, returning to the question at hand. “What’s happening on the shore?”

Her eyes darted past Ana and their joined hands, past the ship railing to the silhouette of Drowning Key. The island was a black void, an absence against the waves reflecting the light of the ships and stars overhead, but for a small collection of flickering lights on the key, half hidden by a hill above the drowning dock.

Candlelight in windows, Cat realized, placing the squares of yellow and orange, and the little flames shifting within.

“Is that a house?” she balked, thinking of sea witches and cursed hermits. “Someone lives here?”

Reaching the gunwale, Ana released her hand. “This is Drowning Key, and that is the Drowning Drink.”

From far away, the sound of laughter rippled over the island, carrying back to the anchored ships. To Cat’s surprise, a fiddle trilled beneath the echoing voices.

“Who operates a tavern in a place like this?” she murmured, incredulous at the prospect of a bar so isolated and remote. “Certainly the business would be poor.”

“You’re a funny sort, Lady Rose,” Ana laughed, shaking her head as she clambered over the railing and down the sea ladder to the waiting longboat bobbing against the hull.

*

STARLIGHT WASHED THE beach blue and silver, and a warm breeze hissed through the ropy grass laying thick over the dunes. While Ana and Brimley hauled the longboat up on the sand, Cat wrung out the hem of her dress and surveyed the landscape. The island seemed hardly larger than the Covenant and the Seadragon together, both pirate ships towering over the beach. There was little elevation, the highest point of the island no more than fifty feet above the waterline, and few trees bigger than scrabbly bushes. Up close, Drowning Key reminded her of Rosby. Nothing, in the middle of nowhere. Empty and desolate.

But certainly not forgotten like Rosby was.

Footprints tracked through the sand, a dozen of them at least, all leading from the shoreline to a path through the tall grass. It did not go far, ending at a wooden structure—the aptly named Drowning Drink. The building looked more like a shabby house than any inn or tavern Cat had ever seen. Candlelight wormed through gaps in the shingled boards and along the foundation line, the shadows of ambling feet clearly visible. Others gathered beneath the overhanging porch, trading bottles or playing dice. While Ryman, and probably even Lieutenant Fell, would have turned up his nose at the clapboard walls or the door hanging ajar on rusty hinges, pirates were clearly not so particular about their drinking establishments.

Raucous voices and a jolly melody spilled out through gaps in the walls, and too many silhouettes crammed the interior until Cat feared the Drink might burst like an overfilled barrel.

Certainly there will not be room left for us, she thought, though Ana and Brimley walked on, unconcerned. She followed them in silence, eyes wide as they approached.

Cat was no stranger to drinking or the drunk. Her husband spent many an evening deep in a wine bottle, at parties in Meridia or alone in their parlor, where he would sit in the dark and curse their lot. But she was careful to avoid Ryman in those moments, to steal away to a card table, or creep upstairs and pray he drank himself to sleep. Now she walked headfirst towards a bar filled with jeering pirates sick on liquor.

Somehow, Ryman was still the worse option.

Ana pulled open the door first, a panel of the wood splintering as it moved.

“Careful with the old girl,” Cavallid chortled just inside, his back pressed up against the door post. His tanned face was red, from the drink in his hand or the many candles burning around the room, Cat couldn’t tell.

Indeed, the air of the tavern was close and stifling, flush with too many bodies and lights. Fresh candles melted over years of old wax. Tobacco smoke swirled in clouds. Sand lay across the stone floor, swept in by the island winds. Rickety shelves lined the walls, some bowing under the weight of half-empty bottles, their labels torn away or obscured by dust. Cat ventured some of the wine was so old it had turned to vinegar. Men and women crammed themselves into mismatched chairs at uneven tables, or leaned against whatever spare bit of wall they could find. All of it seemed patchwork, the contents of the room cobbled together from plunder. Anticlean wine, an Esperese rug in the corner, Meridian pewter cups. The ramshackle wealth splayed across the L-shaped chamber, with a narrow bar top running down one arm, the rest open to the patrons. There was no bartender Cat could see, and she guessed the crew provisioned the Drowning Drink themselves.

Another open doorway emptied onto the porch, where the fiddler played. Next to him, Cat recognized steady Garedo from the card game. His nimble fingers held a type of reed flute, and he raised it to his lips, joining the melody.

Though the tavern looked small from the outside, the crowd made it seem far larger within. They quickly lost Mr. Brimley to a dice game, but Ana pulled Cat on, jostling through the pirate crews. Cat could not help but hold on tightly and let Ana lead, trying to recognize faces throughout the tavern as they passed. She spotted Ratter beneath a table, giggling into a jug of rum, with Cook not far behind.

Cat thought of her old servant, Mr. Greer, who had taken the black when the Seadragon robbed them on the crossing. If he was in the makeshift tavern, she could not find him—or he was simply unrecognizable, his neatly pressed servant’s garb and cleanshaven cheeks replaced by roughspun and an unruly beard. The crew of the Covenant were largely indistinguishable from the crew of the Seadragon, and she could hardly tell one from the other.

Except for Captain Morovant.

He held court in the central corner of the tavern, his back to the wall, his green coat the brightest thing in the room. His plumed hat was gone, revealing lush, black curls streaked with errant threads of silver. Drops of wine glimmered in his beard, and he drank deeply, laughing at the man across the table from him, who had his own back to the room, his face obscured.

Even so, Cat knew him by the broadness of his shoulders and the ease of his long legs, ankles crossed on the tabletop. Tonight Valerian did not bother with a coat, but mercifully wore a shirt again, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His golden head caught the candlelight, blond waves curling around his ears and over his collarbone. One arm dangled, a hand clutching a tiny glass barely bigger than a thimble, like something a child might drink from.

As she watched, he motioned for a bottle, and one of his companions passed over a glazed clay jug. He pulled the cork with his teeth and poured, an amber liquid sloshing out to fill the little cup. Tossing his head back, Valerian downed the liquor in a single swallow, to the delight of the men around the table, Morovant most of all.

Ana chuckled, saying something Arcayan under her breath.

“What?” Cat muttered, her grasp of languages poor at best.

“The captain is in a good mood,” Ana explained, then dropped her hand, leaving Cat free to move as she wished.

The hot, smoky air made her head light, but Cat remained still, eyes fixed on the back of Valerian’s head.

“How can you tell?”

The golden light made Ana’s skin and eyes glow, like something out of a dream.

“He’s drinking taquil,” she answered. Then her voice rose, loud enough to be heard over the roaring laughs. “Captain, I’ve brought you something.”

Cat reached for her. “Ana—”

“I said I was bored,” Ana snickered, giving Cat a well-placed shove towards Morovant’s table.

After so many days at sea, her balance was not what it once was, and Cat caught herself on the table’s edge before she could topple it over. While Morovant and his sailors drew back, startled by her intrusion, a firm hand closed around her elbow. His fingers seemed to burn through her sleeve.

“Lady Rose.”

Valerian looked up at her, his crooked grin wide, a telltale flush across his cheeks. Droplets of taquil still clung to his lips and blond beard, gleaming in the candlelight.

Cat did not know what taquil tasted like, or even what it was made of. But she was seized by the sudden need to find out.

“A lady of the Meridian Empire come to grace the Drink.” Morovant’s voice boomed out over the tavern, as impossible to ignore as his coat. “Never did I think I would live to see the day.”

Wincing, Cat braced for a resounding wave of laughter, or jeers. Instead, the fearsome pirate raised his glass to her in salute, the apples of his cheeks a merry red.

“You must join us,” he said, waving one of his sailors out a chair.

The warm heat at her elbow disappeared as Valerian loosened his grip. An eyebrow arched on his face, an invitation as much as a question.

For a split second, Cat did not know how to answer. Half of her wanted to bolt for the door and swim all the way back to her borrowed cabin. But the other half was stronger, emboldened by the smell of tobacco and rum and whatever it was still clinging to Valerian’s lips.

With all the grace she could muster, Cat took the chair between the two pirate captains. In her too-small dress, the fabric drawn taut across her chest, she sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap. Valerian’s gaze burned on her face, his scrutiny impossible to ignore.

But she turned to Captain Morovant instead, ever the lady, a picture of Meridian etiquette.

“Thank you for the invitation, sir,” she said politely, inclining her head.

That seemed to please him, the pirate captain tipping his wineglass to her.

While he was not impressive in stature, he more than made up for it with the emeralds glittering at his wrist. Not to mention his scarred knuckles, testament to many bouts over the years. And she had not forgotten the way every pirate acquiesced to him, even Captain Kane. Harry Morovant commanded respect from every sailor he encountered, if not fear.

Cat did not intend to find out why. She intended to keep her mouth shut and her head down, to observe, to listen, to gather what she could and learn what she must. That was her aim, to gain advantages amongst the crew. Certainly not to stare at Valerian Kane all night.

Her plan was quickly ruined when Morovant leaned across the table, grinning to show a mouth of too perfect teeth. A full ivory set.

“I’m told you’re a fair hand at cards,” he said, wriggling his brows.

Her eyes flew to Valerian, who only leaned back in his seat, the chair balancing on two legs.

“I did say I wanted another game,” he said.

This time, when he poured his taquil, he poured a second glass. The liquid pooled, thicker than water, and Cat watched it swirl. Her pulse thrummed, her skin warmed, and she drew in another heady breath of smoky air. The edges of the world blurred, conversation and laughter fading in and out. Her head spun, her heart leapt.

Without thought or hesitation, she grabbed for the glass, gulping down the blinding clear liquid before she could lose her nerve.

It tasted like sweet fire, burning her to the core.

Chapter Twenty-Five After

CAT HAD NEITHER the time nor inclination to worry about Jasper Fell once he was out of her sight, hopefully for good. She buried whatever niggling concern she had for him and left the tavern, eager to carry out the next step in her plan of escape. After all, it promised to be the most enjoyable. She could not help grinning as she walked, feeling the gold and silver in her purse. Better still was the comforting weight of her pistol. Without Fell dogging her steps or his crew with their judgement, she felt lighter than she had in many weeks.

For the first time in six months, she was out from under the Meridian flag. Cat Rose answered to none but herself again, as it always should have been. As Fell promised it would be, she thought, wincing. But all his promises, and the promises of any other Meridian man, were fleeting as the wind. Cat knew that intimately now, trusting only what she could hold in her own two hands or her purse.

At least their coin is real, she thought, passing a penny over to a vendor at a window. The Arcayan man traded her for a clay bowl of cold conch flavored with citrus and sweet peppers. Cat’s stomach growled and she tucked in, eating the shell meat as fast as she could before returning the bowl.

With her sun hat tied back in place, she moved freely but kept careful observations of her surroundings. She glimpsed many faces, sharply recognized or distantly familiar, and wondered how many sailors now in Nera had passed through the Widow Rose over the years.

Too many, she thought.

She was quick to procure a room for the night at a nearby inn, well-appointed, with flowers climbing up the limestone balconies. But she did not linger, no matter how inviting the bed looked.

It was only a matter of time before she would have to move on from Nera, and the sooner the better. As always, Cat felt the clock ticking. Idly she reached for her pocket watch, only to remember it no longer hung from her belt. She winced, wishing for the old watch and its slowing seconds, but the faded rose was long gone, smashed in a forgotten tower.

She dulled the pain with procuring provisions for her journey, both the necessary and enjoyable kinds.

Great looms ran the walls of the dressmaker’s shop, and Cat marveled at the jewel-colored fabrics stacked on the shelves. Her fingers trailed along bolts of maroon embroidered in gold and rosy pink edged in green thread.

Colorful as they were, they reminded her of her old clothing in her closet on Keystone Street, ranging from well-tailored dresses to fitted shirts and breeches, her patterned scarves and shawls, chemises, petticoats, leather belts, custom shoes, hats decorated with flowers and feathers, not to mention a forest of ribbons.

It felt stupid to mourn clothing, but Cat could not help herself. They were a hard contrast to the garments she wore now, returning to simple black dresses befitting a widow.

And a broken heart.

She would not dare think of the jewelry left behind in Archenport, lest she lose her head entirely.

When one of the Arcayan dressmakers approached, Cat was quick to jingle her purse. She was soon surrounded by artisans, all smiling as they draped and pinned her into place. They were well-versed in island fashions, mixing Arcayan embroidery with a more Meridian silhouette, all in lighter linen and cotton, fabrics best suited to the Lyrian heat. In minutes, they had her in a clean shift while they paraded bolts of cloth in every color, holding them out for examination.

Cat hesitated, eyeing every shade from ruby to turquoise, copper to violet. She had not worn such brilliant pieces since before the republic fell and the Lion rose over Archenport. And even then, she did so sparingly.

You do not have to play the widow anymore, she told herself, even as her chest ached. Her fingers trailed until they tripped over a far more subdued length of cotton, the familiar color beckoning.

“Black, please,” she said in shaky Arcayan, though her husband was long dead.

But it was not Ryman Rose she mourned.

The artisans set to work, their skilled hands measuring and sewing. One tailored the dress to her exact measurements while another did the same to a set of garments on the floor, leaving Cat to her thoughts.

Her mind was a running list of tasks to be accomplished. The first had already been crossed off—lose Fell and the Fledge. With the captain taken into custody by pirates, she had no cause to fear him anymore. Vex would ransom him or kill him, and neither option changed her plans. No matter what, Cat intended to leave Nera behind, sailing for Itzima and the Southern Continent.

Which brought her to the next and more challenging tasks—summoning Moseley and rebuilding all they had lost. After ten years working the Widow Rose, not to mention informing to Jasper Fell, Cat had amassed quite the fortune. Some of it would have to be left behind, lost for good. But hardly all.

Again, Cat was glad for her foresight and careful planning. There was a good sum waiting for her in the Noble Bank of Itzima. She need only reach for it.

But not enough for the life I deserve, the life I already earned, she thought bitterly, gritting her teeth. Meanwhile, the seamstresses diligently piled scarves and shirts, all in black as instructed, wrapping them up in paper packages to be taken back to her inn.

I will need a trunk, she thought, eyeing the steadily growing pile of clothing.

Archenport was hardly cosmopolitan, but recent months made the city into a shadow of her old self. Cat had forgotten what it was to walk a place free of stomping bluecoats of the fleet or swinging corpses. It was difficult to stay on track, to focus on the path ahead instead of the bursting flowers or the afternoon light breaking golden through the misty air. More difficult still when she passed a jewel house, a wizened old jeweler beckoning customers with an emerald the size of his wrinkled thumb.

Under the watchful eye of hired guards, Cat perused tray after tray of delicate silver chains and pearl brooches. Brilliant green feathers. Pale blue Lyrian gems. Agate. Opals. Obsidian, the black volcanic stone polished to rival any jewel. Bracelets. Necklaces. And more earrings than Cat could dare to count.

Or hope to buy.

And hope she did, fingers turning over a long gold chain, the precious metal thin as thread, impossibly fine.

“Try it,” the jeweler said, smiling. “Gold suits you.”

“I know,” Cat mused, her smile bittersweet. Then she turned, wrenching herself from the jewel house like a bullet pulled from the body. She certainly felt the same, sore with anger, hating everyone for the turn her life had taken.

She cursed Fell first, who proved himself to be a Meridian dog to the last, eager to serve whatever master would feed him. Then she cursed the master in question, Governor Osprin, a monster who stood central in her hatred.

But most of her rage, the bitter, aching kind she could almost forget in daylight, but could not escape in darkness—that she reserved for Valerian Kane.

If only you had listened, she thought, shoving a square of dark chocolate into her mouth. The taste of refined cacao from an Arcayan vendor helped a little, dulling the edges of her frustration. It was enough to carry her down to the Nera docks, into the hubbub of the teeming harbor.

In her new clothes, somewhere between Arcayan tunic and Meridian dress, she seemed a cross-section of the many folk in the port. The artisans had added bands of gold and turquoise embroidery to her hems and sleeves in an attempt to decorate the widow’s gown. Even they found my tastes depressing, Cat thought, glad for their skill. The bodice hugged her figure before flaring at the waist, the hem cut to mid-calf to allow her to get in and out of a boat without soaking the dress. And the sleeves could be buttoned high above the elbow, if the heat demanded. But Cat kept them long to the wrist, reluctant to show a tattoo more damning than her face.

Most of the ships were transports, ferrying passengers between the islands of the Lyrian Sea. After a few careful questions and quiet observations, Cat learned the Travesa and the Dorales were Esperese ships bound for Itzima. The first directly, but in a week’s time. And the second departed in the morning, but returned to Alvaris first, before making the journey south.

Neither were ideal, and Cat pondered both over a steaming mug of tea, flavored with cacao and cinnamon. From her perch in a small shop overlooking the harbor, she could see the mainmast of the Fledge. The deck was empty.

Much as she hated Jasper Fell, Cat begrudgingly admitted he would never betray his men. Not for any price, in coin or pain.

The Fledge was not the only ship she watched. The harbor seemed a veritable parade, from the armed brigantines to sloops like the Fledge to barges and fat-bellied transports. Esperese flags, Arcayan streamers, Itziman pennants. And more than a few flying no colors at all, for safety in neutral waters, Cat ventured, same as the Fledge.

But there were no pirate vessels she recognized. No men-o’-war. No ships of the line. Not even galleons. If Valerian Kane was gathering warships, they were not in Nera. And neither was he.

Black clouds gathered on the horizon, but miles away, too far off to worry over. Even so, she itched at the thought of spending a week in the city. She was no friend to the pirates, no matter what her reputation said. And Fell would protect his men, but not her, not anymore. He still held a sword over her head, and she intended to be far away when it fell.

The Dorales it was, then. To flee as fast as she could and put the world she knew behind her once and for all. Quickly, she left the tea shop and returned to the harbor, paying for the dawn passage with carefully measured coins.

She would be gone before the first storm clouds reached Nera. It was time to chase a new horizon.

*

“YOU’VE DONE THIS before,” Cat reminded herself, watching her reflection in the tiny mirror purchased earlier in the day. It was one of many wares strewn about the little room at the limestone inn, alongside her parcels of clothing and new baggage. “You can start again. Again.”

She huffed, scowling into the glass. Looking at herself, at what she had become, it was difficult to swallow. Six months ago, she had a plan and a heading and enough money to do whatever she wished. And as much as she wanted to blame Fell or Valerian or the whole damn empire for where she was now, she had to blame herself too. Her greed. Her pride.

And her own weak heart, her fear. The ill-founded hope that kept her holding on too long. Until everything burned around her, and the corpses swung high.

“Welcome to the Lyrian Sea,” she cursed aloud.

The mirror did not reply, and Cat almost threw it across the little bedroom. Instead, she stared at herself, weighing the seemingly infinite—and still very limited—options left to her.

I could stay right here, lock my door until dawn, and then head down to the docks and the Dorales.

She blinked at herself, hair still wet from a much-needed bath. It trailed to the middle of her back, chestnut curls dark and damp, soaking through her new shift.

I could go out into the city, find a little dinner, and return before the revels truly begin.

In the window, the first stars pinpricked a purple sky. Music drifted up from the streets—drums, fiddles, flutes, and conch trumpets creating a merry tune. Cat could not help but tap a foot against the tiled floor, keeping time with the melody.

I could sit myself down at a card table, bet a few coins from my purse, and board the Dorales a richer woman, with a stronger foundation on which to build.

Her jaw clenched, the mirror reflecting a hardened woman with coin-bright eyes and a determined look. She felt the greed rise up again, the same terrible want that had made her linger in Archenport. It was a burden still—but a boon too.

The only shield in this world is money. Not love or loyalty or even your wits. Only wealth keeps you alive—and free.

It was a hard lesson to learn, but Cat learned it long ago.

Quickly, she donned a new dress, black with amber accents to match her eyes, and belted her purse around her waist. Instead of boots, she slipped on a pair of Arcayan sandals, the braided strips of leather winding around her feet. Intricate gold and shell beading decorated the ankles, flashing as she walked.

It matched the small hoops in her ears, two golden circles hastily bought from a smaller jeweler on the way back to the inn. Cat Rose never could resist a bit of shine.

She donned a wide-brimmed brown hat made of boiled wool, the band beaded like her sandals, with the single gold feather of a sand dove. More adornment than sun hat, she would not draw strange looks for wearing it at night.

The misty waterfall bisecting the city put an uncharacteristic chill in the air, and Cat wrapped a scarf around her shoulders, dyed to match her dress. All told, she looked fine but forgettable, easy to overlook. Exactly as intended.

It felt good to walk boisterous streets again, eyes darting from one curb to another, looking for a game. Looking for a prize. She felt like a pirate vessel combing the sea, on the hunt. Pitiful as the travelers looked, she told herself to target pirates as much as she could, to exercise some small mercy. There was little moral failing in taking from someone who had already taken.

Not that Cat cared much for morals anymore.

She started small. A little table in an alley, a few hands of Lady Saints or Barrio with half-blind old men. Small wins, even smaller losses to keep the table hot and occupied. Until she would smile, most of her face hidden by her hat, and thank her opponents for their time before sweeping off again, her purse heavier.

Nera bloomed at night. The shops stayed open, torchlight blazing, the cacao bars and food windows crowded with folk. Cat winced as she passed another jewel house, a pair of fiery green emeralds beckoning like sirens out at sea.

Later, she told herself, promising to return for the earrings and whatever else she fancied. It would be a welcome reward after a long night at the tables.

Much like Alvaris, there was a pleasure district in Nera a tier above the docks, most establishments looking out over the ships in the harbor. Fewer brothels but more gaming dens, and taverns spilled out into the open streets laced with flowering vines and glimmering light. Cat felt like a fish flung back into open water, or a horse released from its bridle, given room to run.

It was an intoxicating sensation, invigorating as rum or taquil. And impossible to ignore.

Small tables, she warned herself, edging around a gambling hall heaving with sailors. Cards, game pieces, and tumbling coins decorated the walls, white limestone washed gold by many flaming lanterns. Her eyes darted, weighing the opponents she could see.

She looked across the top of the crowd, wary as always of a golden head above the rest. Spotting none, she sighed a little in relief.

He is not here, she told herself again.

Women were not uncommon in the halls, and there were enough roving the tables to allow Cat to blend in. Some wore dresses and others breeches. The latter, Cat knew, were sailors of the pirate crews.

Pirates and merchant sailors were more difficult to distinguish from each other, though she ventured most of the Meridian or Esperese folk here were anything but law-abiding citizens. They were too hardened, with sun-bleached hair and flash-burned hands, wearing knives or pistols or both on their belts.

The Itzimans were safer ground. They hardly ventured far enough north to darken the door of the Widow Rose. And Cat knew better than to expect Arcayans gambling amongst the foreigners. They had their own entertainment districts higher up the city, away from those only passing through.

Some wayward folk from the docks mixed in amongst the sailors, mostly wide-eyed civilians trying to win a hand or two. Cat suspected quite a few of them were simple men fleeing the Meridian noose, fearing the worst of the Empire returned. From Archenport or the other cities of the colonial islands, she did not know. But they all looked the same—pale, desperate, adrift.

Easy pickings, Cat thought, slowing next to a table of weary travelers. Two men argued over the very simple rules of a very simple game, giving her time to eye their hands. Pitiful. Then she measured their meager pot; little more than a few copper coins and a single polished button.

One of them glanced up at her, eager and wide-eyed. “Would you care to join our hand, madam?”

Desperate as he was, Cat could smell the greed on him. Easy pickings, she thought again, knowing he thought the same of her.

Much as Cat wanted to take his money, she refrained, what shred of decency she had left triumphing over her better senses.

“Oh, my apologies. I am a poor hand at cards,” Cat murmured, moving on before he could say something stupid and convince her to waste what time she had bleeding him dry.

On she went, circling, taking her measure of the gambling hall and its gamblers. Some tables played Merchant King, others cheered over the dice game Sevens. Lady Saints, Barrio, Corderis, Whipping Boy. Cat knew them all, her fingers itching in the folds of her skirt.

Lightning struck at a table in the center of a room, where three sailors had just finished a hand.

“Is this Red River?” she said beneath her hat, biting her lip to hide a smirk.

*

THE FIRST SIP of rum was out of polite acquiesce, to assuage a snarling bosun who accused her of cheating. The wine was kindly accepted in lieu of an unfulfilled bet. Then came more rum and more wine. All pushed upon her by the other card players, or so Cat told herself.

But there was no excuse for the first glass of taquil. Or the second.

Her head spun a little, but not unpleasantly. The damp air grew warmer, and her fingers danced among the cards, reading the symbols in her hand as she read the faces around the table. Three men stared back at her over the rickety wood, pirates all. One crewed for Vex, but for less than a year. The man in the middle, oddly thin for a cook, sailed under Captain Rawls. And the third had recently washed out of the Esperese navy, along with the hundreds, if not thousands, of sailors released from their commissions at the end of the war.

Hardly fools, but hardly a challenge either. One of them even tried to cheat, though Cat’s pistol was threat enough to send him scurrying off while the other men laughed.

The pot grew steadily in the center of the table. Coins stamped with the Esperese cross. The Meridian lion. Arcayan crescents, Itziman squares. A few baubles, a spyglass, and a cracked but working compass. It was a formidable pile to be sure, but Cat angled for greater.

As she ceded a small hand to the cook, she glanced around the lively hall. Sharks swam at night. The later the hour, the bigger the prizes grew, and the more valuable—and lethal—the gamblers became.

It was a delicate balance. A captain might bet a chest of jewels or a map to his treasure cache. Or even his ship, if he was deep enough in the rum. Life-changing prizes that would set up Cat for a very comfortable life in Itzima. A safe life, protected by wealth.

But there were few captains who did not know her face or name, or her position as proprietor of the Widow Rose. A pirate outfitter and known accomplice to Valerian Kane should have been dead months ago. Cat was a woman on the run as much as any of them, suspicion following in her wake.

“Where did you learn to run the tables so well, Miss?” the Esperese sailor asked, his accent thick and curling.

Cat flashed him a knowing grin.

“Far away from here,” she said truthfully, laying down a pair of stars.

Every day seemed farther from her mother’s house, every step of the path more impossible than the one before. Cat almost giggled to think of it, the unpredictable and implausible journey she had taken from the Meridian countryside to the Lyrian Sea. Much lost, much gained.

But one thing chased above all.

Freedom.

If every passing second tightened the noose, every coin gained loosened it.

Cat kept a weather eye for Goa, who had a habit of melting out of crowds, but he did not appear. She could only hope he did not linger after this morning and was off the island entirely, and out of her life.

The air in the gambling hall thickened, hot on her face. Still smiling, she fanned herself with her hat, the brim washing a cooling gust over her fevered skin. Distantly, she knew the taquil and the rum and the wine were to blame. But it did not stop her from waving for another glass and indicating for the barmaid to leave the bottle. Her gambling companions cheered when she passed it around, thick golden liquid sloshing from chair to chair. The joyful noise and heated game drew eye after eye, and Cat waved for more bottles.

More eyes. More hands. More coins.

More.

More.

More.

The crowd around their table thickened, chairs changing. The cook bowed out to be replaced by a glossy Itziman quartermaster with an envious collar of gemstones that soon joined the pot. The Esperese sailor held his seat, dueling hard to keep afloat. And Vex’s man gave way to Vex himself, the scarred and scowling pirate captain descending like a storm cloud.

“Captain,” Cat said, the tremor of fear in her dwarfed by the thrill of a sizable prize.

Avery Vex was no man to sneer at. Nearing fifty, bald beneath his tricorne, he had the build of a pit fighter, barrel-chested and broad. His skin was the clay red of a Meridian sailor many years in the sun. Appearance aside, Cat knew his reputation, though he had not anchored in Archenport in long years. His galleon, the Harriet, named for a wife real or imagined, was an Esperese warship seized in a daring raid years ago. And while she was smaller than vessels like the Seadragon or even Valerian’s Covenant, she had many kills to her name. Vex was known to blast his way through ships twice their size, cannons loaded with chained shot to snap masts and immobilize hulking warships.

“Widow Rose,” he said gruffly, a tankard of ale clutched in his mutilated hand. Vex had lost two fingers to a skirmish some years ago, though it had not slowed him down. He eyed her shrewdly. “I’m told you shook a navy hunter this morning.”

“I’m told he’s in your custody,” she answered. “Will you bother with a ransom?”

Vex shrugged and watched the Itziman shuffle the cards. “More trouble than he’s worth.”

It was not difficult to follow his train of thought. The practice of ransoming officers was lucrative years ago, but far more difficult now with the pirates on the run. And Cat doubted Osprin would even honor the old terms. His iron fist would hardly open to save a captured sailor.

She swallowed down the guilt bubbling up. Fell would have let you hang, she told herself, though it did little good.

“I agree,” she said mildly.

Across the table, Vex’s bloodshot eyes flashed. “What would you know of it?”

Her first card flipped, black crescents face up.

“I’ll tell you what I told Garedo when I saw him. The navy has returned, the Meridian Empire stronger than ever. It’s only a matter of time,” Cat hissed, staring intently at Vex. “I’m running. You should too.”

He curled his lip, either disgusted with the sentiment or his cards. Cat guessed both.

“Cowards run,” he sniffed, organizing his hand. “Captains fight.”

When he added his first bet to the pile, Cat felt herself sharpen through the haze of alcohol. A spill of bright gold coins shone in the center of the table, Meridian lions stamped in the middle. These were not worn by many hands but freshly minted.

And freshly stolen.

Quite the endeavor, even for Vex.

Her next breath laced with cigar smoke, the scent distantly familiar. She licked her lips nervously, tasting taquil and smoke. Tobacco, and something sweeter. With a jolt, Cat realized her hat lay discarded on the table, forgotten. Her face exposed to the wide room, to many eyes beyond the table. Eyes she could not control.

“No captain can fight alone,” she murmured, still watching Vex. He held no cigar, blew no smoke. But the smell persisted, stronger by the second.

Around the table, the other two players folded, unable to match so precious a pot so early in a game.

A tremor of fear shot down her spine, and Cat wondered if she should do the same. Admit defeat, don her hat, grab her purse, and turn tail for the inn. Hide until morning and be the first passenger aboard the Dorales.

With a grin, Vex set down his tankard. Over his shoulder, the room filled with more figures, more bodies.

More pirates.

“I’m hardly alone, Widow Rose.”

A rushing sound roared in her ears, rising like a furious wind. The card table became the eye of a hurricane, with Cat trapped in the center. Faces spun, the smell of smoke grew heavier, the taste of taquil turning to acid. The floor heaved like the deck of a ship in a storm, tossing so violently Cat gripped the edge of the table to keep herself upright. The heat in her skin became fever, flame running over every inch.

The time to run was gone.

If it had ever existed at all.

Cat’s grip on the table tightened, and the hall stopped spinning enough to notice how the sailors moved, darting aside like a school of fish avoiding a shark. They parted without question, allowing someone to pass through without ever breaking stride. Someone golden-headed and storm-eyed, taller than everyone else, his gait the loping prowl of an apex predator.

There was nothing to be done, no choice to make. All Cat could do was hold her ground and wield the cards she still had to play.

Steeling herself, she raised her face, chin high, shoulders thrown back. A fire burned in her chest, the rage all consuming.

But to the world she looked serene, the still surface of a safe harbor. A Meridian lady amongst monsters.

I am a monster too, she thought.

And you know it, Valerian Kane.

The first glimpse of him speared her through. Her heartbeat thundered, every breath more difficult than the last, until she thought the bodice of her dress might suffocate her.

Even so, she held on, refusing to blink or break or bolt.

Smoke wreathed Valerian’s head like a halo, catching the candlelight. His eyes sparked through the shroud, gleaming from within, all the fury of the sea bound up in his glare. He looked exactly as she remembered six months ago, and yet not at all. The once-golden captain seemed made of shadows, black as the wildest deep.

Her vision shifted, the Valerian that was erased by the man approaching. Hands that had never touched her in anger turned to fists, knucklebones white beneath tanned skin. Familiar scars became terrible reminders of his lethal capabilities. Long, lean arms that used to hold her body now threatened to wrap around her throat, tighter than any noose. She swallowed against the sensation, the crushing weight of his rage already unbearable.

Where once Cat had reveled in the danger of him, in the sharp edges she knew would never cut her, now she felt the blade perilously close, and wielded for blood.

Valerian was no longer her loyal hound, but a desperate, starving wolf.

And Cat expected to be devoured.

Beneath the table, Cat’s free hand slipped into the pocket of her skirt. Her fingers curled around the grip of her old pistol, molding to cool, smooth wood.

If I die, I will not die alone.

Only Vex kept his seat. The other two players leapt up from the table upon seeing Valerian approach. They scurried out of his way without being asked, the reputation of Captain Kane well-known, respected.

And feared.

He did not acknowledge either man. Behind him, members of the Covenant crew fanned out. They wore faces Cat knew and cared for, or had once. She expected the same anger on them, the same stinging accusation.

Strangely, she saw none.

Not on Cavallid or Brimley, or Ratter grown tall as a mast. Not even on Adelo, Ana’s replacement, the pragmatic first mate privy to any and all of the captain’s whims.

Her grip on the pistol loosened, if only a little.

But her lips did not part, her voice too far away, her tongue like lead.

Then Valerian swung a leg over the back of an empty chair, tall enough to pass over it, and sat soundly at the card table. The smallest huff of breath left his mouth, chest rising and falling between the folds of yet another shirt open near to the navel. Not once did his eyes leave Cat’s face, his stare enough to keep her nailed to her chair.

Her gaze wavered only an instant, flashing to the feast of bare skin and curling chest hair. She ventured she could draw it from memory, the lines of hard muscle, the scars and the tattoos, every looping necklace of beads and gold and precious gems. A single burning emerald stood out among them, catching her eye. It was new to his collection.

Her mouth went dry, recognizing the cut of the green stone.

Morovant was stripped of everything before they executed him, Cat knew, the sight seared in her mind. He wore only a prisoner’s shift when they tied him up, one limb to one horse. No plumed hat, no velvet coat, no bracelet of fierce emeralds winking green fire.

She assumed the governor had helped himself to the jewels.

But not this one. Her head tipped, studying it. Trying to imagine the path the stone took from Archenport, under the thumb of the Meridian navy, all the way to Valerian Kane.

But the emerald was not so puzzling as the other addition to his treasures, sticking out sharply as a broken finger, small as it was.

A rope of Lyrian-blue stone, beads smaller than pearls, with a battered gold amulet half hidden amongst the other chains. It was an odd shape, and an odder color. Darker, older. A cylinder with notches along its length, barely bigger than a knuckle joint.

Cat had never seen such a necklace before, and she knew every piece of him.

Intriguing.

But not more than the man in front of her, who held her fate in once-treasured hands.

Her pulse thumped. Suddenly Cat regretted her choice of dress, the bodice fitted enough she worried all the room might be able to see her heart ramming against her ribcage.

He opened his mouth, and Cat saw a fate worse than the noose. She knew what it was to face death on the waves, having seen it before. Black waters and the crushing weight of the sea.

Then Valerian grinned, the smile sharp and bitter, his single gold tooth a demon’s fang.

“Deal me in, Vex,” he growled, leaning in his usual way, the legs of his chair balancing, a boot on the table, and one on the floor. Precarious, cocky, and entirely Valerian in nature.

In her pocket, Cat’s fingers fell away from the pistol, and her mind spun. She barely dared to hope, but kept her face blank, buying whatever time she could to puzzle out what lay before her.

A trap? A parlay? A moment of reprieve for old time’s sake?

Valerian always did like to play with his food.

Again, she glanced through the crew of the Covenant. Some of them were smirking. But none of them rippled with anger. They did not look like men betrayed but men amused.

Ana always was the smartest of them, she thought, pieces slotting together.

Her pulse thumped again, more desperate.

And against her nature, hopeful.

He never told them what I did.

Cat drummed her fingers. There was a chance yet, however small.

Valerian Kane was a ruthless man, but he carried a foolish heart.

The cards shuffled, slapping against each other as Vex dealt around, agile despite his missing fingers. Cat checked her hand with a passing glance, knowing Red River was not only about the cards one held but the cards one did not.

With a clink of metal, she counted out six silver coins with the Esperese cross and pushed them to the center of the table. Vex wrinkled his nose but matched with one Arcayan crescent, the half-moon coin an etched gold.

“Place your bet, Captain Kane,” Cat murmured, watching him think. He finally dropped his gaze, letting her observe him without scrutiny.

Again, she eyed the strange necklace, trying to place it. The beads were Lyrian stone, mined from the islands, the pale color of tropical shallows. And the odd gold piece—perhaps from the Southern Continent?

Like a jealous miser, Valerian counted out exactly six coins from the purse at his belt, matching the pot but not raising it.

Cat could not help but put on a show, her lips puffing into a pout.

“Oh, come now, Captain. I know you’re worth more than that,” she said.

His gaze snapped to hers, and she realized his easy manner, the jovial captain returned, did not reach his eyes.

“I am,” he answered flatly. “You aren’t.”

A low murmur went through his crew, whispers passed behind raised hands. Cat pretended to ignore it, holding her composure, though she could hardly control the heat in her cheeks. All she could control was her own actions, and the game in front of her.

There would be no pushing the pot, not with Valerian. She would not be able to bluff him out of a jeweled ring or stake in a ship. He long knew better than to rise to Cat’s bait. There was only decisive victory, and the glory of a good kill.

“Very well,” she answered, discarding her entire hand in a flip of heavy paper. It was a vicious, daring move.

Again, the crowd whispered, a few gasping. Those who did not know before saw clearly—the lady at the table was no beginner. And those who did know, pressed in.

“The Widow Rose,” someone murmured, and Cat could not help but smile.

Captain Kane was a legend, but she had her own legends too.

Chapter Twenty-Six Before

“CAPTAIN MOROVANT, YOU hold the X.”

With a bellow of dismay, the pirate captain slapped his cards flat, faces fanned out, the scarlet mark of the cursed X on full display.

Half the tavern erupted in cheers, the rest in hisses and howls of displeasure. Outside, the fiddle and Garedo’s flute trilled, the music weaving through the room. A dozen bets changed hands, in coins and crumpled bank notes and pouches of tobacco, while another gambling pot slid across the pitted table into Cat’s waiting arms.

She grinned down at her winnings, even as the world seemed to swim, her body loosened by drink and victory. She welcomed the sensation. It tasted of taquil and felt like heavy coin in her hands, the weight of them as comforting as a soft blanket.

“I did warn you, Harry,” Valerian muttered over his already discarded hand. “She is not to be underestimated.”

“I stopped underestimating her four rounds ago,” Morovant shot back, though he smiled beneath his black beard. “Lady Rose, I think I must admit when I am outplayed. Lest I lose my ship to the next pot.”

Cat could not help but laugh, resting her chin on her palm. “That’s for the best,” she said. Her free hand thumbed the pile of coins in front of her. “I would hardly know what to do with your ship.”

At her shoulder, Ana snickered, and even Valerian smiled into his glass. Morovant roared loud enough for all of them, slapping his knee under the table. Like most of his sailors, he was beginning to look a little cross-eyed, and Cat ventured the wine was beginning to get the better of him.

Across the room, the fiddle floundered and someone shouted, followed by a meaty thunk and a yelp. Wood splintered and a figure went careening off the porch, disappearing into the sandy grass.

Cat jumped in her seat, her spine going straight, expecting the rest of the room to react just as sharply. But a fistfight between two pirates seemed uninteresting to them all, if not commonplace. Valerian didn’t move, shuffling the cards without looking, his cigar between his teeth. Only Morovant huffed and hauled himself out of his chair, weaving his way towards the two sailors now brawling in the darkness.

“Enough of that, Hawkins, Riago, or you’ll spend the night in the brig,” he grumbled, gesturing for another sailor to follow. Cat figured he was Morovant’s first mate, Valerian’s replacement aboard the Seadragon.

With a smack, Valerian slapped the shuffled cards back on the table in a neat pile. Then he gripped the clay taquil bottle, turning it over to pour another cup. Nothing happened.

“I can’t play cards with an empty glass,” he grumbled, sliding back in his chair.

Without thought, Cat followed, her legs moving independent of her mind. After shoving her winnings into her pockets, she stood up from her seat—and nearly dropped again. Her knees wobbled and she swayed on her feet, off-kilter. Until a strong arm caught her by the waist, letting her find her balance.

“Taquil will do that to you,” Valerian said, grinning as she righted herself. He was so quick to let go, Cat thought she might have imagined his arm around her middle.

But the prickling sensation at her side was impossible to deny. She blinked fiercely, trying to bring the room into sharper focus. Everything seemed softer, as if glimpsed through cloudy glass.

“Certainly more potent than anything I’m used to,” she said, trailing in his wake.

Valerian Kane was easy to follow, standing nearly a head above most of the room, his blond hair a guiding beacon. Not that it was a long walk from one side of the Drink to the other. Barely twenty feet judging by their strides. But the seconds seemed to melt, stretching too long, and Cat felt hours passing in the moment it took to reach the bar.

The window behind the bar was jammed open, allowing a salty breeze into the tavern. Cat leaned towards it, the night air rousing her. Her head spun a little slower, and she balanced against the bar top, hands braced to watch Valerian as he rooted through the shelves and little cabinets. Like Cat, he moved more slowly than usual, his once-prowling motions lazy.

“I know I left one,” he muttered, pawing at the dusty bottles on the highest shelf.

Cat found herself marveling at the long length of his body, almost too big for the cramped space. When he brushed up against her, still searching, she bit her lip but did not move. He seemed to throw off heat, the air around him radiating with warmth.

To her chagrin, he pulled back quickly again, another clay bottle clutched triumphantly in his fist. When he grinned, it was not the sharkish look of the captain from the council chamber or the main deck, but the smile of a younger man, free of such burdens, with no thought beyond the path in front of him.

It felt like basking in a perfect ray of sunlight.

“I knew this would come in handy,” he said gleefully, pulling the cork out with his teeth.

She watched him gulp directly from the bottle before finding herself a glass amongst the strewn wares.

“Do you stash taquil on every island in the Lyrian Sea, Captain?”

Using her dress, she wiped the inside of a cup clean, then let Valerian pour. This taquil was darker, amber in color, and sweeter smelling.

Tastes sweeter too, she thought, taking a small sip.

He tipped his head playfully and leaned back, elbows braced against the bar top. He hemmed her in between his body and the window, one side hot and the other cool. Somehow, it did not feel like being trapped. If anything, Valerian shielded her from the rest of the room, giving her a corner to collect herself.

“Not every island,” he answered.

The taquil painted fire down her throat, but the shivering kind. The kind to make one bold.

“On these islands?” Her knuckles brushed his exposed forearm, tracing the tattooed stars that were not stars.

To her delight, she felt him quiver beneath her touch, and his throat jumped above the open collar of his shirt. It made the golden chain glimmer, a thread of light around his neck.

He pulled at the bottle again, but his eyes never left her face. Storm and sunlight warred within his gaze, the deep blue-green swirling with the flickering candlelight. It was as good as a hand holding her chin in place, and Cat knew she could not look away, even if she wanted to.

“You like asking questions, don’t you?” he murmured.

“You said I will learn.” She could still hear him, speaking behind the desk in his cabin, her body wet from the sea. “I’m trying.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I saw. Have you put my books back where you found them?”

“Not quite.”

Sighing, Valerian shifted, bringing his forearm level between them. He made a fist with his hand and long lines of muscle jumped out, the tattoos shifting with his flesh. Slowly, he pointed to each in turn.

Cat’s eyes widened, drinking it in.

“Once, the people of Arcayo did not live on just a single island.” He indicated the largest black spot, which was, on closer inspection, a sharply drawn diamond. Then his fingers trailed, tracing the smaller tattoos. “Miradan, Inera, Izin. Guayar.” He touched each spot as he named them. “They were abandoned, one by one. Left to be swallowed by the flags of distant countries and unfeeling crowns.”

A rare current of anger laced his voice, making his words tremble. Cat could almost feel it on the air, the temperature seeming to rise. She eyed the tattoos, each inked in turn, as if the map might form in her mind.

“What are they called now?” she murmured.

It was the wrong thing to ask. Valerian’s cheeks flushed, his brow drawing into an angry line. But his rage was not for her, his gaze still fixed on the tattoo. Again, he walked the line of black diamonds, touching each in turn.

“Longdawn. Ambrose. Aleta”

Cat’s pulse quickened. She knew those names—they were colonies of the Meridian or the Esperese, familiar even to her.

His finger continued, tracing another diamond of ink. Valerian’s eyes flashed, snapping to hers.

“Rosby.”

Suddenly the sweet taste of taquil turned sour and hateful, the contents of Cat’s belly threatening to crawl back up her throat.

“I—”

Her voice faltered, for there were no words to say. Valerian stared at her through it all, not with accusation, but some grim satisfaction.

“What did you think your island was?” he muttered, his bare forearm still between them. “A place of absence, of nothing? Do you think it rose out of the sea at your bastard king’s command, just to be given to some pale fool in a wig?”

Cat could not help but think of the hot cage that was Rosby, with its empty beaches and little hill, the crumbling house and simple barn. No fields, a single well. She felt as if the sea could swallow it at any moment. And yet it was not always so, she thought, ashamed.

“I did not think—did not know,” she forced out, stumbling to form a thought. Until one sharpened, impossible to ignore. “Of course the island came from somewhere else. From someone else.”

Certainly, Ryman knows the details better than I. Which family member had been gifted a spit of land, for whatever service. Land claimed by a crown, supplanted by a Meridian flag, with laborers and engineers to chip away whatever was left. To burn down homes and markets and docks. To tear down stone. To destroy belief. To erase people.

She tried to imagine the island, to see it as it was. Was the flat top of the hill cleared away for a market square? Were the stones around the barn the remains of a wall? Or the smooth limestone that formed the beginnings of the dock? Had there been a forest, cleared away for lumber in the early days? And the phoenix trees, the only shade, the only respite on the entire island—was that a garden once? An orchard loved and tended by the lost?

“It is not mine,” she managed to whisper, as if it were some kind of apology. “Nothing really is.”

An odd light gleamed in the shadows of his eyes.

“Would that were the way of things. When nothing belongs to anyone, nothing is ever taken, and no one is ever swept aside.” His lips curled, forming a sneer. “But that isn’t the world we live in, is it? That isn’t the world they made.”

Cat shook her head, fighting the urge to trace the inked shape that was Rosby.

“It is not,” she muttered, her anger swirling in her chest. “Everyone takes.”

Between them, Valerian’s fist curled, the tendons in his arm flexing.

“All we can do is take back.”

Cat kept staring, eager to avoid the judgment of his gaze. And perhaps memorize the ink on his skin. Not for his sake, but her own. To know a little bit more of the Lyrian. Only one diamond stood unnamed, the smallest of the collection, nestled below the crease of his elbow.

“What of that one?” she said. This time she couldn’t help herself. She pressed a finger against the tattoo.

Valerian didn’t flinch, but his skin blazed. “That is—and remains—Azual.” He lingered on the last black diamond, squinting at it. “In Meridian, it translates to a great storm. A tempest.”

“A tempest,” Cat echoed, and something stirred in her. Suddenly she felt very aware of the sweat at the nape of her neck and between her breasts, pressed together by the tight cut of the borrowed dress. Her throat jumped and she swallowed hard, turning to busy herself with whatever she could find.

One by one, she cleaned out cracked glasses with the folds of her dress, wiping them for patrons who did not exist.

“Would you like to return to cards?” Valerian said roughly. He moved without sound, inching back along the bar to give her some space.

Cat could not help her sharp reply, uncomfortable as she felt. “Would you like to keep losing?”

He barked a laugh and she felt the sun again, his warmth enveloping. Whatever shadow hung over him seemed to clear away.

“Shall we trade questions instead?”

Her hands slowed, avoiding a chip in the rim of a green cup. “On one condition.”

A dark-gold eyebrow curved in question.

“We can choose not to answer.”

“I like those terms,” he said, nodding. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, settling in. “Since it was my idea, I’ll go first.”

“Well—”

“Why did you marry Lord Rose?”

The glass in her hand dropped, cracking neatly in two. The tavern spun again, but not from the taquil or the heat or the smoke. It was Ryman who made her stomach twist, though he was far away, locked up in the belly of an enemy ship.

“I’m not sure what you know of noble society,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully.

A low breath hissed between his teeth. “Enough to hate it.”

I suppose I share the feeling, Cat thought ruefully.

“I was not born into a great house, or much wealth. My family is hardly known in the high circles of Brycam City. But we were of good standing, my sisters and I raised properly.” Her lips pursed. “Raised for our purpose.”

Valerian frowned, two lines forming between his eyebrows. “Purpose?”

Cat took solace in the burn of taquil, savoring another mouthful. She could hardly believe the life she was describing, what once felt normal or acceptable. Expected even. Six months on a stolen island with nothing but a bitter man and a blazing sun had burned all that out of her.

“To marry as well as we could. That is, after all, the great hope of all Meridian women. Their only hope,” she explained. “So when I met Lord Rose at a ball, with his title, with his lineage. A country estate to his name, a townhome in Brycam City. Vaults of money made on the spice trade. Grand promises, grander ambition. I never thought I could aim so high.” How she wished she could go back to that country house, to the first dance, to the moment Ryman’s gloved hand closed over hers. For a moment, her eyes drifted shut, lashes closed over stinging tears. “I thought he was my hope made flesh.”

“It was a lie,” Valerian breathed.

Her eyes snapped open again.

“All of it,” Cat murmured, musing over the pieces of broken glass on the bar. “Everything but the title. His family lost their wealth a generation ago, when the Meridian gave up the Spice Islands and their trade to the Rijkstad. He was deep in debt, the whispers of society already swirling. A society I knew nothing of until I entered it, just to be kicked back out the door.” She turned a green shard of glass over in her hand and imagined plunging it into Ryman’s neck. “He had no chance of finding a wife in his own circles. I thought he was my hope. But I suppose I was his, and he hates me for it.”

She stabbed the glass into the wood of the bar top, carving a deep line. It was not flesh, but close enough. Valerian did not stop her, only watched.

“Why drag an innocent woman down with him?” he said, his expression tight.

Cat shrugged, tracing a finger against the edge of the glass, enough to feel the sharpness but not break skin.

“His father’s will. If Ryman married, he would be given the last of his inherited fortune.” Then it was her blood she imagined spilling over the shard, with Ryman holding the green blade. “It did not last long. He sold the townhome first, then the estate. Paid the debt collectors and took what little was left across the ocean.”

She pressed a little harder, enough to feel the looming sting of cut skin. Until warm fingers met her own, gently prying the glass from her hand. Steadily, Valerian put the shard down, his eyes fixed on the jagged edge. Somehow, his fingers seemed to carve deeper marks than any blade could.

“He fled to the Lyrian Sea,” she finished, flexing away the lingering burn of his touch. “And the island now called Rosby.”

Valerian only stared at the glass, arms still crossed. When he finally opened his mouth, Cat saw pity in him. And she hated it.

“And what brought you to the Lyrian Sea, Captain Kane?” she said forcefully, hoping to cut off some weak apology for wounds already carved.

He blinked in surprise. Valerian Kane did not strike her as a man easily taken off guard, and Cat felt some pride in having done so. He cleared his throat, gathering a response.

“My story is the same as most,” he finally said, lifting the bottle. The taquil flowed again, spicing the air with its sweet-burn scent. This time, Cat took it gratefully and drank deep.

Until Valerian’s hand strayed to the open collar of his shirt, and she nearly choked, sputtering against the bite of liquor.

Amused, the pirate grinned and pulled aside the fabric to show the left side of his chest. Candlelight gleamed on the knotted scar over his heart, or rather the tattoo beneath the wounded flesh. Before, it seemed inscrutable, but up close—

Valerian tapped each mangled letter in time. The black script was ruined, almost scraped away. Almost.

H–M–I–N

“His Majesty’s Imperial Navy,” Cat murmured, incredulous. “You were one of the defectors. You chose the black.”

She could hardly square the pirate captain in front of her now with a clean-cut sailor of the imperial navy, subject to rules and regulations and the whims of sneering officers. Loyal to the Crown, and nothing else.

“Why?” she breathed, studying his long hair and bearded jaw, his tattoos, his jewelry, trying and failing to picture Valerian in naval uniform.

He let her look, silent, a shadow creeping across his face. His throat bobbed over his collar as he swallowed, pushing something down.

“I served a year in the Lyrian Sea, and in that year I saw enough,” he forced out, the words heavy and final. It was not difficult to see the pain in his eyes, the green flickering with the candlelight as he knocked back another sip of taquil.

Cat did the same, wincing at the good burn, wondering what spurred the darkness now stealing over Valerian like an oncoming storm.

“Was it Morovant who gave you the choice?”

At that, Valerian grinned, the clouds clearing from his face.

“It’s my turn, Lady Rose,” he said, shaking a finger at her. But his eyes darted, finding the captain of the Seadragon across the room. Morovant had returned to his corner, another glass of wine in hand and a smile on his lips.

It was, Cat thought, reading the fond look on Valerian’s face. His features smoothed and it was not difficult to imagine the boy he was, on the deck of another ship, facing the skull on Morovant’s flag. Finding not fear or death but freedom.

“Ask your question,” she prodded.

His grin turned sharkish, and Cat suddenly wished to be back at the table with Morovant.

“What do you think of the lieutenant?”

She almost broke a second glass. Her mind spun, pulled by equal parts surprise and indignance. Blinking quickly, she tried to recover, her tone turning sharp and prim, as if addressing him over a pot of tea.

“Do you mean Lieutenant Fell?”

“No, the other navy officer locked in my brig. Yes, him,” Valerian teased, leaning closer. The heat of him felt all-encompassing, until the air seemed to sizzle on Cat’s exposed skin. “What do you think of him?”

“I do not know him well,” Cat replied, withdrawing a little. But Valerian only pressed forwards, filling the space between them.

“He seems to know you well enough to call you Cat,” the pirate drawled. “Lady Rose.”

Her cheeks burned and Cat knew her face was turning scarlet. “I cannot control what men call me, Captain. Nor what they assume. But he is an officer of the fleet, and he has been kind to me,” she added, somewhat begrudgingly. Again, she felt the shame of it, knowing Fell was chained in the belly of a ship, with the worst man alive for company. “He is one of the only people to be kind to me in this whole wretched sea.”

At that, Valerian tipped his head like a curious beast, locks of hair falling with the motion.

“Have I been kind to you, Cat?” he said in a low voice that made her toes curl.

“It’s my turn,” she replied, her tone dropping to match his.

That seemed to please him, the corners of his mouth twitching into another crooked grin.

“How will you spend my ransom?”

The smile dropped as swiftly as it came, and Cat felt as if she had scored another point in their strange game. The taquil warmed in her throat.

“Unless, of course, you do not wish to answer,” she added, watching Valerian think.

Finally, he relented.

“I suppose I could buy a few bottles of rum with it,” he said, a spark of mischief in his eye.

It was far better than pity, and Cat huffed a laugh. “Bad rum,” she mumbled, regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

And then not regretting them in the same heartbeat.

“What makes you say that?” Valerian sharpened, dropping his voice so that only she could hear. He wore an expectant look, as if he already knew what she was going to tell him.

In her heart, Cat admitted that he did.

“You know we can’t pay the money.” The confession felt like drawing a blade and putting it in the hand of her assailant, giving him the only weapon she had in a dangerous world. “You know we didn’t cross the ocean with a single crown of imperial mint, let alone three hundred. If we had, you would have taken it already, when you plundered the Credence.”

The edges of his mouth twitched, as if Valerian wanted to smile again. She gathered that was his way, to grin at obstacles before cutting his way through them. Her breath hitched, and Cat prepared to be cut.

Instead, his bearded cheek brushed hers, the touch of it surprisingly soft as he spoke into her ear.

“I’ll take what you can swipe together, nothing more,” he breathed, every syllable sending a shiver down her spine.

Despite his closeness, Cat could not help but turn her head, facing him so they were nose to nose. She searched his stormy eyes, hunting for a lie or a trick or a joke. She had heard all three from Valerian Kane in recent days.

She found none in him now.

“What about the crew?” she murmured, intimately aware of the crowd in the tavern. Raiders who did not sail into danger to go home empty-handed. “You promised them a prize.”

Valerian did not move. “We still have the lieutenant. He’ll fetch a good price. And don’t be so hard on yourself, Lady Rose. You certainly have something to give,” he added, somehow without implication. “Yours is a safe island to take on water, should we have need in our travels. It is the least you can do,” he said with a meaningful look that make Cat’s heart lurch. Already she thought of days ahead, watching the horizon for a familiar ship.

It may only add to my torment, she thought. To be a fish waiting for the hook.

“And the crew will manage,” he added, scattering her thoughts. “Besides, there is far more to catch at sea, Lady Rose. And prizes who do not require a trip into Archenport harbor, where many a pirate ship has been caught.”

His eyes flashed and Cat bit down hard on her tongue, stifling a gasp. It was no use. She was caught out, the ruse Lieutenant Fell coached her into falling apart at first opportunity.

“The bank—”

“The bank is a clear trap, Lady Rose. I have absolutely no intention of sailing this ship or my crew anywhere near a navy ambush.”

She expected to feel dismayed, defeated even. Hold the ruse. She had failed entirely, if she ever succeeded at all. But she felt oddly light, elated even. Slowly, a smile spread across her face.

On the porch, the fiddle began in earnest, alongside Garedo and his haunting notes. The brawl had ended, Morovant’s two old sailors returning arm in arm, slapping each other on the back. Cat jumped back from Valerian as they approached, making herself as small as possible behind the bar.

“Since when did the Drink get a barmaid?” one chortled, slapping a hand on the wood. “I’ll take whiskey, gal.”

“Same for me,” his companion said, bellying up like a customer.

“Mr. Dorian, Mr. Pine,” Valerian said, making room for the pair.

Both were too drunk to notice his greeting or Cat’s position as anything but a barmaid. They jabbered back and forth like squawking birds, descending into incoherence. Neither seemed like they needed another assault on the liver, but Cat put two empty glasses in front of them anyway. Valerian snickered, watching alongside her as the two old sailors sipped at nothing. It was an odd tableau, but oddly comforting too.

For the first time in months, Cat felt more on solid ground. She wasn’t even dizzy as she left the bar, ready to retreat for the night.

“I think I will return to the Covenant now,” she said, halting on the Drink’s step. “Thank you, Captain Kane.”

Valerian did not stop her but leaned, one arm against the top of the doorframe. He filled the space easily, radiating his warmth into the cooler air of the beach. Cat had to stop herself from leaning into it, despite the sweat drying on her skin.

“You are not a member of my crew, and I am not your captain,” he said, a gentle correction. His hair fell in his eyes again, the ends bleached nearly white. “We are not kings, Lady Rose.”

“Then stop calling me Lady Rose,” she shot back, to his amusement.

He grinned. “Very well.”

The sight of his smile kept her rooted, and Cat wished she might stumble again, if only so Valerian would catch her.

“No kings,” she mused instead, repeating him. “Are you saying you’re a democratic sort? How progressive.”

“One of the many reasons we are despised by the crowns,” he said, his chest swelling with pride.

Cat could not help but smirk at such a thought. Much as she had come to enjoy Valerian’s company, there was no denying what he was to begin with.

“The other reasons being that you pillage, plunder, and otherwise interfere with their trade, transport, and travel through the Lyrian Sea?”

“I suppose that may be a larger factor.” His tone sharpened. “But one might call taxes robbery too. And the navy does its fair share of pillaging, albeit from the Brycam City gutters and orphanages.”

Her convictions wavered a little.

She knew the Meridian navy recruited its men from all walks of life, raising many from the poor slums and dockyards, the debtors’ prisons, the orphanages. Lieutenant Fell himself had mentioned he was an orphan boy, and it was not difficult to imagine what had brought—or shoved—him into the navy. But then Ryman said it was the best chance some of these young men had at a better life, at a purpose and direction. Though she doubted most words that came from Ryman’s mouth.

“Brimley seems happy with his choice,” she said, finding the other man laughing with his friends.

Valerian followed her gaze.

“Most defectors are.” He shrugged, but it was a facade. An attempt to look disinterested, when he was anything but. “After all, you can’t vote out a naval captain if he mistreats his crew.”

Something in his voice gave her pause. Again, she tried to picture Valerian Kane in regal uniform, his collar buttoned up his throat, a stiff tricorne on his head. It did not suit.

“But they could vote out you?”

This time he laughed as if he were saying something obvious, something everyone already knew. Cat ventured everyone did.

“Any crew could. We all vote for our captains. If they—” He stumbled, corrected himself. “If we aren’t suited, we can be removed from our position. And another captain voted in.”

It sounded both ridiculous and marvelous, another impossible piece of the Lyrian Sea.

“You’ll learn,” she murmured, a dazed look on her face as she echoed him once more. “I suppose I am learning.”

“We all do,” he replied, without thought or hesitation, repeating the conversation with ease.

Neither shifted, not giving ground or taking it. Only when another pirate approached, shuffling towards the open door, did Valerian relent, swinging wide to allow the other man to pass.

And then Cat after him, all but forcing herself out into the night air.

“Good night, Cat,” he said.

She was already on the sandy path but turned over her shoulder. Her senses swirled, filled up with the smell of tobacco and taquil, the brush of worn playing cards and rough fingers.

“Good night, Valerian.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven After

THE CARDS SKITTERED across the table, the edges battered and roughed by many hands. Cat glanced at them only once, the feel of thick paper familiar against her fingers. All around, the gambling hall pressed in, seemingly every eye in Nera turned towards the game in the center of the room.

Catrine Rose cut her teeth at the card tables of Meridian society, but she learned her hardest lessons in the gambling dens of pirates and smugglers, criminals who would sooner slit your throat than suffer a cheat or a slight. A proper Meridian lady with her polite smiles and fluttering fan gave cause for neither. But the hot-blooded tempers of chaotic men made for easy observation, allowing Cat to wait for openings and opportunities created by other distractions. Namely, brawls and duels. She had seen her fair share of blood on the cards and taken enough money from men nursing their wounded pride.

But not Valerian. It had been long years since she ever took a single coin from his purse.

No, I’ve taken much worse, she knew, feeling his hatred radiate across the table. He glared over the edge of his fanned cards, silent and seething.

Captain Vex did not seem so interested in cards, or at least not as much as he was in the game unfolding between the two other players. He glanced back and forth, eyes darting as if following a very silent, slow game of chess.

“Lover’s quarrel?” he said gruffly.

He was not the only one. Some of the Covenant crew traded knowing glances, and Cat could not blame them. They had overheard many an argument onboard the ship, or on the docks, or in the tavern. Or anywhere sound carried.

“Hardly.” She rearranged her cards. “Captain Kane just hates to lose.”

Across the table, Valerian laughed into a steadily draining glass of taquil so strong Cat could smell it from her seat.

“You only lose when the game ends,” he answered dryly. Another coin joined the pot. “And this game is far from over.”

Cat wanted to flip the chipped silver back at him, or perhaps throw her glass at his idiotic golden head.

“I’ve heard many foolish things from your mouth, but none so foolish as that.” Her brow furrowed, the same old frustration making her toes curl. “You have lost, Valerian. We—”

He cut her off with a blazing look. “Don’t pretend to be part of something you never believed in.”

“Fine,” she sniffed, handing two cards to Vex without so much as a glance. “I won’t waste my breath explaining what you already know or repeating what I’ve already said.”

I’ve read this page before, Cat thought bitterly, remembering another table in another room. How he laughed at her worries, dismissing her warnings outright. Something broke in her then, and it still stung now. She tried not to think of it, the edges of a wound that refused to heal.

“Good,” Valerian snapped, returning to his cards.

Vex leaned sideways, his attempt at a whisper rough and not at all quiet. “You finished with the Prince of Merchants?”

Cat’s eyes flared wide, darting between the two of them, and Valerian perceived her attention. He pursed his lips and gave Vex a sharp shake of his head. His message was clear.

Not now.

But Cat understood enough. The Prince of Merchants. Goa. Smiling in an alleyway with Vex’s crew just that morning. Before heading off to meet with Valerian, no doubt.

To tell him of my presence in the city, she thought, cursing herself for her own stupidity.

And what else?

The Prince of Merchants could procure or fence anything—was Valerian buying or selling? She could only guess, trying to keep too many threads from tangling in her head.

“Captain, I’m told you have a naval officer in your charge,” Valerian said sharply, changing the subject with the grace of a lame horse.

Cat knew when to keep her mouth shut. She dropped her eyes to study her cards. Captain Fell was far from her concern, but he could certainly still be her problem. Valerian had not killed her on the spot, and she did not want to give him cause to change his mind.

Vex sighed at his cards, clearly holding a poor hand.

“Indeed, we have him,” he answered, before fixing Valerian with a stern look that spoke volumes. “But I venture we’re done with ransoms, these days.”

The captain nodded grimly. “We certainly are.”

Then be done with it and kill him. Again, Cat flinched at the thought—but not enough to change her mind. She eyed her cards again. Better to focus on something other than the thought of Jasper Fell drawn and quartered like Harry Morovant.

His head or mine.

“Tell me, how fares our old friend Jasper Fell?”

She jerked back up to find Valerian waving for another cigar and a light. Both appeared quickly, a barmaid leaning a little too far with a candle. Valerian basked in the attention, as he always did, his eyes trailing down her neck as he grinned.

Seething, she glared back, watching as he held the barmaid’s wrist, one finger tracing the veins beneath her palm. Cat neatly ignored the itch on her skin in the same place.

“As difficult as ever,” she replied, tone even.

With a puff of smoke, Valerian released the barmaid, who flushed and smiled before leaving the table.

“And still trailing you like a lost dog,” he sneered into his taquil.

Her head spun, the cloud of smoke and taquil fumes threatening to pull her under.

“Like a hound,” she forced out, trying to get her bearings. Inwardly, Cat cursed the alcohol already running through her veins. I should have never had a sip. I should have stayed in my room. I am a fool. “I’m lucky Vex’s men took him into custody, lest he drag me back to Archenport by my hair.”

Valerian rested his elbow on the table. “Is that it?”

She knew the look he wore. Smug, self-assured. Victorious. Many a ship had fallen to such a look, swallowed up by the ambitions of Valerian Kane.

Cat refused to be another prize.

“It is,” she replied.

“Ah, well.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders in a way Cat did not like. “I shall have to ask his crew if they agree.”

His crew.

The table wavered, but not Valerian, his face the only fixed thing in her sight. She searched him, looking for a lie or bluff. He was good at neither.

And she found neither.

“After I speak to Fell, of course,” he added idly. “You should join me, Widow Rose.”

The trap threatened to spring, and Cat inched away from it as slowly as she could. Sighing, she put down her cards and relinquished the pot, forfeiting their game.

“I think I’m finished for the evening,” she said, her chair scraping, her hat snatched up. “Being a fugitive is certainly exhausting.”

But Valerian was faster.

He was always faster.

“On that, we can all agree.”

He was already out of his chair, rounding the table to take her by the arm, his palm molding to the flesh above her elbow. Beneath her sleeve, her tattooed skin warmed. As if embraced. Or set aflame.

Then his lips brushed her ear, the scratch of his beard rough and familiar.

“Please, I insist,” he said through bared teeth.

To another, it might seem a smile. Cat knew better. A tempest warred in Valerian Kane, and there was nothing to do but weather the storm.

Her own teeth flashed. If not for Vex and the crowd looking on, they would be buried in his neck.

“Well, if you insist,” she snarled.

Stiffly, she made to leave the hall, but Valerian held her in place. He clicked with his tongue, scolding her.

And flicking over her cards, one by one.

The last turned, the scarlet X on full display.

“So I thought,” he said.

*

THE COVENANT ANCHORED beyond the harbor, around a curve in the coastline. Her silhouette cut sharply against a sky of stars, the warship a void but for the lanterns dotting her length. Cat glared at the familiar vessel from the longboat, oars splashing on either side as she sat ramrod straight on the front bench. The Covenant must have sailed in after nightfall, for there was no ship here upon Cat’s arrival in the morning. Another hulking warship loomed a few hundred yards away and Cat guessed it to be the Harriet, Vex’s ship. Not sunk or captured, but hidden, the pair of pirate ships careful in their anchorage.

Even in the dark she could see the figurehead of the Covenant. Once it was a Meridian lion roaring at the horizon—now the beast was skull-faced, laughing at all who dared come close.

Though she refused to look backwards, she was intimately aware of Valerian sitting aft, working the oars alongside his first mate, Adelo, and four other members of the crew. The rest followed in another longboat, cutting swiftly through the black waves.

It felt like being marched to the gallows, and Cat wondered if that was not far from the truth. Valerian had not killed her in the city but that did not mean he would not kill her on the ship. She supposed there was a small sense of justice to it. Pirate justice, at least.

Her heart sank as the Covenant loomed, bigger by the second. She could not help but glance at the ensign, the massive flag hanging loose from the staff at the stern of the ship.

Black fabric rippled, swaying with the rise and fall of waves beneath the ship. The flag was so dark it seemed to eat the lantern light, aside from the white symbol on its face. Cat knew it too well—a smiling skull with a golden tooth.

And beneath it, roses winding around the crossed bones, their blooms red as blood.

They felt like daggers to her heart.

It was the same flag Valerian flew six months ago, before the Meridian returned and set their world to ashes.

Before I betrayed him.

Why didn’t he change it? she wondered, looking mournfully up at the flowers, red as the flowers on the sign above her tavern door.

Red as the tattoo on her arm.

And the matching tattoo on his.

Without thinking, she turned over her shoulder, finding Valerian’s eyes in the darkness. He was already glaring, his mouth pressed into a grim line.

Then the longboat was alongside the hull, and there was no more time to think.

Every step up the ladder was a knife, and the deck itself a sword. The lanterns swung with the tide, and swaying globes of light ran down the ship, illuminating pockets of the Covenant. Not that Cat needed the light. They could blindfold her, and she would still know her way around the vessel. Certainly to Cook’s galley, and the captain’s cabin.

Her vision blurred and she blinked fiercely, hoping no one saw the tears she refused to shed.

Tears for what? she scolded herself. Pull yourself together.

She was still a mighty thing, the Covenant. While the ships in Archenport harbor were certainly larger and grander, fresh from the rebuilt shipyards of Allisport, with more firepower and filigree, Cat had to admit the Covenant still beat them all in her eyes. They were only cubs, gigantic but clumsy, while Valerian’s lion still prowled the sea. There was no ship to match the smooth lines of her hull and rails, her intricate spiderwebs of rigging, or lethal rows of cannons along the decks.

And no captain to match the one who stood before her now, the last to climb over the rail.

My head or his, his head or theirs, she told herself, bracing for whatever he decided to throw her way.

She did not miss the crew giving her a wider berth. But same as their captain, they had not attacked her on sight. If they were out for revenge, they did not show it. Brimley even gave her a thin-lipped smile, the reassuring kind.

In spite of herself, Cat returned it, sick as it made her feel.

“Have the prisoners brought up on deck.” Valerian gestured to Adelo with a finger. “Make sure Captain Fell gets a good look at them before you bring him to me.”

“Aye, sir,” Adelo answered, disappearing at once.

To the brig. Cat could hardly picture the collected crew of the Fledge crammed into the ship’s jail, but it was an amusing image all the same. She only hoped Whisten got the worst of it, squashed in the corner with the piss bucket.

Then she realized Valerian stood at the quarterdeck, door held open beside him. He said nothing, only waited, the lanterns casting shifting shadows across his face. As they swayed, his features changed, somehow angry, worried, despairing, and entranced all at once. In the darkness, he seemed younger too, the dim light smoothing out the lines of care she knew as well as the ship.

Or even better.

Cat felt the curious eyes of the crew studying her. She would give them no cause to question the captain’s coldness as little more than another quarrel between lovers. After all, Cat vastly preferred being seen as capricious to being known as a traitor.

At least until Fell arrived and blew the last bits of her escape plan to smithereens.

“Captain,” she drawled, taking long strides towards him. “Shall we?”

A muscle feathered in his cheek as he ground his teeth. It was a small point scored, but a point all the same. Smiling, she entered the council chamber, but not before Valerian scored a point of his own.

Again, his hand trailed, grasping her upper arm, palm pressed to the exact spot of her single tattoo. The rose beneath her sleeve burned again, as if freshly inked. Now his touch was gentle and lingering, a tease.

Then his scent hit her, and Cat’s head spun. This time, there was no blaming the cigar smoke or alcohol. Such was Valerian’s way. He wore no perfumed oil like Jasper Fell or the more flamboyant captains, nor did he smell of fish guts like the rest. Somehow, beneath the tobacco smoke and stinging taquil, there was always the sea clinging to him, fresh and salty and filled with the promise of a new horizon.

Her steps faltered and she cursed, stumbling into the room beneath the quarterdeck.

While Valerian lit the lamps, she took a steadying breath, only to be hit with the smell of him again. Chewing her lip, she forced another gasp, and another. Drowning herself with him, until her body finally adjusted to his presence again.

There was no antidote to Valerian, the only cure more poison.

She sorely hoped he felt it too, struggling to endure her, the same old wounds torn anew. But he gave no indication, keenly fixed on the oil lamps, bringing the warm glow of the deck into the chamber. The darkness lifted, revealing the same long table and the same mismatched chairs she had always known. The Covenant had not changed much over the last ten years, but for the usual repairs and replacements. Broken glass, fresh paint, decks smoothed by endless shifts with scrubbing stone. The bullet holes were long gone, repaired years before. The Covenant bore other scars now, and Cat Rose was the worst of them all.

Her heart thrummed against her rib cage. There had been blood on timbers here before. There might be more soon enough.

“If you’re going to kill me, can I make a suggestion?” she said to Valerian’s back, refusing to sit at the table. If she was going to die, she preferred to do it on her own two feet.

He swung around, eyebrows shooting into his hairline, his many adornments gleaming against the lamplight. He managed to look both surprised and affronted.

“Even cornered, Cat Rose still had demands to make,” he scoffed.

She took it in stride.

“I would prefer to be shot,” Cat said briskly. She raised her chin, swallowing against the rough sensation of an invisible noose. “I’ve seen enough men hang. It does not seem a pleasant experience.”

Finishing with the last lamp, Valerian went to the chairs. After nearly a decade as captain of the Covenant, he no longer had any qualms about taking the head of the table. He eased down with his usual grace, always balanced, a boot on the tabletop.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he shot back, steepling his hands on his abdomen. His many jeweled rings winked.

“Oh?” Cat arched an eyebrow. “Do you have another idea?”

He grinned darkly, his eyes running rough over her body. And not in the way Cat used to enjoy. Still, she shivered despite her best efforts.

“Many.”

She bit her lip, glancing back at the council door, and the main deck beyond it, filled with familiar faces.

“You never told the crew,” she murmured.

Valerian hardened, the edge of his jaw set. His storm eyes went dark.

“I did not.”

Cat shrugged. “I suppose it is an embarrassing thing to admit.”

His teeth flashed, a row of white punctuated by gleaming gold. “I didn’t tell them for your sake,” he said evenly, though a red flush spread over his bronzed cheeks. “But since you don’t seem to mind, I can make an announcement right now.”

“Go ahead.” Cat took a forceful step forwards and braced her hands against the table. “Tell them I’m the reason they’re still alive and not hanged in the Archenport harbor. Tell them I’m the reason they lived to fight another day.” Wearily, she heaved a sigh. “Ill-advised as that may be.”

Valerian did not flinch beneath her onslaught. This was hardly the worst he had seen of her, and she of him. Compared to their spats of the past, this was a civilized discussion. But Cat knew she had lost any claim to civility from Valerian Kane. He was not the man she had known and loved, no longer a partner or a lifeline. He was an opponent. One of many.

“The new governor must be a fearsome man to send Cat Rose running.” He ran his tongue over his lip, as if tasting her fear.

It sent another shiver down her spine, the terrifying kind. Her fingers curled on the tabletop, knuckles white as she formed two shaking fists.

“He is, Val,” she said firmly, trying to make him see. To make him listen. “What he did to Harry—”

His own fist sounded like the blast of a cannon, the slap of flesh on wood making Cat jump in her skin.

Somehow, his eyes were worse. They ringed a vicious white, the irises burning in two green circles, crackling like the sky before the first bolt of lightning.

“That’s enough,” he hissed out.

I should know better than to bring up Harry, Cat thought, wincing at her misstep. Morovant was not just Valerian’s mentor, but the closest thing he ever had to a father.

And I watched his limbs be torn off.

Like Valerian had, Cat ran her tongue over her lips, wetting skin dry and cracked from the sun. She did not miss the way his murderous stare flickered, his eyes tracing the same path.

Something familiar tightened in her core, a rope pulling taut.

I may yet have cards left to play.

Chapter Twenty-Eight Before

SHE KNEW IT was a dream.

The sea was too flat, the waves beyond the gallery windows an impossible stretch of unbroken blue. As if no breath of wind stirred the water, and no current ran its course. The world held the ship in limbo, without so much as a sway or creak. And the Covenant itself was strange, the edges of her vision hazy, the light taking on a soft golden edge.

Cat did not dream often, or for very long. It was a mercy, she used to think, to escape into the blackness of sleep, with no nightmares to taunt her. The waking world was nightmare enough, between Ryman and the island and the relentless heat. She expected to wake up quickly, but the dream stretched, endless as the still sea. And warm, as if the sun played over her bare skin.

No, not the sun, she realized, looking down at her arm.

A long-fingered hand closed around her wrist, encircling the fragile bones. Not her hand, or the hand of a woman at all. And certainly not Ryman, who was pale white and forceful. This touch was tender, achingly so, despite the rough feel of the unfamiliar skin. Calluses, scars, burns from rope and gunpowder. It was the harsh hand of a harsh life.

And yet, gentle with her. Cat felt like a pearl in an open palm.

She dared not raise her gaze from the hand as it traveled, steadily running up her arm. Cat knew what she would find—storm-green eyes, a curtain of blond curls, the smell of salt and tobacco and sweet taquil. Part of her wanted to look, to glimpse Valerian Kane so close, his body warm and lean against her back. Even if it were only a dream, an impossible wish. But looking meant admitting what so much of her already knew and fought so hard to deny. That she felt for a man beyond her husband, and a pirate captain at that. An enemy of the Crown. A lawless outcast, loyal only to a ship and a crew. To the Lyrian Sea.

Her lips parted, tasting smoke. Still she dared not turn and risk an even worse outcome.

Waking up.

Instead, she watched as the fingers walked a path, brushing the inside of her elbow in a way that made her shiver. His skin was darker than hers, a golden tan against freckled white. The hand kept moving, palm now flush against her bicep.

Shivering, Cat realized she was naked in the dream, with only the blankets of the bunk beneath her as she lay on her side. They were cool under her legs, the length of her stretched out across the thin mattress.

Another shiver crept down her spine as the hand reached the top of her arm then traced the arc of her shoulder blade. This time she desperately fought the urge to look, to let amber eyes meet green, to taste something more than smoke. She could not bear it if he disappeared, if the light shifted, the golden gleam replaced by iron morning.

One by one, the fingers walked her spine. The warmth grew, both behind her and within her, twin forces calling out, feeding each other. Cat certainly felt summoned, her spine pressing up against the hot planes of his torso. His hand was gone, curling around her hip to let their bodies lay flush together, the soft down of his chest hair against her shoulder blades. She could not help but arch into it, trying to lay every inch of skin she could against Valerian Kane.

It was a delightful torture, suspended in the dream, terrified it might end. And terrified it might continue.

He did not speak, but his breath huffed against her ear. It hitched as his fingers curled, finding the dip at the swell of her hip, the arcing curve that formed a valley between leg and stomach, leading in a single direction.

His fingers followed it like pilgrims on a holy road.

Then Cat lost her breath too, her head tipping back. A stubbled cheek brushed her own, a line of teeth grazed her jaw. It was too much to bear, too much to resist. Far more than she had ever felt, and yet still less, unreal and fleeting. She turned into him, forgetting her fear, eyes open, yearning to see.

But there was no Valerian, no Captain Kane. There was only a flash of green, like the last gleam of a setting sun on the endless horizon. And then daylight, the real, brutal kind, as Cat jolted awake.

Her eyes stung, her mouth was dry, and her head spun with too many cups of taquil.

Shakily, Cat removed her hand from between her legs and forced herself out of the bunk. Her stomach churned, sick from the evening, sick from the dream.

“Torture,” she murmured, her skin still aflame.

*

THE COVENANT HAD already left Morovant’s Seadragon and Drowning Key behind, the little island barely a smudge on the horizon by the time Cat regained her wits.

Between the maps in her cabin and the simple calculations born of the sun’s position, she charted their heading as best she could as the days passed. The most important part was clear—the Covenant was not sailing north to Beacon Island and the city of Archenport. She had looped, moving southwest again, maneuvering amongst the smaller islands back towards Rosby.

Her time on the Covenant made it easy to forget what lay ahead. Yes, Kane and his crew had avoided a simple trap up north. But Cat had no such luck. No matter what, her road ended in a lonely cage.

She tried to make herself useful, offering to help Cook peel vegetables or stir his pot of gods knew what. Or swab the decks with Ratter, her hands red and raw after a few minutes. She even tried cleaning the pistols and muskets, though she could not put them back together without Brimley helping her refit the pieces. Somehow, she managed to turn every one-man job into a two-person undertaking. All together, she was hopeless at the easiest tasks aboard a sailing vessel; even the so-called womanly endeavors, like mending a sail, were far better performed by the able sailors.

No use, Cat thought, scrubbing her hands clean in a bucket of seawater. She had gained a few cuts across her otherwise unmarred skin and they stung, wounds hissing against the salt. But she leaned into the pain. It was grounding and real, slowing the seconds as they ticked away.

Then she returned to her work, mending a particularly ragged tear in the sheet from the mizzenmast. Her stitches were ugly and crooked but slowly doing the job. Until a shadow fell over her, obscuring her handiwork.

Cat read the curves of the shadow. It was not the captain, who seemed to be avoiding her. After their night in the Drowning Drink and her dream, when she shivered and came undone in his hands, Cat was glad for it.

It was Ana who dogged Cat’s footsteps whenever she had a free moment. As first mate, those moments were few, but the Seawolf found enough time to be a welcome nuisance.

While Cat huddled beneath a borrowed hat, doing her best to keep the relentless sun off her face, Ana did no such thing, her glorious mane of raven hair blowing free. She plopped down next to Cat without so much as a hello and frowned at her stitches.

Cat braced for a scolding but met a thoughtful look instead.

“Where were you headed, before all this?” Ana muttered, leaning back on her hands. She splayed out like a woman on a fine chaise lounge, not a pirate on a ship cutting through open sea.

Cat almost laughed. “Before you blew up the Venerable and my life?”

Ana only blinked at her. “Yes, before that.”

“Archenport,” she offered, putting down her needle. “We were invited by the governor.”

Though it was barely weeks since Captain Quine had dropped anchor in Rosby harbor, it already felt so far away. Her hopes to ingratiate herself into Archenport society were shattered, ripped apart with the Venerable. Shaky as the plans had been, they were something to hold on to. She could still hear Lieutenant Fell whispering, offering welcome advice that she took like a precious jewel.

Now he languished in the brig of a pirate ship, while she mourned on its deck. I should endeavor to keep him company, as any lady would. Or at least make sure he has not rotted away. But try as she might, Cat could not force herself to go below, even for Lieutenant Fell’s sake. Her days without Ryman Rose and his venom would soon be at an end, and Cat did not intend to waste them.

If Ana noticed her melancholy, she kindly ignored it. Instead, she squinted at the sun and smirked. “I suppose we’ve done you a favor. Rumor is the new governor’s a bit of a worm.”

Cat huffed and shook her head. “I have a worm of my own,” she grumbled, picking up the needle again. She stabbed at the sheet, picturing it was Ryman instead.

Without blinking, Ana reached across and took the needle from her, tucking it away. But she was not annoyed. Her full brows furrowed, dark eyes warm.

“Why haven’t you run off yet?” she said softly.

Beneath her hat, Cat blinked furiously. “I beg your pardon?”

Ana shrugged and tipped her head back, face turned into the wind filling the sails.

“One day with a man like that and I’d be off with the morning tide. I don’t understand why you stay.”

It took all Cat’s well-drilled poise to keep her hands steady, to not tear apart her line of stitches in a burst of anger.

“Because there is nowhere else for me to go,” she snapped, frustrated with the simplicity of it all. And the indignity of explaining something so obvious, not to mention embarrassing. “I’m not like you, Ana. I don’t have—well, anything.”

Ana smiled. Her eyes roved over Cat in a meaningful way. “A mirror would disagree.”

Cat shrunk away from her, a hand flying to the scarf around her collar. “I’m not doing that—”

“Pretty girls can do more than whore, Lady Rose. By the Sea and the Song, I thought you had schooling?” Ana said, swatting her on the arm. Cat almost fell over with the force. “I’d wager you’ve been given more than any man aboard this ship. You’re not nothing and you’re not bound to that fool, no matter what anyone else says.”

“I wish that were true,” Cat muttered, nursing the now-sore spot on her bicep.

But Ana was undeterred, her black eyes sparking like live coals.

“This is the Lyrian Sea, not your cursed Empire,” she said, leaping back to her feet and hauling Cat with her. “You’re playing by the rules of a different world. A world that does not exist here.”

The rules of a different world.

Indeed, Cat had found herself as far as humanly possible from the stiff parlors and rainy streets of Meridia. She glanced up at the severely blue sky, then the turquoise waters fading into the mist around Kiers Island. A knuckle of green ridges poked up out of the cloud, the slopes green and bursting with plant life the likes of which Meridia had never seen before.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, weighing all behind against what might lie ahead. It still seemed impossible, an insurmountable peak to climb. “I’ll think on it.”

“Good,” Ana said. She took a step back, meaning to return to her own work. Then she flicked the needle back with a twist of her wrist. Wincing, Cat caught it in her skirt. “And enough with the chores. If you want to be useful, stop getting in the way.”

With a wink she was gone, laughing her way down the deck.

Cat grumbled and returned to her stitches, which Garedo eventually corrected with a kind look and swift fingers.

*

THE RULES OF a different world.

Ana’s words ate up her thoughts, until Cat could no longer focus on even the smallest of tasks. They terrified her and made her bold in the same measure, a new horizon unfolding with every passing moment. She stalked the deck, glancing between the blazing sunset and the stairs below, weighing possibilities never in reach before.

To tell Ryman exactly what she thought of him.

To refuse to go back to Rosby.

To flee.

To run off, as Ana had said, and pursue a new life in a new world.

It was a fearsome endeavor, a path with no end she could see. A path I can hardly walk alone, she thought, slowing her pace at the rail.

Perhaps I don’t have to.

Her gaze lifted from the waters of the Lyrian to the helm of the ship, and a tall silhouette cut against the sunset. He stood alone, without Ana, without his helmsman, one hand easy on the ship’s wheel, holding course through calm waters and gentle winds. Scarlet clouds streaked behind him like a banner, edging him in flame.

Valerian Kane was already looking at her, his gaze an arrow aimed true.

The rules of a different world.

The words carried her up the steps of the quarterdeck, one hand light on the rail, the other trembling against her skirts. In both fear and anticipation, her heart leapt in her chest. But there was no fear greater than that of returning to Rosby, to Ryman. To the life she had already lived and could not stomach living again. This seemed easier by comparison.

“Lady Rose,” Valerian said, his voice somehow louder than the sea, and just as deep. He stood like a hero in a story, all long, lean lines, his hair spun gold.

She reached his side in an instant, barely feeling the timbers below her feet.

“Captain.”

The dream spiraled, sharp as a real memory, and Cat could not help but eye his fingers, still firmly curled around the smooth wood of the wheel. They were a sailor’s hands, striped with scars and calluses, brick rough. Agile and swift. Blazing through playing cards. Firm at the ship’s wheel. Gentle and fleeting on her arm. Wicked in her dreams.

“How do you find the work of a ship?” His voice broke the whirlpool of thoughts, and Cat’s eyes jumped back to his face.

“Impossible,” she replied without hesitation, even as her heart pounded. She knew what she wanted but could not fathom how to say it. “Endless.”

That seemed to amuse Valerian, and he grinned, nodding.

“Enticing,” Cat added, her voice sharper.

His smile did the same, lips curling.

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard someone describe swabbing the decks or braiding rope as enticing,” he replied, his hand leaving the wheel. His boots thumped, one after the other, closing the distance between them. “I can see the question on your tongue. Ask it.”

It was almost a relief to be given such a chance. Cat sighed, her shoulders dropping in release as she held Valerian’s curious stare. Green eyes ticked over her face, and she could feel him trying to read her.

“Might there be something here for me?” She tried to hold the forceful tone, to sound resolute as she felt. And desperate too. “On the Covenant?

With you, her mind said, though she could not summon the courage to voice it, much as she hoped Valerian perceived the thought anyway.

He did not speak, his smile frozen, losing some of its mischief. His chest rose and fell between the folds of his collar, open in its usual way. Her prayer bead still glittered there, turquoise as the sea, a trophy. A piece of me, Cat thought, yearning to touch it again. To brush fingers against skin and feel flame beneath.

“Cat.”

The flat tone of his voice, hollow, hard, was like the blow from a hammer. Her resolve shattered, a broken mirror scattering, her heart caught amongst the pieces. She clung to them anyway, much as the sharp edges bit, hope bleeding in her hands.

“I can’t go back to Rosby,” she breathed.

Her feet moved, the spare inches closing, until every breath tasted of Valerian Kane. She glared up at him, desperate and trembling, glad they were alone at the helm, with no witnesses to her fading dignity.

“I can give you anything you like, everything I have left—but I can’t go back. Not with him,” she said, stumbling over the words.

When Valerian moved like a thundercloud above her, Cat could not help but shrink back. He matched her step for step, marching her from the wheel to stern, until the taffrail pressed against her back. And the captain of the Covenant leaned over her, so close a few strands of his long hair brushed her temple.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, eyes alight, a flush blooming across his cheeks.

“I do!” Cat shot up at him, feeling her own face flame. “You have other women on your ship, and I can work, I can read, I can clean, I can learn. You said it yourself—”

His hand closed on her shoulder, his grip firm but not bruising, meant to hold her in place. As if Cat might bolt. But her feet were anchored, her body glued to the Covenant, her eyes never leaving Valerian’s face.

To her surprise, she saw the same desperation welling up in his eyes, the same conflict. The same need.

“This is a pirate ship, Lady Rose.” His hand curved, sliding from her clothed shoulder to the bare skin of her neck. Cat could not help but arc into his palm, pressing as much of herself into his hand as she could, seeking more and more.

He did not relent, the edge of his jaw tightening.

“You have seen a piece of us, but you have not seen the whole. Not even close.”

Without thought, Cat’s hand shot out, fingers winding through the chain around his neck. She could break it easily, the gold links thin and weak. Reclaim the prayer bead and what part of herself Valerian Kane seemed to hold.

Cat wanted nothing but to give more.

“I saw the Venerable wrecked and sunk. I swam through the water with the bodies. I saw what you can do, what you are.” She pulled the necklace enough to make him move, closer and closer still. “What this world is.”

He smelled of sweat, salt, smoke. She ventured his skin tasted the same.

“You don’t know the half of it, Lady Rose,” Valerian growled, the air trembling between them.

Cat reveled in it, refusing to let go. Her pulse jumped in her throat, hammering against the callused curve of Valerian’s palm.

“I am willing to see, Captain Kane.”

Another moment stretched, torturous in length, infuriating and silent. The prayer bead dangled, the only thing between them besides the thin cotton of her gown. Out of the corner of Cat’s eye, the dying sunset filled the sea, turning the waves red as blood.

“It would be a kindness to turn you aside, to save you from what you refuse to understand,” Valerian said, shifting a little, so that his broad shoulders obscured her from anyone who might climb up the quarterdeck. He hissed a breath, sighing.

Relenting.

“I am not kind.”

She expected his kiss to burn, to set her on fire, to consume both of them in circling flames.

I should have known he was a storm instead of an inferno.

The hurricane of Valerian swept her up, fiercer than a gale wind, stronger than a crashing wave. Everything spun, as if the Covenant itself was caught up in the maelstrom. But they could be sinking to the bottom of the sea for all Cat cared. There was nothing beyond Valerian. His hands, his teeth, his fingers beneath her jaw, angling her face just so. She gasped, but his mouth was there to swallow it, lips parted, his breath her own.

Cat only knew what it was to kiss Ryman. After a split second, she promised herself she never would know it again.

Her spine curved, arcing backwards against the stern. It was not the necklace she held now but the folds of Valerian’s shirt, pulling him into her even as he did the same, roughly pressing her to him.

His lips moved against hers and the moments stretched, until she wondered if they might braid together entirely, two bodies melting into one.

Then he tightened, his muscles going rigid, his hands dropping to the taffrail, framing her body with his. And his face turned, lips pulling away, leaving Cat still spinning in the storm’s wake.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he murmured again, his tempest eyes on the waves and the last inches of sunlight.

Her fingers curled, as if she could keep him steady. There was no mistaking the look on Valerian’s face. Flushed and gasping for breath, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his collarbone. Black pupils blown wide, eating up the green of his gaze. The way his hands flexed on either side of her hips, as if he fought the urge to hold her. The raw want, the desire. She felt the same—near drowning with the need for him.

Valerian touched her again, but just to break her grip on his shirt. This time, his fingers felt like ice, and when he turned away, Cat remained, frozen as a Meridian winter.

She watched him go, steady in his pace, outwardly the sure and swaggering captain of the Covenant. He left her alone at the helm, with nothing but the first stars overhead and the wheel of the ship creaking softly.

For a blistering moment, Cat thought about seizing it. Gripping the wood as Valerian did, spinning the ship off course and away from its heading. To anywhere else in the world.

Instead, she descended the quarterdeck, never looking up. She moved swiftly, lest she throw the last of her shame away and chase Valerian through the ship.

But she did not lock her cabin door and waited for a knock all night.

It never came.

*

SHE AWOKE TO the rough scuff of boots overhead, too many feet shuffling across the quarterdeck.

The borrowed bunk had become a haven, despite the threadbare blankets and lumpy mattress. It was better than any bed shared with Ryman Rose, and Cat clung to it, even as she groaned into her pillow, the events of the previous day racing back to her. Ana’s words, Cat’s shameful request to join the ship—Valerian’s kiss. And his rejection afterwards, stalking away from her, leaving her gasping in his wake. Just another conquest to add to his other trophies. It was all too much to face first thing in the morning, and she refused to get up.

But the sounds on deck persisted, impossible to ignore. The day had begun, and she peered out through slitted eyes, bracing for the warm burst of sun.

There was only the cold, bare light before dawn, washed weak and blue, barely a ghost between the thin curtains of Valerian’s cabin. Cat sighed in relief. She had an hour or so yet before the day would truly begin. An hour more to sleep or simply lie quiet, avoiding all thought of what lay ahead. Or what she had already done, the taste of Valerian Kane still lingering on her lips.

The boots scuffed again, steps sounding directly above her. At the helm, beside the ship’s wheel and the compass.

Much as she wanted to shut her eyes and retreat to the cover of the blankets, Cat sat up, training her focus on the ceiling. By now, she knew what it was to sail on the Covenant. What the routines were, which chores and tasks happened when. What the wheel sounded like when it spun, the tiller creaking, the great rudder of a greater ship moving with the pull of ropes and gears. And Cat moved with it, feeling the gentle but undeniable shift of the Covenant turning onto a different course.

Or towards their final destination.

Sickness leapt up in Cat’s throat, an image of Rosby already branded in her mind. She saw it silhouetted against the rising dawn, black as a yawning grave. Before she knew it, her bare feet were on the timbers, her borrowed nightgown whipping around her as she hurried for the deck, all her thoughts narrowed to one.

Please turn around.

She flung open the outer door to find a low fog, thick as a storm cloud, obscuring the sea in almost every direction. The pale blue of ebbing night fought through at spare intervals, the gaps offering a glimpse of the distant horizon. Cat spun, hunting for Rosby through the gloom.

Around her, far more crew than expected moved on the deck, early to their errands, hazy shadows in the fog. A few crept along the rails, while more climbed into the rigging, the weak light glinting on metal. Belt buckles. Jewelry. Knives.

Long guns.

Her heartbeat sputtered, her eyes widening as more of the deck came into sharp, terrible focus.

At the prow, Cavallid doused the lantern dangling from the bowsprit, just above the carved lion. At the mainmast, Mr. Brimley did the same, scurrying up to blow out the flame. Cat turned in time to see the last lamp extinguished on the quarterdeck, plunging the helm deeper into darkness. But not Valerian Kane. Somehow, the captain of the ship still stood out against the blue-gray shadows, his silhouette carved against the shuttered sky.

Cat stared up at him, trying to read the stern expression on his face. He wore the same clothes as the evening before, albeit armed with his gun and knives. His mouth and brow were hard and grim, the lines on his face dug deeper by the darkness. It made his eyes all the more piercing, taking in every inch of the ship. His helmsman stood by his shoulder, Ana by the other.

The absolute silence in which the crew worked was most frightening of all. They were ghosts, fading in and out of sight, readying the ship with little more than a light footstep or a hiss of rope. Cat’s heartbeat sounded louder than the sail unfurling overhead, her pulse a drumbeat drowning out the clink of a pistol being loaded. One gun after another. Flintlocks, rifles, muskets. The swivel guns on the rails, like cannons in miniature, their first shots loaded from neatly organized piles already assembled on deck.

They’re hunting, Cat thought, the sickness of Rosby turning to cold terror.

And then Valerian’s eyes found her, leaping from a sailor coiling rope to her upturned face. It felt like a twisted mirror of the evening before, when he stared down at her from the quarterdeck, inviting her in. A few hours ago, it had been difficult to look at him and not think of his hands, the graze of his teeth, the warmth of his chest pressed against her back in her dream.

Now she knew what he tasted like but could think only of the knife at his hip, the pistol at the other. And the storm in his eyes, eager to be unleashed on whatever unsuspecting souls wandered across his path.

He did not blink, still staring at her as he spoke in a whisper, orders spilling from his mouth like blood from a wound. The helmsman leapt to obey, spinning the wheel to whatever heading Valerian named. Ana moved swiftly from his side, her black hair loose around her face, a matching swath of kohl streaked around her eyes, a curved knife with a wicked edge at her hip. It gave her the look of some warrior god, dangerous and divine.

Cat braced as the first mate padded down the stairs, waiting to be grabbed and thrown back in her cabin. She was barefoot, but why, Cat had no idea and there was no chance to ask. Ana passed her with only a sliding glance, the look in her vibrantly painted eyes stern, but not unkind. She motioned as she walked the deck, her feet making no noise at all. Her fingers danced, communicating without words, signaling to other members of the crew. For what, Cat had no idea, but they certainly did. Sailors fell in behind her, their eyes painted in the same fashion, naked blades at their hips, their own shoes discarded.

Perhaps it will be like the Credence, she thought, remembering the crossing. Perhaps the prize will surrender without a shot fired, and all this will be over without bloodshed.

Even in her mind, it felt like a foolish hope. The crew were ready for battle, hungry for it even.

You don’t know the half of it, Valerian had said.

He was not lying.

It was like seeing the Covenant for the first time all over again, when she clung to the wreck of the Venerable. The pirate ship was not a sanctuary but a beast of the sea, a predator who feasted on the spoils of the Lyrian with no concern for whatever she left in her bloody wake.

Through it all, Valerian stared down on her, his gaze an anchor holding her to the deck. Finally, he motioned with his hand too, throwing out a signal.

And Garedo melted out of the gloom. Before Cat could open her mouth to greet him, he had her by the arm, his usually kind face stoic.

“Return to your cabin, my lady,” he muttered under his breath, barely a whisper, softer than silk.

Cat wanted to obey. She willed her feet to step, her body to relent and allow Mr. Garedo to lead her back to the quarterdeck. But her chest tightened, as if invisible walls were suddenly pressing at her from all sides. Maybe they were. The walls of a cabin—not Valerian’s—but the little cabin on the Venerable, the one she had shared with her maid, Sara, clutching prayer beads through a storm. Sara, who drowned when the Venerable exploded, trapped beneath the deck in a sinking ship. Somehow her body made it to the surface, floating up to bid farewell.

Will mine?

“I’m not going inside,” Cat snapped, twisting against Mr. Garedo’s grip. It was weak, his hands still gentle even if his face was not, and she broke his hold easily. The motion set her off balance and Cat stumbled, fighting to breathe against the sensation of being crushed. Or drowned. “I’m not—”

The hand over her mouth was harsh, the one grasping her neck harsher still. Rough skin, calluses, fingers digging in to keep her from thrashing free. They were the same hands that had held her at dusk, and yet so vastly different. Cat tried to fight him off, raising her fists to push back on Valerian’s chest. She might as well have smacked a brick wall; he never wavered, bearing down on her with grim focus.

“Quiet,” he hissed in her face, his grip tight. Enough to hold her in place. Perhaps enough to bruise. “Quiet.”

Her pulse beat against his palm at her throat, her skin burning to match the flame of his. It was not fear that coursed through her now, but rage. The indignity of being touched in such a way, silenced—and all in front of the crew, too many eyes watching as the pirate captain of the Covenant manhandled his captured lady. It made Cat want to tear her skin off, and his too.

“I’m going to let you go, if you promise to be silent,” Valerian growled, the fingers on her throat loosening little by little. “Will you be silent, Lady Rose?”

She had not expected to taste him again so soon, nor under such circumstances. Her teeth met the flesh of his hand, hot iron bursting on her tongue.

To Valerian’s credit, he did not wince or cry out or even break his hold. But his eyes narrowed, the only testament to his pain. And strangely, his pursed lips twitched, betraying the smallest curl of a smirk. As if he were somehow proud of her.

In spite of the circumstances, Cat felt the same, having finally grown fangs of her own. If only for a second.

“Will you be silent?” he said once more, his hushed voice a lower timbre.

Cat nodded as best she could, his hand following the motion of her head. It made her feel like a bridled horse, and she endeavored not to bite him again. A streak of his blood worked its way over her chin, painting a scarlet line down her throat.

Satisfied, Valerian released her with maddening slowness. Behind him, Garedo looked on, his warm brown skin washed blue by the predawn light and the shifting fog. His brows knitted with concern as he glanced between captain and lady. As if one might attack the other at any moment.

“I’m not going below,” Cat said again, dropping her voice to a whisper.

Trembling, she wiped away the blood on her lips with a sleeve, leaving a bloom of scarlet at her wrist. She imagined her face made for a horrid sight, a smear of crimson across her mouth as if she were a lady panting in the back hall of a ballroom, a stolen kiss still burning on her lips.

Valerian’s blood certainly still burned, the taste of metal lingering on her tongue.

His eyes held hers, luminous and unyielding. She expected him to dismiss her fears, and the walls pressed again. He need only signal, and his crew would drag her from the deck.

Instead, he stepped backwards, arms outstretched in some strange welcome.

Like another ghost, Mr. Brimley faded out of the fog, now wearing an officer’s uniform. He carried a coat over one arm.

It was cobalt blue.

Her teeth clenched as Valerian slipped into the coat of a Meridian captain, still adorned with gleaming buttons and filigree, the white cuffs and lapels set with gold embroidery. She did not miss the hole at the shoulder, a circle of torn fabric edged with dried blood. Another crew member appeared with a black tricorne, setting it on Valerian’s head. He grinned beneath it, his golden tooth winking to match the buttons of a dead man’s jacket.

“Very well, Lady Rose, since you are so eager to learn,” Valerian whispered, throwing her words back in her face. Above him, heavy canvas flapped and the Lion unfurled from the masts, triple flags flying in the fog. “Their spotters will see us well before we are within opportune range, and a woman on deck will cause quite the confusion.”

His smirk was a dagger, sharp and stinging.

“You will make for a fine distraction.”

*

WHERE THE LADY’S overcoat had come from amongst the varied stores of the Covenant, Cat did not know—and the middle of an ambush was hardly the time to ask. She picked at the thread of the green brocade, her nightshift obscured beneath. At least they let me put shoes on, she thought, eyeing her borrowed boots peeking out beneath the hem. To anyone with a spyglass, she would look like a passenger taking the air on the deck of a Meridian warship. She almost laughed at how good a ruse it was. After all, she had been such a passenger mere weeks ago. Though the officer next to her had not worn a murdered captain’s coat.

Valerian paced slowly at her side as they walked the starboard rail, a performative escort. His eyes were on the fog, and whatever he knew lay in wait shrouded in the gray. Occasionally he glanced over the rail, looking into the dark blue waves as if they held some secret in their depths.

“I suppose you aim to show me the whole of it,” Cat hissed, trying to glean anything in the fog. But the world was shadowed and gray, inscrutable. Just like her future. “What I asked for so foolishly.”

“Hardly,” Valerian scoffed, though she did not miss the color rising on his face. “A prize was spotted, and I would not be captain long if I let such an opportunity go.” His voice took on a darker edge. “This is our nature, Cat.”

It almost sounded like an apology.

“How do you know what’s out there?”

She could see nothing for the fog—no sails, no flags, no lanterns.

“These are what the Arcayans call the Amori, the snake tides,” he answered. “This time of year, they swell through the Furies and form currents like rivers. Any ship without a sharp heading and a hard hand at the helm will end up in these waters. And Mr. Garedo spotted such a ship on the path last night.”

The new tone in his voice, easy and prideful, gave Cat pause. “Certainly, the navy can navigate the tides as well as you.”

His cocked his head. “Shall we bet on it?”

“Very well, Captain,” she said, watching him turn back to the waves. “But at least one of your legends isn’t true.”

He did not look away from the water, but his jaw tightened a fraction. “Which?”

“The one about salt water in your veins.” She brushed a hand to her now clean mouth. “To that I can attest.”

Before he could reply, three flares of golden light bled through the fog, too small and uniform to be the distant dawn. Lanterns, Cat knew, her breath caught in her teeth. Bow, mainmast, and stern. The prize was close, barely a quarter mile from the Covenant. She expected Valerian to shoot her a triumphant look, but his focus was entirely on the opposing vessel, the captain’s mantle settling back around his shoulders. Whatever lay between them disappeared, forgotten in the face of the hunt.

The ship took shape through the fog, planted perpendicular to the Covenant’s path, Meridian flags catching the soft wind. The Lion roared through the fog, the flags and figurehead matching those on the Covenant. The ships were brothers once, and it showed.

But no longer.

Cat squinted at the warship, trying to count. Decks, guns, sails. To measure the size of the prey against the size of her hunter. Not to mention count the dozens of Meridian men on the other ship, sailing directly into a trap. Men with families and friends, men who only hoped to do their duty for Crown and Empire. She felt sick with possibility. The other vessel might have been her salvation once, a ship of the fleet come to save her. Now it could send her to the bottom of the sea in the ensuing firefight.

Rescue or death.

Valerian motioned, fist opening and closing behind his back. On cue, the lanterns of the Covenant flared to life again, blazing through the fog. As if they had only just appeared, and not stalked the other warship as a wolf would a lamb.

“What happens if I scream?” Cat murmured, chest rising and falling beneath her coat. Once more she felt the press of walls, of water, of the weight of the Lyrian Sea dragging her down and down.

His heel hissed on the deck as he spun, and Cat half expected to be seized again. But Valerian held his ground, staring down on her.

“That is a fourth-rate ship of the line, thirty-two guns a side. Thirty-two guns shooting twelve pounds of solid iron each,” he answered with a low growl. Over his shoulder, the other warship loomed. “I will not bore either of us with the arithmetic, though I’m sure an educated woman like yourself can solve the equation. We have speed and stealth, but they have the angle of the shot at present.”

His face tightened, and Cat saw a glimpse of what his enemies might see. A warrior. A conqueror. A king no matter how many times Valerian Kane claimed to be anything but.

“Would you like to scream, Lady Rose?”

“No,” she answered, too soft for even her own ears.

But Valerian perceived.

He nodded once, tricorne dipping. Even when he was in uniform, it still felt impossible to picture him as a sailor of the fleet, a man of His Majesty’s navy. Every inch of him cut a hard contrast against Meridian cobalt and an officer’s filigree.

“Just play the part and all will be well,” he muttered, barely brushing her sleeve with his hand. Again, his touch was ice, freezing her to her spot.

She nodded mutely, forcing her face into the calm mask of a lady, distant and imperious. Any spotter would see only a woman with downcast eyes, her expression soft and empty. Silent as a woman should be.

The Covenant crept closer, still headed directly for the opposing ship. The fog drifted, turning pinker but not lifting as the dawn broke. Out of the corner of her eye, Cat watched the crew scurry into place, some hidden on the main deck, while others ducked below, certainly to man the guns. Mr. Brimley, disguised in uniform like the captain, stood at the bow, a rifle at his feet. It was the same with the few others still visible on deck, performing at chores with weapons close at hand.

Ana was nowhere to be seen, the rest of her painted crewmates having disappeared entirely.

In the rigging, one of Valerian’s crew raised a small horn, issuing a note to hail the other vessel. After a moment, they answered in kind, a flurry of motion on deck.

Next to her, Valerian’s stance broadened, his shoulders thrown wide, his hands clasped behind his back in cruel mimicry of a Meridian officer. Cat could not help but think of Lieutenant Fell below deck, his posture rigid as a walking stick.

“For Crown and Empire!” Valerian shouted across the steadily closing gap between ships.

Behind him, at the wheel, the helmsman angled, turning so the Covenant might move parallel to the other ship. Sails reefed and oars clacked, running out alongside primed cannons to help maneuver. All of it happened in terrible sync, the crew of the Covenant dangerously well-practiced in the art of plunder. It was no longer difficult to imagine how Valerian had claimed the Covenant to begin with, wrestling a ship of the line from the fleet.

And he’s going to do it again, or die in the attempt.

Cat could barely watch, her teeth clenched tight, as the Covenant eased towards the Victorious, the ship’s name painted in gold along the intricate taffrail. But her mask held, even if her hands shook with terror.

Valerian’s hands were the opposite, steady as he turned, putting his back to the Victorious. With quick but methodical motions, he drew the murderous flintlock ever present on his hip.

Wide-eyed, Cat watched as he calmly loaded the gun—powder, wad, shot, ramrod, powder again. Valerian did it all with the ease of a fish taking to water, as if it were second nature, pure instinct. Then he returned the pistol to his hip, beneath his coat, and spun back to face the Victorious, just in time to come level with its captain.

Cat held her breath. There were scarcely five yards between the ships, both vessels riding the gentle swell of the sloshing waves. At such close range, she could see the Victorious was smaller—but barely. And her captain was old, gray-haired even without a wig, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

He stared across the distance, peering at Valerian with the squint of an aging sailor. A few officers clustered around him, equally confused and off guard.

“For Crown and Empire,” the captain of the Victorious shouted back, adjusting the fit of his hastily donned coat. It was thrown over his nightclothes. “My apologies, madam,” he added, eyeing Cat with a flush. It only deepened as he studied the Covenant and Valerian lording over it.

He doesn’t know the ship, but will not say so, Cat thought, reading the potent mix of pride and ignorance on his face. She curtsied, careful to keep her eyes down and her shaking hands hidden.

Valerian offered a tight smile, the pompous kind that was not a smile at all.

“It seems we are both off course, Captain,” he called, his rough voice smoothed into the clipped tones of a Meridian gentlemen. It did not suit him, just like the uniform.

“Indeed. These currents, this blasted sea,” the other man answered with a sharp look at his staff. “The charts will have to be updated when we reach Longdawn.”

Valerian only shrugged.

“If.”

Cat’s eyes fluttered shut, just for a second, and she imagined herself on dry land. Anywhere but a powder keg in the middle of the Lyrian Sea.

“I beg your pardon?” the Meridian captain said.

“If you reach Longdawn, sir,” Valerian answered.

On the Victorious, one of the officers reeled backwards, perceiving the danger. Another slipped down the ladder, his face going white.

Their captain did not notice, still squinting across the short distance. “What is your name, Captain?”

Valerian’s grin widened, the gold tooth winking, and Cat suddenly wished she had stayed in her cabin. Her knees bent, ready to run, even if there was nowhere to go.

“My name is of no consequence.”

The captain of the Victorious cursed, ugly realization sweeping across his face. “You’re pirate scum—”

He was silenced by the smooth draw of an already loaded pistol, leveled at his heart.

“This is not the only gun pointed and ready to fire, of that I can assure you,” Valerian said, the clipped accent falling away as he looked down the barrel. Cat tried not to imagine how many cannons were loaded and aimed on the gun decks, ready to tear apart the Victorious at close range. “Surrender, and your crew will be given quarter.”

“And give over my ship?” the opposing captain said, his wrinkled hands curled into fists. “I would rather die than put the Victorious in the hands of a pirate.”

“That can be arranged,” Valerian said, unperturbed. While the Victorious roused to their predicament, he drew back the hammer on the flintlock, the iron click like a thunderclap.

At the other rail, the Meridian captain flinched but did not run. Nor did his remaining officers. They curdled with disgust, seeing Valerian and his ship for what it was.

Cat watched it all, holding on to her expressionless mask as best she could. It almost slipped when a figure moved on the opposite ship, a head appearing over the far rail, behind the captain and his officers. Black-haired and black-eyed, the streaks of paint dripping down her face as the seawater rolled off her. It made for a ferocious sight.

Cat clenched her teeth to stop from calling out.

Ana.

The Seawolf was not the only one crawling up the hull of the Victorious, using the ropes and rigging like a ladder. One, two—a dozen, all soaked and silent, marked and painted, like legendary creatures drawn up from the deep. One slipped up behind the first officer who fled, holding a knife to his throat in clear warning. Another was even faster, creeping up the gangplank to grab the helmsman without a sound. Ana followed, a smile on her face, her teeth flashing in the fog.

Unbeknownst to the Victorious, Anamina Rualcon held the wheel.

“Surrender the ship, Captain,” Valerian said, sounding almost amused.

And Cat dared to hope. Over without a shot.

The Meridian captain gave an ugly snarl, lunging forwards with a hawkish cry.

“Victorious—to arms!”

Unbeknownst to the Meridian captain, knives opened two throats, the first of his men falling to the Covenant.

Valerian’s curse was low and guttural.

“Damn.”

His left arm was fast, thrown across Cat’s chest. His trigger finger was even faster, a cloud of smoke and a blazing flash erupting from the pistol. The sound seemed to crack the world apart, followed by another staccato of gunfire, raining down from the rigging of the Covenant as Valerian’s snipers peppered the deck of the Victorious.

Cat could only fall, driven backwards by the force of Valerian’s arm as he shoved her behind his body, shielding her from any returning volley. Even so, she saw the captain of the Victorious as he careened backwards, a red flower of blood blooming across his nightshirt. His dying gasps were somehow louder than the guns.

But not louder than the stomp of booted feet as two dozen bluecoats charged up from below, flooding the deck of the Victorious, hastily loading their rifles or raising sabers to fight.

Cat followed the momentum of Valerian’s force, and she stumbled, tripping over herself to get away from the rail. But Valerian held his ground, holstering his pistol to slip free his knives as the first Meridian bluecoat attempted to bridge the gap between ships. He swung towards them on a rope, a battle cry on his lips. It ended with a wet rattle as Valerian stabbed him through the heart, his body falling in a graceless arc.

Directly next to Cat.

He pawed at her weakly, already white with blood loss, more skull than face. She screamed, trying to shove away the dying man, the front of her coat slick and scarlet.

This is a nightmare, Cat told herself. I’m going to wake up.

But the smell of blood and gunpowder was too strong to deny, too real to be a dream.

This isn’t a nightmare. This is hell itself.

The pirates of the Covenant washed over the deck, armed with a stunning array of guns and blades. Even little Ratter was among them, a bag of ammunition at his side as he worked to reload spent pistols and rifles. The gunfire continued, the bluecoats on the Victorious finally getting off a round, even as Ana’s detachment fought through them, preventing the Meridians from getting into formation, their shots erratic.

Cat scrambled on hands and knees, keeping low to avoid the bullets screaming overhead. The timbers beneath her seemed to tremble and she braced for the Covenant guns to rip through the Victorious as Valerian threatened.

Do it, sink them. End this, she prayed, crawling past the mainmast towards the quarterdeck—and the captain’s cabin. End them before they end us.

But no broadside came, no shots fired from below.

And cold realization dawned.

Cat could just see the helm of the Victorious, with Ana still at the wheel. The paint across her face made the whites of her eyes blaze, brighter than the sun peeking through the fog and smoke. Captain Kane would never fire on his own crew, let alone his first mate.

“Get back to the Covenant,” Cat hissed through gritted teeth, finding some refuge behind the mast.

Ana spun the wheel of the Victorious hard to starboard, before tying it off with a length of rope. The ship reacted in kind, slowly but steadily angling away from the Covenant, showing her stern. Pointing her guns away, putting enough distance between the ships to stop more Meridians from crossing over. And stranding those who had made it across.

But Ana was not finished. She tied off another length of rope from the deck, then wrapped it around her hands and leapt over the edge of the quarterdeck. She swung, hanging loose to scramble down the ship like a spider, graceful and deadly. And even Cat could see her aim.

The rudder.

Valerian held the Victorious by the throat, with the assembled cannons of the Covenant standing primed and ready to fire. But it was Ana who would land the killing blow, disabling the rudder, cutting the tendons out from under a deadly warrior.

For the prize, Cat knew, eyeing the length of the Victorious. Her cannons, her hold filled with food and weapons, powder, ammunition. Charts and logs, naval intelligence. And the ship herself, formidable in the hands of a fleet captain. Fearsome in the hands of a pirate.

Valerian would not sink her. Not unless there was any other option.

And the Victorious was in his jaws.

He watched from only a yard away, firing off another shot himself, the knife still red at his side, a sailor lifeless at his feet. Smoke wreathed his head, but not from any cigar. The tricorne was long gone, his golden locks loose about his shoulders, the cobalt coat of a dead captain streaked with gunpowder and blood.

If the battle was hell, then Valerian Kane was the devil himself.

All the while, he shouted orders, commanding crew into position. Raise sail, push back. Ready fuses.

“Faster, Ana!” echoed loudest of all, the only order laced with desperation.

Time was their best weapon and steadily running down. The longer it took, the better chance the Victorious had to regroup. And worst of all, Cat realized, ready their own cannons.

One of the officers was too quick, fighting his way to the helm to get his ship back under control. He loosed the rope, spinning the wheel hard in the other direction. Below, the rudder chain splashed into the waves.

Ana followed, diving into the churning sea.

Without thought, Cat ran for the rail, almost throwing herself over in an attempt to spot Ana amongst the waves.

“Ana!” she shouted, heart in her teeth. Her focus narrowed to the fading ripple where Ana went into the water. And the Victorious towering over it, the warship turning again, the spin of the wheel and the disabled rudder sending the ship into a deadly spiral.

“Ana!” she screamed again, hunting through the fog and smoke, ignoring the whistle of bullets and rising screams.

Only for an arm to loop around her waist, hauling her back from the edge.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Valerian roared, spinning her to face him.

Cat met him with a snarl. “Your first mate is in that water!”

He shook his head, laughing darkly. “She’s the best swimmer on this ship, save your worry for yourself.” Then his eyes rose, fixed on something over her head. “You’ll need it.”

Cat’s stomach plummeted and she turned, fearing the guns of the Victorious. The truth was somehow worse. The figurehead snarled, the Meridian lion reaching out with its claws, the spiraling warship on a direct collision course with the Covenant, ready to tear her in half.

“Hard to starboard, half shot ready, even cannons!” Valerian called out over the fray, reloading his pistol as he commanded the helmsman. The wheel spun, gears clacking and creaking, the Covenant leaping to his will like a loyal hound.

“Ready, sir!” Garedo called out from the ladder to the gun deck, his scalp sheened with sweat.

The angles shifted but not enough, the distance between ships narrowing too fast. Cat watched slack-jawed, trying to calculate, to think as a sailor would, to see something beyond splintering death at the bottom of the sea.

“Is the crew clear?” Valerian snarled, his eyes flashing between the Covenant and the Victorious.

Cat could not help but clutch at him, willing him to fire. To send the Victorious to the deep before it could split them in half. It felt like being trapped between two giants, waiting to be crushed.

At the prow, still in his false uniform, Brimley searched along the oncoming ship. His ruddy face was deathly pale. “Almost—”

“Are they clear?” Valerian roared again, stepping back from the rail. Cat moved with him, her grip on his arm so tight as to be bruising. She worried if she let go, she might jump over the side herself and take her chances in the sea.

Suddenly his hand was in her own, palm against palm, their fingers laced. Holding her steady, even as the world seemed to split apart.

“Brace for impact!”

There was no fear in Valerian Kane’s shout, only an iron will. But even he stumbled when the portside of the Victorious tore along the Covenant’s starboard, hull against hull, rail against rail, in a hailstorm of bullets and blades and splintering wood. Cat could only duck to the deck, and Valerian bent over her, sheltering her head as more men poured across—bluecoats and Ana’s remaining warriors dueling from one ship to the other. Ana was with them, climbing up from the water, her silver teeth catching the gleam of flashing guns. The battling crews shot and sliced, spilling sparks and crimson blood, until Cat could not tell one from the other.

Except for Captain Kane. His hand released and he straightened, still looming over her. He tossed his coat away, throwing it off to reveal a fresh spray of blood turning his shirt scarlet. But the blood was not his. Through the debris, Cat glimpsed his white smile, a strange sight against the breaking world.

“We’re clear,” she heard him mutter, before howling down to the gun deck.

“FIRE.”

Cat curled against the terrible earthquake that were the Covenant guns, one shot after another, loosing the fury of a broadside at close range. It was like sitting inside a thunderhead, struck by one bolt of lightning after another. So many voices screamed, in pain or triumph, for glory or bloodlust. Cat’s throat burned and she realized she was one of them, the sound lost to the din. But she yelled anyway, unleashing her terror, her frustration, even her rage, pouring it all out beneath the blanket of battle.

A curtain of smoke fell across the world, replacing the fog, flashing red with sparks and gold with the rising dawn. Through slitted, stinging eyes, Cat watched as the Victorious rocked on its keel, driven aside by the force of the impact. It bobbed like a toy in a copper tub, not a warship on the open sea. Her starboard side threatened to slough off, a gaping wound torn through the wood, and a few cannons rolled on their carriages, plunging into the sea.

“Half shot ready, odd cannons. On my mark.”

Valerian’s voice rose above the onslaught, glaring across the water at his limping prize.

She was not sunk.

Yet.

The white flag seemed a mirage at first, too good to be true. But it rose higher and higher, clutched in the fist of a bloody officer, one arm hooked in the rigging of his beleaguered ship, the other holding the flag aloft.

Cat pushed herself up on shaking arms, staring through the smoke, barely daring to hope. Until the guns dropped, the sabers tossed away, and every living man of the Victorious fell to his knees in surrender.

She climbed to her feet, blood staining her dress, gunpowder in her hair. She expected to collapse or retch over the rail. It all felt like some horrible nightmare, the air too heavy, her steps slow. But she forced herself towards the ladder down to the gundecks, avoiding corpses and debris as best she could.

“I must attend to my husband,” she said softly, the only words she could think to say.

Valerian eyed her through the swirling dust and smoke, his dark green eyes a sharp contrast to the haze. There was blood in his hair, blood on his face, blood all down his clothes. The blood of so many dead—and yet he had never looked so alive.

He watched her, expectant. Never coming closer or turning away. Letting her look at him, to see what he was, resolute in his silence.

She heard his voice anyway.

You don’t know the half of it.

The words echoed in her head, a warning and a lament.

I know now, Cat wanted to say, her vision spotting. She expected to faint, as a proper lady would, in the face of so much violence. It certainly would have been easier to pass out. But the darkness never fell, and the true world pressed in. The blood, the gunpowder. Death in every direction, on the waves and beneath them.

Slowly, Cat lowered her eyes, breaking the hold of Valerian’s gaze.

“I must attend to my husband,” she said once more. It sounded like surrender and felt even worse.

But it was the only path to walk.

While Ana shouted, beginning the laborious process of overtaking the wounded Victorious, Cat put her back to the deck. And Valerian. The world blurred, bluecoats hazing in the corners of her vision. Some threw away their uniforms, eager to defect and choose the black flag. The rest kneeled in surrender.

Cat told herself it was a mercy, to be ransomed or set adrift, instead of being shot on sight. But she knew that wasn’t entirely true.

You don’t know the half of it.

There was no erasing what she had witnessed, no squaring what she thought of the crew before the battle with the after.

Worst of all was Valerian, the whole of him now fully seen. He was somehow still the man who offered her his coat when she was wet and shivering, plucked from the sea. Who tasted of salt and smoke, strong enough to pull away when all she wanted was to push forwards. Who smirked at her across a card table, watching her as though she were the only person in the entire world.

And then killed so many men with the same smirk on his face, as if they were not men at all.

Chapter Twenty-Nine After

SLOWLY, CAT PULLED out a chair and sat down at the table, leaving Valerian alone at the head. Her black skirts pooled around her, the intricate Arcayan beadwork at the hem catching the light. She held his gaze all the while, careful to let her curls spill over one shoulder, leaving her exposed collarbone bare to the lamplight.

Just as Valerian liked.

“What are you going to do with me?” she murmured, sitting straight as a lady. Rigid and useless.

She hoped he would soften, if only a little. He used to hate when she retreated into her ladylike habits, born of another life and a harsher cage. But Valerian’s piercing stare remained unchanged.

He ran his fingers over the table, but Cat felt them as keenly as if dragged over her skin. He filled the close air of the council chamber, his usual heat making the room feel tight and cloying. It was a threat as much as a reminder. He was the apex predator here, and Cat was merely prey.

“When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

Frustration boiled, and Cat felt her skin might ignite. Her good manners dropped as quickly as they came, her finger pointing an accusation across the table.

“I told you this was coming. I told you to run while you—while we could,” she said, sputtering with rage. And exasperation. She tossed her head, chestnut hair spilling across her face. “I tried, Valerian. You wouldn’t listen. You forced my hand.”

“I’m no judge, but I fear the punishment does not fit the crime.”

“Hate me all you want,” she spat, feeling as murderous as he looked. “Just don’t forget I saved your life too.”

His chair careened backwards, slamming against the timbers as Valerian shot to his feet. He towered over the table, and while Cat told herself to hold her ground, she shook doing it.

“And what about the lives you doomed?” he roared, seizing either side of her chair to drag her forwards until he was all she could see, his arms a cage on either side of her shoulders. “With your whispers and your secrets?”

His scent enveloped her again, the smell of the sea so strong, she remembered the old legends of Valerian Kane. That his veins ran with salt water, and not blood.

Cat knew firsthand that was hardly true, having tasted such blood herself.

Then he laughed over her, halfway to howling like a mad dog.

Cat bared her teeth. “What’s so funny?”

With a shrug, he released her chair, the front legs swinging forwards to land on the floor. Cat flinched at the impact as Valerian walked away, his weaving gait in perfect rhythm with the swells of the tide.

When he spun back to face her, Cat flinched again. She had seen heartache and sorrow and rage on Valerian Kane too many times to count. But never grief. It turned him inside out, the light racing from his eyes, the smile gone from his lips as if it had never existed at all.

“They call me the deadliest pirate in the Lyrian Sea,” he breathed. “They say I’ve sunk more ships than any other captain, killed more crews.”

The lamps flickered on his face, as if burning in his skin. Cat did not doubt it. Something certainly burned in Valerian now.

“But I don’t hold a candle to you, Widow Rose.”

True, Cat thought, her stomach twisting so violently, she feared she would be sick all over the timbers or her own new boots. Valerian held her eyes through it all, the same wretched sickness on his face, the same heartache welling up in his eyes. Until a knock at the door snapped them from the painful hurricane, and both Cat and Valerian turned to face the sound.

“As requested, Captain,” Adelo said from the other side.

With two quick strides, Valerian returned to his chair, his face wiped clean of every emotion. It was dizzying to watch.

“Bring him in,” he called out.

For a moment, Cat thought she had been thrown back through time. There was Jasper Fell in chains, captured on the Covenant, his hair loose and eyes menacing. She knew how this dance went.

But it was not Ana shuffling him along, calling him a Meridian dog. Adelo was a diligent mate, but he was not the Seawolf. And this was not ten years ago, when a different Cat Rose and a different Valerian Kane sat in similar positions.

“We searched him, as ordered,” Adelo said, laying out a spread of Fell’s items, including the tightly folded documents from the governor.

But it was not the papers that interested Valerian. His eyes fell to the flintlock pistol, still attached to its gun belt and holstered on the table. Silently, he stood and prowled towards the weapon, entranced by it.

Silver chasings ran through the polished wood, curling in intricate patterns around the hilt and hammer. The gun looked just as much a piece of jewelry as a weapon, the adornments dulled by fingerprints. Without a word, Valerian drew it from its holster and checked the sights, his grip easy and familiar.

After all, it had been his pistol once. Many years ago.

While the pirate pored over his prodigal flintlock, Cat met Fell’s accusing eye. He pursed his lips, letting her see his anger. Then he glanced about the room, taking it in as she had. Taking in the peculiar, repetitive nature of this moment. And his mouth twitched, betraying the smallest smirk, and his eyes rolled. As if to say, This again?

Cat could not help but agree, the corners of her mouth lifting.

Valerian abandoned the gun and grinned, a feral sight.

“Good to see you, sir. I’m told congratulations are in order,” he said, slapping the shackled Fell on the shoulder.

The navy man became steel again. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been made captain! That’s quite the accomplishment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fell went stiff as a board when Valerian slung an arm around his shoulders. The pirate leaned loose and easy, while the navy captain almost hissed, the picture of an angry cat with its hackles on end. Cat had to bite her lip to keep from giggling, the pair of them forming the lethal ends of a wide, disparate spectrum.

Valerian steered Fell around the table, forcing him to pace.

“Though I saw that ship of yours,” he said, laughing. “Well, no worry. I’m sure the governor will reward you with a grander post once you whore for him a little longer.”

Purple splotches appeared on Fell’s cheeks, as if he were being strangled.

“You know that is not my ship—” he sputtered, only to stop short and draw a steadying breath. “What do you want for my crew?”

“Want?” Valerian clapped a hand to his chest in mock pain. But the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “Captain Fell, I’m sure you realize as much as I do, the times have changed. I’m not holding your crew ransom.” His arm around Fell’s shoulders tightened. “I’m holding them hostage.”

Fell kept his unyielding stance, despite the pirate staring him in the face. “Hold me. I’m enough.”

With a laugh, Valerian swooped backwards, unhanding Fell so quickly the officer stumbled, chains rattling. An old trick. Though Fell was her enemy, an obstinate obstacle on her path to freedom, Cat could not help but cringe to see Valerian toy with his captive this way.

“No, I prefer multiple bodies to sell if it comes to it,” Valerian sniffed, grabbing the flintlock again. His voice took on a more lethal edge. “And I suspect it will come to it.”

Prideful as he was, even Fell edged backwards.

Cat eyed the gun, half expecting Valerian to load it and level the sights at Fell’s head. But Valerian was smarter, or simply knew Fell as well as she did. There was no threatening him in an interrogation. Jasper Fell was too noble, too loyal to crack under the threat of death. Whatever information he gave would be given freely, or not at all.

Valerian took to counting the shots in the pouch affixed to the gun belt. Silver spheres clicked together in his palm, one by one.

“How many crew aboard the Fledge?” he said.

Fell did not hesitate.

“Ten.”

There was no cause to lie, if Adelo had done as asked, and marched Captain Fell in front of every captive member of his crew.

Valerian nodded. “And how many ships in convoy?”

“One,” Fell said.

“Is that the truth of it?” The pirate’s green gaze flicked to Cat.

Her face remained a mask.

“As far as I know,” she answered, feeling herself step out onto a ledge with death waiting below. She dared not look at Fell, lest her mask slip, and her desperation be put on full display. But it bloomed beneath her skin, acidic and corrosive.

Jasper Fell will not lie for me again.

Another clink of the shot, the gleam of them reflecting in Valerian’s eyes. They roved like planets, as if he held all the heavens in his stare.

I used to think so, Cat mused to herself. Every constellation, every star, even the moon and sun used to dance when she looked at him.

But no longer. She refused to see the stars in him anymore.

“And your endeavor?” Valerian asked.

Cat’s breath froze, sticking fast in her lungs.

Captain Fell did not look at her, standing tall despite his chains and the nature of captivity. He was, as usual, a puffed-up statue of Meridian superiority.

“To drag Catrine Rose screaming back to Archenport,” he snapped, tossing her a livid look. “To face judgement for her many crimes.”

It took all her will to keep her face blank, even as numbing relief swept through her body.

Valerian was a stone, unreadable, though Cat desperately wished to decipher his expression. Does he believe?

The pirate turned his chin, surveying Cat in her chair. Clink clink clink. He dropped the shot back in its pouch, but for one little ball still in hand. Sighing, he rolled it between his fingers, a little spit of iron that could tear out a man’s soul.

“Is that the way of it?”

“No,” she said, poised and without hesitation. “I am guilty of nothing, only survival.”

Long fingers scratched at golden stubble as Valerian rubbed his cheek, surveying them both.

“Strange. I’m the pirate, but I’m the only one here who hasn’t betrayed anyone,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then he laughed, surprised. “I’ve never held the moral high ground before. I’m not sure I like it.”

While he amused himself with the predicament, Cat shot one last glance at Jasper Fell. He was older than the last time she saw him in chains, now with the weight of a crew on his shoulders. But he wore the same scars, the same silver eyes. The same unknowable heart, loyal to Crown and Empire, except for the sliver-thin moments when he was not.

Not like Cat Rose. Loyal to one person always, and one alone.

Herself.

“You can’t ransom him,” Cat muttered.

Still laughing, Valerian threw up his hands. “We’ve been over that several times now.”

Cat pushed on undaunted, methodical. “You shouldn’t kill him either. Or the crew.”

“Not even to boost morale?” the pirate sneered.

“Will you take this seriously if I slap you?” Cat shot back, her fist tight in her lap. Certainly, she would prefer to punch him instead.

“It would not be the first time,” Valerian drawled, but motioned for her to continue.

In spite of the circumstances, Fell snorted a laugh.

Don’t you start, she wanted to snap. But she looked to Valerian, spilling her desperation and need to make him see. To prove once and for all—

I am right.

“The navy is coming. You’re outnumbered and outgunned, even with whatever armada you’re putting together,” she said forcefully. “If the Covenant is overtaken, it will be good to have men to trade. Living men.”

To her surprise, Valerian shrugged. He put the last ball of shot away.

“Yes, I agree,” he said, with so little fanfare Cat felt like chewing the walls. “Very well, Captain. I know you’re familiar with our accommodations below deck.”

Fell raised a black eyebrow. “I take it they have not improved?”

Valerian grinned.

“You let me know. And—” he added, pausing to strap the gun belt and holster back into place around his hips. The flintlock slid along his side, where it had lain years ago. “I’ll be taking this back.”

While Adelo bustled in, taking Fell by the shackles, Kane adjusted the pistol.

“You know, I never took you for a thief, Fell.”

The navy captain tossed him a pointed smile, the type better suited to a Meridian ballroom.

“Never took you for anything else, Kane,” he replied.

Valerian only nodded, watching him go. “Keep your crew in order.” His voice dropped, laced with an air of command. And a warning. “Or I will.”

To Cat’s surprise, Fell returned a shallow nod, before being wrestled out the door.

It swung on creaking hinges, slamming closed. Plunging both lady and pirate into thick, heavy silence.

Cat’s eyes trailed to the documents on the table. She knew what they were—her warrant of execution. And Fell’s letter of passage from the governor, stating he was on official business for the Meridian navy. Neither would condemn her. Not yet, at least.

“Who said I’m assembling an armada?”

She looked up to see Valerian squared to her across the table. His gaze burned. Suddenly the flintlock at his hip did not look quite so handsome. Especially when he drummed a finger over the silver, tracing old curves and new nicks.

The lie was easy, carefully laid.

“I lived in Archenport until two weeks ago, when they put me in the prisons of Fort Morden, and waved a death warrant in my face,” Cat said, ripping open the papers to send them sliding across the table. Valerian barely glanced down. “Sailors talk. Ships are going missing. Storms are breaking out of season. And there’s no man I know who can bring a ship through a storm like you can, Valerian.” Her breath caught, the whole of the Lyrian Sea spiraling before her eyes. “What are you planning?”

He did not answer for a long time. The quiet fell again, broken only by the shouts of men on deck, the creak of the ship settling beneath them. They were familiar sounds, too easy to lean into, like a warm bath. Cat kept tight, refusing to relax no matter how much her body wanted to.

Again, the grief flashed over his face. With a jolt, Cat realized he mourned not just Morovant or the pirate republic.

He mourns me too.

“You lost the right to know,” he said coldly, stalking to the chamber door. He was all knives and gold and ringing shot. A predator, a conqueror.

A king who always refused the crown.

“Am I free to leave?” she called out, though she already knew the answer.

He stopped short, one hand on the latch. Both shoulders rose and fell, betraying the heavy breaths he took to keep steady and anchored.

Anchored against me.

Once more Cat wondered if the smell of her body affected him as much as his did her. If he was also overwhelmed with the desire to run hands over hot skin, tracing old, familiar roads between collarbone and hip. To press fevered lips to scars and tattoos, worshiping each the way they deserved.

There was no way to tell with his back turned, his face hidden, his emotions shielded from even Cat Rose.

“Put my things back where you found them, Cat,” he growled, wrenching open the door without so much as a backwards glance.

Cat lowered her face, hiding the satisfied curl of her mouth.

Her voice carried, finding his ears before he could lock her in for the night.

“I will when I’m finished with your things, Valerian.”

Chapter Thirty Before

THE WALK TO the brig felt like a death march, every step heavier than the last. Until Cat thought she might simply collapse to the timbers, overcome with shock. The battle still raged behind her eyes, the flashes of powder and sprays of blood like fireworks. And the smiles of the Covenant crew, eager in their hunt, like hounds loping after a hare. Ana, Garedo, Brimley, even Ratter.

And Valerian of course, the leader of the pack.

How did I ever think this could be a place for me? she thought, cursing the foolish hopes of an even more foolish woman.

And her inescapable fate.

The brig was a foul sight. The battle had upended the shared bucket and sent Ryman spewing in the corner. He was still retching when Cat finally entered, her ears ringing and stomach churning. The smell almost made her turn around, but she forced herself forwards, much as she wanted to retreat to her cabin and her bunk, to burrow into darkness and forget.

Welcome to the Lyrian Sea, she thought bitterly.

Lieutenant Fell leapt up from the bench, eyes wide with worry. The days belowdecks gave Fell’s face a pale-yellow pallor, and his meticulously combed hair was hastily tied back in a knotted black tail, his scalp shiny with grease.

“You’re injured,” he barked. “We must send for the surgeon—”

“The blood isn’t mine,” Cat murmured, shrugging out of the ruined coat to show her nightshift beneath. In another life, she would have cringed to stand before another man in such a state, but such bonds of etiquette were long gone.

For her, at least. Ryman somehow managed to leer at her from his fetid corner. He was a ghoul raised from the grave, his eyes glassy and white spittle crusted to the corners of his mouth. He blinked at her slowly, as if he could not make sense of her presence.

“For gods’ sake, cover yourself,” he hissed.

Both Cat and Fell ignored him, eyeing each other instead.

“What ship did they come upon?” the officer said, his expression blank. He looked like when she first found him in the wreck of the Venerable. As if the light inside him had been snuffed out.

“The Victorious.”

His lips pursed.

“How many dead?”

“I’m not sure, but the captain certainly. Most of the survivors are being set adrift.”

The rest chose the black flag, Cat thought, but refused to say so. It would only be salt in a wound. She filled in the rest as best she could, barely understanding the battle herself. Ana’s ambush, Valerian’s disguise. The many repairs needed on both the Covenant and the Victorious. She could only wonder who might captain the captured warship, given command of the newest pirate vessel in the Lyrian.

“That’s all I know,” Cat mumbled, the useless feeling creeping back into her body.

Ryman seemed to pounce on it. “And what about before the sea rat’s attack on a ship of the Crown?” he said, sounding like a rat himself. “Where have you been, my loyal wife?”

“I do apologize for my absence,” Cat answered quickly, bowing her head to stare at the floor. It was easier to twist the truth that way. “But I have done—what I could to mend things. To find a way out of this for us.”

For me.

And I failed.

Ryman shuffled his way to the cell door and scowled at her through the bars. “You mend things? You couldn’t mend a shirt, let alone this mess you’ve put us in. Locked in the dark, at the mercy of pirates and worse.”

Heat crept up her neck, but Cat did not relent. She raised her face again, hands clasped in front of her, drawn up like a lady addressing a dinner party. It was the best way she knew to reach Ryman—to treat him like the lord he pretended to be.

“Yes, Lord Husband,” she murmured. “You are right in that regard. But I did convince Captain Kane to—take what we can give. From Rosby, when we arrive.”

A white-blond brow arched on Ryman’s face. “Oh?” he said, intrigued.

Fell shifted, some life returning to his face. The shackles around his wrists jingled, metal links clinking as he moved. The skin where iron touched flesh looked raw and inflamed, and Cat winced to think of it.

“What did I tell you, Cat?” he growled in a far harsher tone, the naval officer’s teeth flashing in the dim light of a single lamp. “Hold the ruse.”

“And I would have, if Captain Kane was a stupid man,” she answered, remembering her conversation with Valerian in the Drowning Drink. It was only a few days ago but felt lifetimes away now. “He is well aware of the navy presence in Archenport, and naval tactics, as you know now. He never planned to take us there or empty a bank vault that does not exist. There was no ruse to begin with, Lieutenant.”

It sounded like an apology, and Fell took it as such, swallowing hard and nodding his head.

“Kane is certainly a smarter man than I took him for,” the officer muttered, his disdain laced with a surprising thread of respect.

Ryman was not so calm. “Then we are finished!” he yelped, throwing up his unbound hands. “I’m surprised they haven’t chopped us up for meat already. Perhaps they’ll sell our bones. Human ivory fetches a fine price.”

Cat tried not to think of human ivory, or how her husband knew the economics of such a gruesome commodity.

“They aren’t going to sell our bones, Lord Rose,” Fell said wearily, settling back on the bench.

“Well, not yours!” Ryman snapped, whirling on him. “You still have a ransom. The Meridian navy will pay handsomely for your return. As for us—we must throw ourselves upon the mercy of the gods.”

Cat watched him with weary eyes, already exhausted by his presence. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she replied. “I have a few dresses at the house. My last necklace. A pair of earrings. Some good crystal wineglasses. We will offer them water when they need it, and shelter on Rosby if asked. We can even give them the horse if they’ll take it.”

Her heart twisted at the thought of giving away Sparrow. She was getting on in years, but the piebald mare made life on Rosby a little bit more bearable. Cat wondered how she might survive without her daily rides, when there was nothing to keep her company but the wind and the sky and the unrelenting sea.

“I’ll hardly be housing pirates on my island. And there is simply nothing I can part with.” Ryman shrugged, matter-of-fact. “Nothing of value, I mean.”

Fell gave another exasperated sigh, covering his face with his hand. “You’ll find something.”

Something.

Ryman Rose had never been a difficult man to read, but for once Cat wished he was not so transparent. His roving stare made her skin crawl, her stomach rolling like the waves beneath the ship. A blind man could have guessed his intention, and Cat was far from blind anymore. One fist clenched against her skirt, the only motion she would allow, the only indication of her terrible discomfort. It almost made her yearn for the bloodied deck.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she raised her head, tossing back a few curls. They smelled of gunpowder and smoke.

“Perhaps we can petition the governor for restitution, once things settle,” she said, trying to sound bright and hopeful. And not disgusted by her husband. “Lieutenant, we would appreciate your support in that endeavor.”

Fell peeked over his hand, meeting her gaze.

Cat offered him a tight smile. “When you are returned to the navy, will you make arrangements for us?”

“I shall try,” Fell answered, sounding unconvinced.

Ryman dismissed it all with a snort. “That means nothing, Catrine. Or are you so naïve as to think Lieutenant Fell will waste another thought on us once we are separated?”

Fell’s lip curled but he did not give Lord Rose the satisfaction of a retort. Cat certainly did not envy the lieutenant his time in the brig with the worst sort of company.

“If I am naïve, then so be it,” she said stiffly, taking a step back from the bars. “Think on what you can hand over when they take us ashore.”

*

THERE WAS A great deal of work to do in the wake of the Victorious, and Cat endeavored to stay out of the way. Not just to allow repairs to proceed without her entanglement, but because she could hardly look a single member of the crew in the eye. Even with the blood washed away, the decks swabbed, the bullet holes smoothed over, there was no forgetting what the Covenant could become.

Or always was.

The errant hope of somehow remaining on board disappeared like shot from a cannon, replaced with the sobering knowledge that Cat did not belong here. Rosby, Ryman, the cage she had only just fled—that was her single option for life in the Lyrian Sea.

She even avoided the burials, though she certainly glimpsed them from the windows, watching as bodies shrouded in white plunged into the deep.

Cat passed the dwindling time clearing Valerian’s cabin, returning everything to its exact location. Or as close to it as she could. Some of the maps were certainly out of order, and the books somehow did not fit the shelves in the same way. But she did her best, straightening the captain’s cabin until it looked like the day she had first walked into it. When Valerian had sat smiling with a boot on his desk and she had shivered in his chair, half-naked in a wet shift.

After folding away her borrowed clothes and making up the bunk as neatly as she could, Cat glanced across the room one last time. The gallery faced aft, out to the open sea, but Rosby was ahead, the prow of the ship pointed directly at the huddled little monster. Still, she lingered, gazing out to the blue stretch of horizon.

May the sea always sing for you.

She looked at the clouds and wished, praying for them to darken. To move impossibly and catch the Covenant, dangerous as it was, and carry her far away from this place.

May the sea always sing for you, she thought again, as if the words held any real meaning.

But in her heart, Cat knew better. There were no gods in this world, Meridian or any other. No one was listening and no one was coming to carry her away.

“There is only me,” she said aloud, her reflection faint in the glass.

She looked the same—Catrine Rose, a lady of the Meridian, soft and prim and incapable. But her freckles had grown these months in the Lyrian Sea, her hair wilder, her hands not so smooth and clumsy.

She was Cat too.

By now, she knew her way around the ship unaided, and the crew let her pass without question, letting her wander. There were fewer sailors aboard, with Garedo and a skeleton crew left to attend to the limping Victorious. The remaining men were busy preparing to weigh anchor and jettison their peculiar cargo upon the captain’s command. It was both a freeing and sobering feeling to know she mattered so little in the scheme of the ship. Cat felt like a ghost passing through, and perhaps she was.

Or was certainly about to be.

Cat walked a dim passage, her mind spinning as she realized this would be the last time she glimpsed below deck of the Covenant. It slowed her feet, the rail sliding between her fingers. Every sense seemed to sharpen, as if the moment itself demanded to be remembered.

The smell of seawater lay heavy, along with pine tar and the distant odors of Cook’s over-salted stew. Humid air clung to her skin, growing warmer as she climbed through the belly of the ship. Shafts of sunlight pierced the shuttered gunports while the cannons stood silent in the shadows, slumbering beasts. Cat knew to fear them, the drumbeat of a firing cannon still vibrating in her bones. Ana barked orders somewhere overhead, her voice filtering down through the timbers as sailors jumped to her command. More figures rushed about the gun decks, preparing empty barrels to take on water. Cat wanted to lie and tell them the water on Rosby was sour. They would have to sail for another island and put this place to the stern.

She emerged squinting into the fierce, hot sun. Instead of shielding her face, she tipped her chin up and shut her eyes, trying to bask in the blazing warmth one last time. Before turning for shore and leaving the sea behind.

Cat drew a shaky breath, holding on to the red darkness behind her eyelids as long as she could. She already knew what waited when she opened her eyes, the smooth lines of the little island long burned into her mind. The house below the crest of the hill, the stable, the sandy grass, the stubborn garden dying more by the day. And the grove of phoenix trees casting their little pool of shade. Cat inhaled again, the air laced with the smell of their leaves.

Once, the trees had been a great comfort.

Now they only made her feel sick.

“I will not pretend to understand what you are doing, but do you mind doing it in a less obtrusive place?”

Cat’s stinging eyes snapped open to find herself level with the open collar of a shirt, and a familiar chest. Her mind slowed, a stubborn wheel stuck in mud, trying to turn and failing. Again, the moment tried to etch itself into her memory, the white cotton crisp against his golden skin and curling hair, the glimmering thread of his chain a line of light. Her gaze trailed, finding the prayer bead dangling, the pale-blue stone laying flush against his sternum.

Valerian blinked down on her.

For an instant, she saw him as he was a few days ago, streaked with gunpowder and blood, dead men piled at his feet. Strangely, it did not fill her with dread.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, almost teasing. It was a harsh contrast to the last time she glimpsed the captain, stoic and surrounded by a terrible victory.

It felt embarrassing to acknowledge the truth of it, and Cat said nothing.

But Valerian pressed, leaning down. His smile turned sharper, a seductive and dangerous flash to his eyes. “Did we scare you, Lady Rose?”

Her cheeks burned. “Of course you did,” she said, the echo of gunfire still heavy in her mind. “The battle was monstrous. You were monstrous.”

“Was I?” he challenged. “I gave that captain a chance to save his crew, to surrender without bloodshed. He chose to pull the trigger, not me.” His face tightened. “Such is the way of the Meridian Empire. To win, no matter the cost.”

“Such is the way of the Lyrian Sea too,” Cat replied smoothly, surveying him.

Valerian’s skin was clean, the blood long gone—but the wounds of battle remained. A few scrapes and bruises, perhaps a new scar on his knuckles. One to match the dozen or so other marks on his body, most likely born of battles just like the attack on the Victorious. Cat could not bear to count them all, a horrible testament to what Valerian was behind his dangerous smile.

“Perhaps this place makes monsters of us all,” she murmured.

Above her, Valerian arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

She shuddered under his attention, the weight of his eyes just as heavy as his hands once were on her face.

“You said I would learn. I am learning, Captain Kane.”

The splash of an anchor sounded worse than a gunshot, and just as final. Cat jumped in her skin, startled back to the ship deck. Her jaw clenched, her eyes finally landing on the familiar coastline. The sad little beach, the bare grasses, a stubborn garden clinging to weak soil—and the peel-paint wreck of Rosby House, the crumbling estate that would be her grave if she let it.

“I hoped to never see this place again,” she said under her breath, and something flickered across Valerian’s face.

But what, Cat could not say, and there was little time to find out.

She startled again at another sound, worse than the anchor.

“Ryman,” she muttered.

Both captain and lady took a rocking step back, leaving a gap between them, as Lord Rose and Lieutenant Fell were shuffled up on deck. Three sailors frog-marched the shackled Fell, while one kept a loose hand on Ryman’s shoulder. The latter blinked fiercely around at the deck, eyes adjusting to the light. He balked at the sight of Rosby, then the gathered strength of the Covenant, her crew armed for a skirmish, the danger of them on full display. Cavallid, Garedo, Brimley. Even little Ratter held a knife.

But it was the sight of Valerian that washed his face of color. Unlike Morovant and his many flourishes, Valerian elected to let his weapons speak for themselves. His flintlock pistol was back at his side, along with the second belt of knives, the threat of them plain as day.

They had been cleaned since the battle, but Cat still imagined the blood on them, clinging like a scarlet ghost.

“Lord Rose, Lady Rose, we are to escort you ashore,” he barked, his voice ringing out over the ship. “You best make it worth our while.”

As a roar of laughter went through the crew, Cat thought of Moseley back at the house. Is she watching from the veranda, puzzling after the unfamiliar ship in the harbor?

The ship did not fly the black, nor any other color.

Will she still suspect pirates?

Certainly, Cat guessed, knowing Moseley’s keen mind. And her long years in the Lyrian. Cat hoped the old maid had the wherewithal to stay out of the way.

The laughter seemed to snap something in Ryman, and he ceased his sniveling, drawing himself up to his unimpressive height. In his borrowed clothes, he looked like a sickly pauper. But his eyes, pale and watery as they were, went to flint.

“I shall make it worth your while, Captain,” he replied, taking a step towards Valerian. But it was Cat he glared at, an easier target for his anger and impotence. “Infinitely so. Or for however long she interests you.”

Despite her best efforts, Cat flinched, her cheeks flushing red and warm. Over Ryman’s shoulder, Ana recoiled in disgust, along with a few other members of the crew. Cat dared not look at anyone else, unable to stomach the sight of her shame reflected back at her. Or worse, abject pity. And there was no imagining Valerian at all.

She kept her eyes on Ryman, willing him to shut his mouth. But his foul lips kept moving, his words somehow crueler than his hands.

“I suppose you will discard her after a month or two,” he pressed on, laughing darkly. He even waved his hands, motioning for the crew to join in. To turn their ridicule on someone other than Ryman Rose. “Gods know I should have,” he added, his grin corrosive and hateful.

Cat felt it eat through her, punching a hole through her chest, leaving her empty and numb.

“Ryman. We shall go ashore,” she said stiffly, trying to keep her voice even. But it shook horribly, her eyes stinging. With sadness, frustration, rage—and shame too.

He took another step, and Cat flinched again, fearing a blow even from yards away. Her husband was nothing compared to the screams of sailors and thunderous cannons, but she feared him just the same.

He raised a hand, pointing at her furiously. For a brief moment, Cat saw not the drowned rat her husband had become, but the man he was in Meridia. Bewigged and powdered in a silk suit, done up in his trappings of wealth and society. A poor lord was a lord still, the world at his feet if he dared to grasp it.

But he is not that man anymore.

And this is not his world to take.

His pale face reddened and he shook his finger at her, as if she were a child to scold. Behind him, Fell looked just as stricken as Cat felt, his silver eyes too wide. If not for the men holding his arms, she suspected he would be on Ryman in an instant.

“Quiet, my lord—” he snarled, just to be waved off with an aristocratic flap.

“I shall go ashore. And you, as my wife, as my property, will stay right here,” Ryman shouted, his voice echoing over the wind and waves. Then he sneered, locking eyes with the man still standing behind her. “You are welcome to her, Captain. If you haven’t sampled already.”

Despite the feet between them, Cat heard the slow, steady exhale of breath. Not a sigh of frustration or weariness, but a low growl. And beneath it, a metallic click. The same one Cat had heard echoing across the deck a few days before.

It was unmistakable.

“You should listen to your wife, Rose,” Valerian murmured, his voice dangerously soft. Somehow it still carried as forcefully as any shout. “This ship does not deal in flesh.”

Cat could not look back at the captain, loath to see the disdain on his face. Her eyes landed on Ana instead. The first mate was already staring back at her, her black eyes lit like coals in a fire. Her lips were pursed, but Cat thought of her silver teeth, and wished for a weapon of her own.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, her mouth filling with an iron tang, growing in time with the rising thud of a drumming heart.

“Ha!” Ryman howled over the deck, stamping his foot. “Not flesh, but you certainly deal in blood. How many men of the Victorious and the Venerable went to the depths because of you? What a hypocrite you are, Kane!”

“Put him in the boat.” Valerian’s voice was like the crack of a whip.

For the first time in his life, Ryman dodged a blow, ducking away from a sailor trying to shove him towards the sea ladder. He took weaving steps, and Cat wondered if he had gone mad in the brig, tormented by the bars of a cell he could not gnaw his way through.

“Take her,” he snarled, shoving Cat with all his strength, sending her sprawling back into Valerian’s hard chest. He caught her, but Cat barely felt the firm arms holding her steady.

Her vision narrowed to Ryman Rose, all the rest falling away. He leered, his fleshy, pale face wavering, his features distorted by her thrumming rage.

“Fuck her or sell her, I care not. Though I warn you she is barren, a poor quality for a wife,” he added. His laughter scraped, worse than steel on stone. “But I suppose it will be a welcome advantage for a whore.”

Blood filled her mouth and her head and the hole in her chest, thunderous and roaring. The blood kept flowing, an endless tide, threatening to pull her under, until everything washed red, and the impossible blue of the Lyrian Sea turned scarlet.

This is not his world.

But it could be mine.

Distantly, she thought of the metallic click.

The world slowed, the moment sharpened, and the memory formed, demanding to never be forgotten.

Cat doubted she ever would.

Her body turned to Valerian, but only for a second. It was not him she grabbed for, her arm reaching down to his hip. Her fingers closed around the smooth, cool hilt of a flintlock pistol, the hammer already drawn, the chamber loaded and ready to fire. When she swung back around, arm raised, gun aimed, Ryman’s leer froze on his hateful, ghastly face.

This time, when her husband screamed, she did not flinch. Or falter.

“You foolish woman—”

A thunderclap and flash of lightning exploded, smoke blooming from the gun in a gray storm cloud. The force of it catapulted through her, and she lurched, almost losing her balance. But Cat refused to fall.

Ryman did not have the same choice.

He gaped at her, a fish on the shore, mouth flapping as he wheezed for one more gasp of air. It whistled through the hole in his chest, sputtering blood and breath like a carafe pouring wine. The blood won out, a river of it spreading from the wound, soaking through his shirt and down his body.

He gurgled as he pitched forwards, slumping onto his knees. Without thought, Cat lunged towards him before he could fall, grabbing Ryman by the roots of his thin hair, wrenching his head back with her free hand.

His watery eyes rolled, his lips fighting to speak.

“You foolish woman,” he sputtered again, blood flecking the air.

Cat did not flinch.

“You foolish man,” she shot back. “You played by the rules of a different world. A world that does not exist here.”

Amongst the crew, a silver smile gleamed. But Cat only spared Ana a passing glance. She dared not miss Ryman’s last rattling breath, or the spiraling look of despair finally creeping across his face.

It was the same despair she felt every day in his presence.

“A world that will never remember you at all,” she said, letting him drop with a meaty thunk.

So ended Lord Ryman Rose, keeled over on the deck of a pirate ship, without anyone to mourn him.

Chapter Thirty-One After

THE DIM SPACE between sleep and waking stretched, holding Cat suspended. And then it faded all at once, chased off by a shout somewhere on the quarterdeck, a gruff voice echoing through the timbers overhead.

Her eyes shot open to disorienting blackness. A second later she realized her head was buried in the pillows, and her face was strangely wet. Groaning to herself, Cat inhaled, only to be walloped with the overpowering scent of Valerian Kane. Salt, tobacco, sweat, and a spicy sweetness beneath. It was enough to make her lightheaded, her mind spinning as she flipped onto her back.

As she had the night before, Cat sucked in another breath, forcing more of Valerian down her throat, to suffocate herself with him until she could finally bear the smell and taste. Only then did she rise up on her elbows to get her bearings.

The first time she had ever slept in the captain’s quarters, she had expected a debaucherous bedchamber, slung with the spoils of piracy. She had found a carefully catalogued library instead, with a wide desk and a little bunk tucked into an alcove in the corner.

The library remained through the years, but the narrow bed was long since replaced with something larger, fit for two, the headboard carved from deep-red mahogany. She sat up in it now, her freckled hands running over mismatched blankets. They were too familiar, soft as she remembered.

She pressed her face into the pillows again, inhaling, hunting beneath the smells she knew for a whisper of something else. A floral perfume or wine she did not recognize. Anything out of place, anything different. Anyone different.

There was only Valerian.

It made her grit her teeth, angry and pleased in equal measure. Then she searched the room, looking for any hints of what befell Val since last she saw him six months ago. When she all but threw him out of her house, sending him towards the docks before his rage could consume them both.

And doom him.

But the memory was too painful to entertain. And Cat refused to break apart so early in the day.

One glance at the gallery of windows was enough to ascertain what Cat feared. They were gone from Nera harbor, the island of Arcayo already shrinking on the horizon. And with it, the Dorales, and any hope of slipping away from the Lyrian Sea forever.

Another ship sailed behind them, smaller in comparison. With a jolt, Cat realized it was the Fledge following them out to sea, still flying no flags. Figures moved along the deck, and Cat wondered which members of Valerian’s crew had been sent over to sail the sloop.

She almost laughed, thinking of Jasper Fell down in the brig, having set out to capture Valerian Kane, just to find himself a prisoner, and his ship commandeered.

I am a prisoner too, she thought, looking back around the cabin. It was a strange feeling, to know a place so well, and suddenly not at all.

Her eyes stung again, and she scrubbed at her face, wiping away whatever tears she had shed in sleep. What a pitiful sight, she thought, already lamenting her appearance.

There will be no charming my way out of this if I look like a self-loathing, red-eyed mouse.

Long ago, Cat had tentatively picked through his battered armoire, careful not to disturb Valerian’s rumpled garments. Now she tore at the shelves with abandon, hunting down a mirror and comb. Without hesitation, she fixed her hair, untangling her curls from a sleepy braid. Then she scrubbed her face at the wash basin, the water clearly left over. But there was no time to think about such things, nor did she bother to care. She had shared far more with Valerian Kane than wash water.

To her surprise, her carefully selected purchases from the Nera market were folded by the desk, still wrapped in paper. Cat gnashed her teeth. They had not been present the night before, and she hissed to think of one of the Covenant crew sneaking in while she slept—or Valerian himself.

Still, she was glad for the clothes. The last thing she needed was to force herself into something itchy and ill-fitted.

Instead, she chose the garments bought for travel, albeit on a very different ship. She donned a dark blouse, made by skilled Arcayan weavers who specialized in light-woven fabric to protect the body from the sun without trapping heat. It felt cool against her skin, a rare comfort in her predicament.

But short-lived.

“Gods damn you, Valerian,” she hissed, drawing back from her effects with a snarl.

Her pistol was missing, though it had been in her pocket only last night. The dress from the gambling hall was still there—she remembered stripping it off and slinging it over the desk chair, along with the small gun. The weapon was gone, but the dress sat neatly folded, as was Valerian’s maddening way.

Her teeth clenched. He went through my things.

“Two can play that game,” she said aloud, pulling on a black-striped skirt and the stiff new boots she would soon break in.

She went to the intimidating chest still screwed into the floor, the wooden box iron-bound with more locks than she bothered to count. It was no matter. Only three actually worked, and only in a certain order. An order Cat knew well after so many years. After retrieving the key from its hiding place in the carvings of the headboard, she kicked open the chest expecting to reveal the usual array of treasure: dazzling, valuable, and easily carried in the event of a quick escape.

But the first thing she saw was neither jewels nor gold. Cat froze, looking down on a small journal, one she had never seen before. Carefully, she lifted the book, hesitant to open the pages, fearing what she might find.

A dark-red petal slipped out, spiraling to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she flipped open the journal to find no writing, but a dried rose, perfectly pressed between the pages.

Grief gathered like a wave, without warning, threatening to drown her. Cat slammed the book shut. Then threw it across the room for good measure, letting it slide across the timbers to land in the corner.

She forced herself to breathe through the pain. It half worked, steadying her heartbeat and her quivering hands. Enough so she could return to the task at hand and shove away all thought of the infernal rose.

The jewels in the chest still entranced, but Cat resisted, her fingers slipping past rings and necklaces, pearl and sapphire, stopping to slip a particularly bright ruby ring into her purse. If Valerian minded, he would certainly take it back. She did the same with the coins, pocketing a few gold circles stamped with images of the Meridian lion or the Esperese cross. She kept an eye open for any more strange amulets or charms like the one Val now wore around his neck, but there was nothing else like it.

Her fingers scraped the bottom, sliding over familiar parchment, and she grinned. The stack of documents was still there, as expected, at the bottom of the chest.

One by one, she flipped through written letters of mark. All forged or stolen, but good enough in a pinch. There was one from Esperin, denoting Valerian as privateer of the Esperese crown. Another from the Meridian saying the same. And even papers from Itzima and Anticles, should he run afoul of their ships too. She knew he had flags to match each as well, stored in the hold, ready to be run out if the need arose.

A daring gambit in years prior.

And perhaps an impossible one now.

The Covenant was too well-known, her captain hunted. She doubted Valerian would fly another flag now, even to save his ship.

No flag but the black, she thought, the words still lingering on her lips.

Wincing, she returned the papers to the chest and made to close the lid, only to linger on one last bit of parchment, lined with creases, as if it had been crumpled and recently flattened out again.

Her fingers brushed the scrap, lifting it carefully. The page felt old, dusty, two inked lines written at the top in a language Cat could not read but knew how to identify.

Arcayan.

A translation was scrawled hastily below, along with a small sketch.

May the sea always sing for you.

May the storm be your shield.

Cat read the words over and over. The first line was long-branded in her mind—but she had never heard the second.

Her breath caught as her eyes lowered, the little drawing beneath the translation at first imperceptible. But then undeniable.

The short tube with the notches, rough gold worn with age.

Valerian’s amulet.

Her voice shook as she spoke aloud.

“What did you find, Val?”

*

THE DOOR DID not budge, locked fast. And while Cat considered breaking it down with the desk chair, she ventured it would not be the best course of action. The last thing she wanted was to end up in the brig with Fell and his crew, crammed in amongst stinking men who hated her as much as Valerian Kane did, if not more.

The last time they held me captive on this ship, I was given free rein to roam. She lamented that little gasp of freedom now, if darkly amused by how the times had changed.

Cat Rose had been no threat to the Covenant ten years ago.

But I am now.

Days passed, with only Adelo knocking at the door to bring her food and water.

“Quite the quarrel between you two this time,” he mused two days in, shaking his head. “Just apologize and be done with it, Cat.”

Cat tore hungrily into a piece of bread and scowled in reply.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” she said, taking the tray of food and jug of water back to the desk. She was careful to avoid the spray of maps and books strewn over the floor, having torn Valerian’s carefully organized shelves apart almost immediately.

Adelo shook his head at the mess but retreated for the evening, leaving Cat to her lamps and the captain’s papers. As before, he had removed his more recent logs and charts. His voyages of the last few months remained a mystery.

One Cat was eager to unravel.

I intend to get off this ship with at least something to show for it, she told herself, poring over his ledgers, looking for some clue. Especially if the navy closes in. I will need something to trade for my freedom, and I suppose the crew of the Fledge will hardly be worth the prize.

It was tedious work, sifting through columns of carefully inked inventory and lists of stores. Taken on, carried off, bartered for, stolen, or bought. In Alvaris, in Nera, in city ports and little village docks. The Covenant was careful to avoid Meridian holdings in the north, where the navy’s grip was strongest, beyond the protection of the storm-ridden Furies. Tongue between her teeth, Cat took careful notes of her own, alongside a little map where she marked hasty lines of passage.

If Valerian was assembling an armada of ships, all commandeered from the Meridian navy, he would need somewhere to anchor them.

But where?

Her eyes lifted from the desk and the tray of food, crumbs scattered across the open pages. Cat wrinkled her nose and pressed a few crumbs into the seam of Valerian’s ledger, to annoy him at a later date. Behind her, the gallery windows darkened, the pink glow of sunset giving over to bruising purple and the first winking stars.

And where are we going? Cat wondered, watching night crawl across the sky and darkness pool beneath the waves.

The Covenant and the Fledge crawled along the Hook, keeping a bank of storm clouds well to the northeast. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled from far off, the winds rattling the windows—but the storm never closed in, and it never blew away. Cat wondered if Valerian was following it, using the storm as a wall to hold one side of the sea.

But she knew how fast tempests traveled, the winds of the furious Lyrian storm season blowing hurricanes across the islands in a day or so. This one seemed to linger, heavy and black like an angry guardian across the horizon.

May the storm be your shield. It rattled in her head, impossible as it sounded.

Then all thoughts of the strange, scribbled prayer melted away. Cat pressed against the windows, eyes racing across the horizon, weighing what she knew of the Lyrian to their position. They were well past Rosby, but Rosby was not the only island filled with painful memories.

There is Kiers, she noted, recognizing the distinctly knobbled coastline of white beaches and rocky green hills. Then Tharrow.

And ahead...

Her breath caught. She turned from the window gallery of the captain’s quarters, facing the still-locked door. As if she could see through the wall and the chamber on the other side, out to the main deck, beyond the forecastle and the prow. Over many miles of open water, to a spit of land still far out of sight.

Drowning Key.

“Gods damn you, Kane,” she hissed to herself, tipping the last remnants of her food into the ledger and slamming it shut.

She hoped it would rot.

*

THE WAVES LAPPED well over the remains of the dock, almost washing up on the steps of the old Drowning Drink.

The makeshift tavern was missing a wall, and the ocean breeze whistled through its remaining broken windows. But it was not a ruin. On the contrary, the old Drink was now a covered porch for the new Drink, built of stone and wooden poles, along with a thatched roof of dried palm fronds. It was twice the size, open on one side to face the steadily rising waters of the Lyrian Sea. Cat recalled many hazy nights drinking in the newly built tavern, before dancing beneath the palms and then the stars on the powder-white beach.

Despite the improvements, even the new Drink had seen better days. The fall of the republic, and the deaths of so many crews, left her to the elements, her stone floor half buried in sand. But not for long. Figures moved about beneath the shade of the palm roof, sweeping the floor or mending holes in the thatch. Some were already drinking, raising bottles to the island and the ship.

Ships, Cat reminded herself, the Fledge still with them.

Teeth clenched, Cat tried the door again, thumping her shoulder against the wood. She received a sore arm for her efforts.

I refuse to be a prisoner, Cat thought, cursing to herself as she rubbed her bicep. She had spent too long clawing her way to freedom; she did not intend to give it up now. And certainly not to bullheaded, stubborn, shortsighted Valerian Kane.

The pirates did not wait for nightfall to row over to the beach. A few swam, laughing in the warm water as they leisurely made their way. Cat recognized most from the window—able gunners and talented seamen, well-suited to life beneath the black flag. Rowdy, bold, deadly, and brave.

Valerian did not swim, but rowed across with Adelo, a lantern perched at the prow of the longboat. It was not far between the Covenant and the beach, but the lantern would be a welcome sight in darkness, when the pirates had to stumble back to the water’s edge. Cat slipped back into the cabin before he could spot her, pressing against the wall to avoid the stormy gaze of the pirate captain.

Then she waited, counting the minutes.

Purple and blue washed across the sky, a half-moon rising over the single crest of Drowning Key. The shadows shifted, cast by moonlight and lanterns prickling to life across the Fledge. They would be doing the same on the Covenant, illuminating the ship fore and aft. With the captain across, there would be only a skeleton crew left aboard, having drawn short straws to stay behind.

Laughter and music rose up from the Drink, loud enough to wash over the ship. The remaining crew would hardly notice one more shadow.

Or one more splash.

Cat was not the strongest swimmer, but she could manage well enough. Especially in the protected bay, with gentle waves and little current. At least she knew to leave her shoes behind. There was nothing so horrible as a waterlogged pair of boots.

She fell more than dove, arms wheeling as she leapt from the open window of the captain’s quarters to land feet-first in the sea. Water closed over her head in a rush, but she soon found the surface again, legs kicking and arms pulling her forwards with even strokes. She’d donned breeches—far easier to swim in—and left the rest of her effects in the cabin so as not to weigh her down.

She only hoped her wet blouse was not so sheer as to give her trouble.

Or perhaps that will improve my odds, she thought, making for the shore.

Her bare feet touched soft sand in a few minutes, salt water heavy on her tongue, and she climbed out of the sea as gracefully as she could. Rivulets of water ran down her neck and hands as she wrung out her hair, twisting the curls like a wet cloth.

Adelo spotted her first, smoking his pipe as he sat on the foundation lip of the old Drink. His beard was gray, but his brows were still a furious black that disappeared into his silver hairline.

“Cat, you can’t be serious,” he muttered, jumping up to meet her. But there was a grin on his lips, his eyes sparking with amusement. “Get back to the ship.”

“Make me,” she retorted, never breaking stride.

Inside the old Drink, a few men played dice on the bare floor next to the old bar, now shoved up against a remaining wall. Cat eyed them, then the bar top and the broken cabinets smashed open. Bits of glass glittered in powder-fine grains of dust, the remnants of another memory. The doorway was gone too, its wall swept away in a hurricane. Once Cat hovered on the same threshold, a foot planted on either side, with storm eyes above her, holding fast. Her heart twisted, a sick feeling in her stomach, and she forced herself through a door that no longer existed.

Then the sailors spotted her. One gave a finger-waggling wave, smiling with a mouth of missing teeth. His curly black hair was shot with silver.

“Has the captain let you out?” Cavallid called, his tone light.

“Hardly,” she answered, stepping into the old Drink. Her eyes flashed over the dice game, reading the bone squares marked with black dots. She weighed their odds.

But the pot was far too poor for her liking.

The new Drink was not so tightly pressed as the old Drink, with the thatched roof high above her and a floor of stones and plank wood below. But it still felt raucous enough. The open side caught the breeze off the shore, cooling the air despite the many sweating sailors drinking and shouting and smoking around her. None of it bothered her. On the contrary, a room filled with drunks felt warm and familiar after so many years tending a tavern of her own.

A fiddler sawed his way around the room, followed by a pair of sailors blowing into hornpipes. Their melodies braided into a tune that made Cat’s blood surge, and many pirates stomped their feet in time to the music. A few even danced, men and women paired together or with each other, all grinning and circling, one hand on a bottle with the other on a shoulder.

For a moment, it was as if the republic had never crumbled. This was just another celebration after a successful hunt, and the Covenant would return victorious to Archenport.

Cat swept a bottle from the nearest table, gulping at whatever liquid it held. Rum, she thought, tasting sweet fire, though it was the burn of taquil she craved.

But even the liquor couldn’t hide the cloud hanging over the evening, shadowing every face and darkening once-bright eyes. Even the brutes and swabbies seemed subdued, despite their laughter and raucous talk. A few spoke quietly, heads bent over wobbly tables or gathered chairs, trading whispered laments. The truth of their plight was undeniable. The republic was lost, and the final gasp of piracy upon them.

Their days were numbered.

If only Valerian could see that, Cat thought, finding a golden head above the crowd.

She marched at his back without regard for her wet clothes or the fact that she was supposed to be locked in a cabin on a ship at anchor. Others jumped aside to let her past, most looking on in amusement, a few with worry. The crew of the Covenant was no stranger to its captain or his lady’s outbursts.

“Who is that?” a young man grumbled, a new face to Cat’s eye.

An older sailor shushed him down. “The captain’s woman, Cat Rose. Best stay out of the way. She’s been locked up since Nera port, and more dangerous than a lit fuse.”

“I’ll wager she’s ready to blow.” The young man whistled, his voice low but hardly low enough.

Cat ignored them, reaching out to grab Valerian by the shoulder.

He spun before she could touch him, alerted by the sudden hush falling over the Drink. His gaze dropped, holding hers so intently, Cat feared he might burn the eyes from her skull. His lips parted, showing teeth on edge, his golden fang glistening.

Without a word, he raised the porcelain bottle in his hand and swigged a healthy gulp of sweet-smelling taquil. As if he needed the alcohol to deal with her.

Cat mirrored him, pulling a gulp of rum.

“I did not realize I had to lock the windows too,” he said bitterly, dragging his eyes over her wet clothes and hair.

Cat held her ground, letting him look. Her blouse clung to her chest, the collar open to show bare skin and an arched neck.

“I could hardly miss one last opportunity to enjoy the hospitality of Drowning Key,” she said, casting a shrewd eye over the room. “Though she has seen better days.”

Valerian made a noise of irritation low in his throat.

“I can say the same of you,” he muttered. “Now are you going to let Adelo row you back to the ship without a fuss, or will he need to tie you up first?”

“Funny,” she replied, squaring to face him. “You used to do that sort of thing yourself.”

A thunder cloud crossed his face, his expression darkening. Before Cat could think to move, he had her, his free hand closing around her bicep. His long fingers encircled her upper arm entirely, his iron grip forcing her along. Cat could only grimace, allowing herself to be marched back out onto the beach. But she kept her head held high, refusing to lose what little pride or dignity she had left.

“I should just keelhaul you and be done with it,” Valerian hissed under his breath as he walked her down the beach.

The threat glanced off, meaningless. If you haven’t killed me yet, you never will, Cat wanted to say. But it felt too daring a card to reveal.

“You should,” she snapped, tossing the rum bottle into the sand. “Be done with it. With me, with this. With whatever you think you’re doing. It’s going to end up getting you and all of us killed anyway.”

“Us?” Valerian dropped her arm as if her skin had suddenly turned to flame, and Cat stumbled, tripping into the shallows. He threw her a look of revulsion. “There is no us where you and I are concerned, not anymore.”

The Covenant seemed to watch over them from its anchorage, the black silhouette of the ship dotted with a few burning lamps. Cat huffed at it, the once-comforting sight a looming prison.

“Don’t change the subject, Valerian.” She rounded back to him with a snarl, putting the ship behind her. “The war is over, the Meridian returned. Morovant is dead, half the pirates of the republic dead with him. And the rest are running.”

Valerian crooked a half smile, thin as a knife.

“No one is running, Cat.”

He stared at her through the moonlight, half of him washed in blue shadow, the other gilded by light from the tavern lanterns. The pirate seemed torn in two, one side calm and still, the other burning. Cat wavered, trying to take his measure, weighing the Valerian Kane she had known against the man standing in front of her now. He was the same and yet—

Sharper, harder. More desperate.

More dangerous.

Her heartbeat quickened, her mouth going dry.

To her immense surprise, he began to laugh, the sound low and rough.

“You think I’m alone in this, don’t you?” he chuckled, grinning.

Cat wanted to raise her chin or toss her hair, to question his bold confidence in the face of absolute destruction. But her thoughts blurred, too many things coming together at once.

Other captains survived, but how many? How many ships and crews remain?

How many sail with Valerian now?

Her brow arched, her voice cutting. “I think you’re the only one stupid enough to keep fighting the navy head on.”

His grin widened, flames flickering in one eye, the moon glowing in the other. “I do so enjoy when you are wrong.”

“Treasure the moment; it happens so rarely.” Cat flushed and ducked her head, trying to hide the scarlet bloom certainly spreading across her cheeks. She scuffed her foot through the wet sand, the tide lapping up against her ankles. “So Vex,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He did not sail with Morovant’s armada six months ago. He did not fight then. What changed?”

Why now?

Why you?

She studied Valerian again, trying to balance the fearsome legend of Captain Kane with the flesh and blood towering over her. Gunpowder burns and rope scars, battered fingers, a bronzed face and sun-bleached hair. Muscles carved by years of hard labor before the mast, and a mind sharpened on the whetstone of survival. A commander but not a master, beloved and respected in equal measure. And remarkable, brilliant, a sailor the likes of which the sea had never seen before and might never see again.

He had only one flaw Cat knew of—the heart still beating in his chest, a merciful, bleeding heart he tried so hard to hide.

Chapter Thirty-Two Before

RYMAN STARED WITH empty eyes, his body slumped in a puddle of his own blood.

Cat straightened, the flintlock still in hand, her fingers gripped so tightly, she feared the gun might mold to her flesh. She refused to blink, lest it all be a dream. She would not bear it, to wake up and find Ryman still alive, or worse, right next to her. But he didn’t move, his toadish face pressed against the timbers of a pirate ship. She could smell his blood, the scent so strong it was overpowering. With a shiver, she realized it wasn’t just all over the deck, but her boots, her skirts—her face. It made her skin crawl, entirely too horrid to be a dream or hallucination. And the pistol was too heavy in her hand, the barrel still smoking as her husband’s corpse cooled.

This is real, she told herself, a prayer as much as an assertion. Slowly, she blinked her stinging eyes and exhaled through gritted teeth. The body remained, indisputable.

Ryman Rose was dead.

It was over.

She was rid of him.

Her lips parted, drawing her first breath as a widow. It tasted like iron and salt.

Like freedom.

Her body shook, cold washing over her limbs as if she had been dunked in icy water, a rush of emotions crashing over her. So many eyes looked on, and Cat was keenly aware of them all. But one above the rest. Not the pirate crew or even Valerian Kane, but Lieutenant Fell.

Tentatively, she raised her gaze to find the officer locked on her, straining against three pirate captors holding him back, his face bone white and unreadable. She could only fathom what she looked like from his position, a murderess with her husband’s blood all over her face.

The rest of the ship watched, cowed into silence by the shocking display. But they felt like an audience in a theater, distant and uninvolved, with Cat standing center stage.

“Lieutenant,” she heard herself murmur, trying to weigh his reaction.

He is a loyal son of the Meridian, a dutiful officer. Her stomach twisted, whatever joy she felt at Ryman’s death fading away. And I have committed the gravest of crimes right in front of him.

Her voice weakened, so soft she could barely hear it herself.

“Jasper.”

A vein pulsed in his neck, his only movement.

Boots thunked on the timber and Cat swallowed, feeling Valerian at her side. The usual warmth fell over her, thrown from his body. He surveyed the corpse with a shrewd twist of his lips, as if Lord Rose were only a gutted fish left for the carrion birds. The crew kept silent, waiting for their captain’s command.

So did Cat, bracing for a worse fate than life back on Rosby.

What have I done? she thought, the consequences of her rage catching up to her with bitter speed. Valerian had shown her mercy, and she returned the favor by shooting a man on his deck. A valuable man. Will it be the brig for me? A brothel? A chain around my ankles and waves over my head?

Her heart thudded and she waited for Captain Kane’s judgement.

But Fell spoke first, shattering the silence.

“I go ashore,” he snapped, his voice the severe, unyielding command of a naval officer. With a twist, he shrugged off the pirates holding his shoulders.

They made to pin him back, but the captain waved them off, an amused look on his face. “You have a ransom to earn, Lieutenant. You’re not going anywhere.”

His chains rattled and Fell took shuffling steps, until he drew up level with Cat.

“I go ashore, and I swear the Venerable wrecked in a storm,” he spat. “Or you ransom me to the navy, and I tell them exactly what I saw here today.”

Realization swooped through Cat, and she thought her heart might burst from her chest. Instead, her grip tightened, using the gun to anchor her trembling arm. Even unloaded, it felt like a shield. Though she would have felt far better with another bullet in the barrel.

“What did you see here, Lieutenant?” she breathed, hardly daring to hope.

Fell did not break, holding Valerian’s gaze so intently Cat could almost see sparks burning between them.

“You tell me, Captain Kane. Did I see Ryman Rose go down with the Venerable, swallowed by just another storm in the Lyrian Sea?” It was an odd thing, to see a chained man smile. And smile Fell did, grinning despite his circumstances. “Or did I see his lady wife shoot him on the deck of a pirate ship. With the captain’s gun?”

If looks could kill, both Fell and Valerian would have dropped dead. Instead, Cat watched some cosmic scales balance between the two men, an invisible battle of wills playing out before her eyes. Her breath hitched, and she wondered which man might win—and where that would leave her.

“Kill them all and be done with it,” someone shouted amongst the crew. “This prize has been cursed from the start.”

When a few voices called out in agreement, Ana hissed them all to silence, her face going pale. It was not difficult to guess why. Cat remembered what Valerian said in the Drowning Drink—pirate crews voted for their captains. If they lost confidence in Valerian’s leadership, or enough disagreed with his plan of action, they could remove him from command.

Cat scanned the crowded deck, her fate jumping from Valerian’s hands to the hands of his lethal crew. For the first time since the sea battle, she forced herself to really look at them, to glimpse beyond their scars and weaponry. They were still killers and monsters. Desperate men and women, but men and women still.

Perhaps this place makes monsters of us all, she thought again, the smell of Ryman’s blood impossible to ignore.

To her relief, she found many a sympathetic eye amongst the Covenant crew. Not towards the lieutenant or the man dead on the ground.

But me.

Something stirred deep in Cat’s heart and birthed a feeling she had never known before.

Control.

Steadily, the tremor in her hand stilled, her poise returning as her spine turned to steel.

Cat raised her chin, eyes sweeping from Fell to Valerian, the two men opposite sides of perhaps the same coin. And equally advantageous to her own ends.

“We go ashore,” she said, stern and steady. “We go ashore and Rosby Island is yours to use as you see fit. Water, stores, a port in a storm or for ships in need of repair. All yours,” she added, raising her voice to address the crew. “So long as Captain Kane commands the Covenant, you have safe harbor.”

It was no small thing, to offer up the island to pirates. Less than a great treasure, but far more than a ransom that never existed. A few heads bobbed, nodding their agreement, and Cat almost collapsed with relief. Ana was among them, her eyes glimmering as she smirked.

I am playing by the rules of a new world, Cat wanted to say, feeling a burst of gratitude towards her.

But Valerian kept silent, painfully so. Enough to make a bead of sweat trickle down Cat’s neck as he weighed her fate.

“Your offer is accepted.”

It was the same voice he used in battle, offering no quarter. No argument. There was only command. All down the deck, the crew shouted in acquiesce, submitting to his judgement without question.

Cat felt her knees buckle but fought to keep upright, even as her head spun.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Suddenly the feel of blood on her skin grew worse, sticky and corrosive, as if Ryman had acid in his veins.

He might as well have.

She gingerly tried to dab it away, but it came away thick and red, and her stomach rolled.

“May I—may I clean myself up before . . . ?” she mumbled, her mouth filling with a sour taste.

Valerian’s hard demeanor remained, but he nodded. “You may, Lady Rose.”

I am not a lady anymore, she wanted to reply but held her tongue. Instead, she took a mute step, fleeing back over the quarterdeck before she could be sick in front of the entire crew.

Door after door slammed behind her, loud as a cannon. Her breath came hard and fast, her eyes stinging, her throat threatening to close as she almost collided with Valerian’s desk. She dropped the gun onto a pile of papers, her empty fingers clawed as if still pulling the trigger. Steadily, she flexed her hand, trying to forget the feel of the flintlock as it recoiled, her fingers still dusted with gunpowder. Everything took on an odd sheen, the sun too bright through the windows, and the cabin spun, mirroring the maelstrom inside her. She forced another breath, staring at the gun.

Ryman’s blood was on the barrel, a red constellation to match her face.

Cat wheeled to the basin in the corner, splashing old water and scrubbing herself raw with the first rag she could find. It helped very little, but enough to make the room stop spinning.

“He’s dead,” she whispered, trying to find her reflection in the window glass. “He’s dead.”

Her silhouette was shaky, clouded by the glare off the sea. Cat felt the same, shapeless and undefined. Ryman was a cage but a cage she knew. And now that she was free of him, the world seemed far more frightening, wide and dangerous. Filled with possibility. For better or worse.

Once thing was certain.

The path ahead, the horizon—it was hers to choose.

Cat squared her shoulders to her reflection, drawing herself up in her shift, to stand tall as a lady would. As a free woman would.

“He is dead,” she said aloud, her voice the last nail in Ryman’s coffin.

“That tends to happen when you shoot a man at close range.”

Her body moved of its own accord, whirling from the gallery to face Valerian at the door to the cabin. As always, he towered, seemingly too big for the low ceilings of a ship. He stood half in the open door, one boot planted in the next room, the other across the threshold. Waiting for an invitation.

Into his own cabin. Despite the circumstances, Cat almost laughed at the absurdity of it. All of it. Every second since she entered the Lyrian Sea, since she left Meridia. Since she looked up from her books to the world beyond.

“I—” Her mouth formed the apology, but Cat could not find the will to speak it. She knew she had taken something from Valerian, at least in the eyes of his crew.

He waited, expectant, still hesitating in the door frame.

Cat swallowed.

“I’m not sorry for what I did.”

His back foot slid, the rest of him stepping into the bedchamber.

“I would certainly hope not,” he answered, closing the distance between them with his usual weaving stride. Not quick, but easy, loping, giving her plenty of time to move if she liked.

She did not, her back to the gallery windows, the dancing light of sun on sea dappling Valerian’s face, until he was washed golden as his hair. He looked like some icon raided from a treasure ship, a statue of precious metals. But statues were still, and certainly did not move like Valerian Kane.

Tentatively, he caught her around the wrist, his callused fingers digging into her forearm. Her nerves jumped, a bolt of lightning going through her at his touch. He felt just like he had in the dream, somehow both rough and gentle, all at the same time.

Cat stared between them, not daring to move.

He worked the wet rag from her fingers. Then dabbed it in the basin, before returning to her face. He moved methodically, wiping away the blood on her brow, her cheeks, her lips. Even the corner of her jaw and down her throat. But no further, no deeper, much as Cat wanted him to. She stretched her neck, arching into his cupped hand as she had on the quarterdeck. Daring him to kiss her again.

Only to burn when the rag returned to her hairline, cleaning the last remnants of Ryman Rose from her face.

In that instant, Cat forgot the corpse of her husband out on deck, the hell of battle, Sara drowned, the Venerable sunk, and the Victorious overthrown. Forgot even herself, a fallen lady and a new widow, adrift with nothing but the horizon to hold her steady.

It was difficult to remember anything when confronted with the full weight of Valerian’s attention, his eyes wavering both green and blue, a color somewhere in between.

While he studied her skin, diligent in his work, Cat studied him. The old scars, new wounds. A scrape at the edge of his jaw, the only evidence of a saber that almost removed his ear a few days ago. Lines forming around his eyes, his mouth, proof of someone caught between youth and manhood.

It lasted forever and was over in an instant.

“That should do,” he said, tossing the rag to the floor and stepping back to look at his handiwork.

Cat flushed. His touch was lightning, even his breath a dancing fire over her skin. But now he eyed her as a deck to be swabbed, a piece of coin to shine. Bitterly, she wondered if he felt the burn of her at all, the way she felt the burn of him. Whatever storm possessed him a few days ago had disappeared—if it had ever really existed at all.

There was no taquil to blame, but Cat’s head spun as it had in the Drowning Drink, the same bold and reckless sensation washing over her.

“You were right,” she said, squaring her shoulders to him.

That seemed to please Valerian, his teeth flashing in a half smile.

“Do go on.”

“There isn’t a place for me on this ship.”

And the smile dropped, his face a slate wiped clean. But he did not argue, for there was no argument to make.

Without thought, she reached out to touch his neck. Her fingers brushed over his scarred and tattooed chest as she did, before hooking onto the necklace lying flush against his sternum. Her old prayer bead spun on the chain, glimmering between them like a raindrop suspended in the air.

“I’m surprised you kept this.”

She did not miss how the rise and fall of his chest faltered, his breath catching in a way it had not even in battle, with a warship bearing down.

“Most of us keep trophies from our prizes,” he said, eyes blazing, the rough depth of his voice the only sound in the world.

Is that all this was? Another plunder? Another prize?

Good sense told her yes, and she dropped the chain, letting it fall back against the planes of his chest.

“First you rob me. Then you hold me ransom.” She tipped her head, curls falling. “What will you do the next time we meet, Valerian Kane?”

She expected him to laugh, to toss back his golden head and grin at her, to play the carefree captain. Instead, his gaze sharpened, the tempest green threatening to pull her under. He looked as he had on the Credence, when he kicked down the door to her cabin. Burned and remade, she thought then. A true son of the Lyrian Sea.

“I’m more interested in who you will be when we do,” he answered, eyes flickering over her face.

“So am I.”

They lingered, staring, the smell of blood finally fading from the air. Until there was just Valerian again, the heat and salt of him. And the danger too. Cat wanted to touch him more than she wanted anything else in the world. But her hands did not move, and neither did his.

The cabin spun once more, the world shifting onto a new axis, with a new path ahead. Where it led, Cat could not say. But she was eager to find out.

It took all her will to step away, skirting around Valerian to get out of the cabin. She passed the desk, grabbing for the pistol without thought. Indeed, it felt good in her hand, a calming weight.

Valerian cleared his throat, stopping her in her tracks.

“I believe that belongs to me,” he said, eyes drifting to the adorned flintlock still in her grasp.

Cat glanced down, briefly startled by the gun.

He towered over her, but somehow she felt a little taller, a little more on solid ground. I am alive, Ryman is dead. The scales had not balanced, but they swung more in her favor, inching towards an even playing field.

“Of course,” she murmured, pressing the pistol back into his hand.

For a blistering second, his fingers enveloped hers. Again, she felt the jolt, lightning in its wake.

“May the sea always sing for you, Valerian,” she breathed.

He answered with a grin, too bright and bitter. She tried to commit it to memory, wondering if she would ever see him again. On what new horizon they might meet.

“May the sea always sing for you, Cat.”

Chapter Thirty-Three After

“WHAT CHANGED, VALERIAN?”

Her eyes trailed, tracing the open collar of his loose shirt, running over familiar ground. Scars she knew better than her own. The braiding lines of an old tattoo. In the dim light, in the writhing shadows, she wondered if the Arcayan ink moved in time with his beating pulse.

“Besides the world itself?” Valerian scoffed, still beyond the water line, keeping some distance between them. He seemed to itch under her investigation. “You’re right, the Meridian has returned. And with it the undeniable truth of our extinction, if we do not band together in our entirety. As we should have before.”

Cat lashed out, kicking the water, cursing the heart she knew so well.

“The moment for alliances has passed,” she hissed, taking a raging step forwards, back onto the sand. “Even if you somehow collected every pirate who could still hold a saber, every ship still afloat—it would not be enough.”

Her jaw clenched and she thought about throwing him into the shallows, to hold his head underwater until he saw reason or drowned. But Valerian dismissed her, as he had so many times before. He made her vision slant red, an angry heat washing through her.

It was the usual journey of the old argument, the path walked so many times, their footprints carved a bitter road. But something was different in Valerian now, barely there—but unmistakable.

Cat eyed him through her frustration, trying to read the quiet resolve on his face. And the weariness too. The shadows beneath his eyes, the worn look on his face. They worried her as much as any storm on the wind.

“What am I missing?” she murmured, taking another step closer.

He did not move, unflinching, refusing to cede any ground. Cat took it as an invitation and she scrutinized him one more time, trying to see past the hard angle of his jaw or the storm rush of his eyes. Her gaze traveled down his arm, to the rolled sleeve and the forearm bared to the moonlight.

A line of tattooed diamonds stared up at her, each one an island, holy and strange.

Her body shifted, as if the ship tipped beneath her, and Valerian pulled his arm away, obscuring the tattoo with a sudden jerk.

“Go back to the ship, Cat,” he bit out.

The tattoo was already fixed in her mind, memorized after so many years tracing it with her fingers, her mouth, her tongue. Seven islands, seven black diamonds. Arcayo, Rosby—and the rest.

Her breath caught.

“Why are the Arcayans building song towers beyond their island?”

Valerian did not react, going too still, as if frozen to the spot. Like prey in front of a predator.

Cat sunk her teeth in.

“I passed through Alvaris. There is a new song tower in their harbor, manned by an Arcayan priest,” she said, watching every minute flinch of muscle in his face. “The Esperese are not believers. What business have they with the Song?”

He finally gave a shrug, running a hand through salty hair. “You should have asked that in Arcayo. I am but a pirate. I know nothing of politics, as you’ve pointed out many, many times.”

Valerian even dared a patronizing smile, until Cat lunged forwards, seizing one necklace among the many others.

“And what is this?” she demanded, holding up the Arcayan amulet. The golden charm washed silver in the moonlight, almost glowing.

His smile dropped and Valerian wrenched the necklace away, ripping the beaded length from her grasp.

“You’ve asked enough questions. It’s my turn,” he snapped, tucking the amulet back into his shirt. Then he leaned forwards, towering over her to blot out even the stars. “Was Fell hunting you? Or was he following you?”

He’s trying to distract you, throw you off the scent, Cat told herself, even as she rolled back on her heels. Her head tipped, trying to hold his eyeline even as his warm breath washed over her face.

Her throat worked, swallowing hard as she considered what to say next. What does he know, and what will he believe?

“You saw the warrant of execution yourself. It’s my head if I go back to Archenport,” she replied. The admission, though calculated, still felt shameful. “Empty handed.”

The truth is always best. A piece of it, at least.

Grim satisfaction filled his face, his lips pursing. But Cat did not miss the flicker of regret, small as it was, barely a candle before being snuffed out.

“I see,” he laughed, though it sounded more like a snarl. “You’ve changed so much over the years. And yet not at all.”

Her hand brushed his arm tentatively, but he shrugged away.

“I always planned to give Jasper the slip,” she offered, still weighing her options. “I tried in Alvaris first, but—”

Valerian’s jaw tightened. “Ana sent you on your way.”

“It was good to see her. Even at the wrong end of a knife,” Cat muttered. She raised her hand, touching the still-healing cut on her neck.

His eyes flashed, following the path of her fingers.

“Go back to the ship,” his hissed, repeating himself.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Without thought, the pirate grabbed her by the bicep again, marching her the last few feet to the longboat. It was not gentle, his strength and frustration on full display. Water sloshed around their feet, and Cat caught herself on the edge of the boat, holding firm before Valerian could toss her in.

She whirled, bracing her back against the smoothly curved hull. He loomed again, fire-eyed and frustrated.

“I wish it could have happened differently,” she said, sending him reeling back on his heels.

A low growl whistled through his clenched teeth, one hand tearing at his hair in frustration.

“Tell me, Cat, what other path would you have chosen? If given the chance to go back?”

“I don’t know. But I can still wish.” The smell of him was making her head spin again, and Cat fought to keep steady, one fist clenched, nails digging into flesh. “If you had listened—”

Then he seized her by the face, thumb and forefinger framing the length of her jaw. All thoughts of the beach disappeared, the sounds of the tavern fading away. Even the feel of the sea vanished, lapping against her calves, her bare feet submerged. There was only the burning skin of his palm against her throat, Cat’s pulse thrumming against Valerian’s open hand.

He bent, nearly nose to nose with her, so close Cat had to stop herself from closing the last few centimeters.

“I did listen. I heard everything you said. I just didn’t agree.” His voice was not soft or kind, making her shiver. Out of fear or pleasure, Cat could not tell. “And I still don’t. This war is not over, and I was hardly going to surrender before it even began.”

“Survival is not surrender,” she bit back at him, leaning into his grasp.

His fingers tightened, pressing deeper.

“I’ve half a mind to give Jasper Fell and his crew to the deep, but at least I respect them. They have loyalty, they have faith,” he growled, never blinking, the fury of a hurricane in his eyes. “They believe in something—other than themselves.”

The red sheen returned, fire licking up Cat’s spine as the world washed scarlet.

“I believed in you once,” she replied, clawing at his wrist. Her eyes stung, the silver moon going red as her anger. “I will never make that mistake again.”

I should have let you sail with Morovant. I should have let you all die and been done with this six months ago, Cat thought, peeling Valerian’s hand off her throat. She knew there was no breaking his hold under her own power, but he relinquished, letting her go. Her mind flew as she moved, turning back to the longboat, pitching herself over the side in a very undignified way.

Flustered and furious, she reached for the oars, thinking only of the Covenant behind her. Not Valerian, not the crew in the Drowning Drink enjoying what last gasps of freedom they could.

Don’t think about them. It’s your head or theirs, your head or theirs...

Her hands closed over the handles of the oars, the wood smooth beneath her grasp. But only one side moved, the other stuck fast against something.

She loosed a frustrated snarl at Valerian standing calf-deep next to the boat, one hand holding the offending oar in place. The other curled over the lip of the boat.

“I am capable of rowing a boat fifty feet,” Cat said dryly.

“I think you’re capable of rowing yourself back to Archenport at this rate,” Valerian answered, putting his shoulder to the longboat and pushing the little vessel off the sandy shore. He moved with it, leaping in with far more grace than Cat had.

Scowling, she crossed her arms and ceded the oars, allowing Valerian to row them both into the shallows. His shoulders worked, rolling beneath the lines of his shirt in a way that made Cat’s skin prickle. Don’t look, she told herself, angling in any direction but his.

She felt his eyes on her face anyway, and the steady rhythm as he pulled the oars, his long body working back and forth. Without thought, Cat dipped a hand in the waves gliding past. Warm as the sea was, it was a cooling balm to her flushed skin.

“I want off this ship. The fleet is trawling the Lyrian, hunting you. And it’s only a matter of time before a man-o’-war runs up on your stern. If you let me return to Nera, I can make my own way from there,” she said, voice stiff as her posture. “I’ll be gone with the next tide, and you’ll never have to think of me again.”

“I think about you every time I close my eyes,” he muttered back, scowling through the darkness. It sounded like a threat. And somehow, a confession too.

Cat bit the inside of her cheek, unable to comprehend much beyond the next slap of the oars. And then the next step up the sea ladder, one hand passing over the other, hauling herself up and onto the Covenant with Valerian not far behind.

She expected him to abandon her on the main deck, or perhaps grab her once more, marching her back to his quarters with the same fury he showed on the beach. Truthfully, Cat did not know which she preferred. She felt unmoored, a ship without an anchor, or a compass without true north, forever spinning.

It was easier to tolerate Valerian from afar. But now, up close, his presence was infuriating. And intoxicating.

And intriguing.

“May the sea always sing for you,” she said, the words a challenge. “May the storm be your shield.”

A lantern glowed weakly from the main mast, illuminating the threads of gold and silver around his neck. And the heavy rise and fall of his chest as Valerian heaved an exasperated sigh. He scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching at a gleam of stubble along his jaw.

“Must remember to hide the key elsewhere,” he muttered. With a flash of his hand, he dismissed one of the sailors stoning the deck nearby, smoothing out the timbers. He scurried off, sandstone still in hand, the shadow of another sailor moving with him.

Leaving both Cat and Valerian alone on the deck of the Covenant, with only the moon and stars to watch.

Cat glared, trying to hold to her objectives. A way to flee, a way to survive. But she could not shake her suspicions or curiosity. Nor her fear for Valerian Kane, and whatever doom he charged towards.

“The Meridian navy reported several ships missing a month ago,” she said, repeating what she learned weeks ago in the governor’s office. “All of them separated from their squadrons, all lost in storms.”

“Such is the way of the Lyrian Sea,” Valerian replied, with a patronizing shrug.

“The Lyrian Sea does not shoot sailors, Valerian,” she said coldly, remembering what Fell said. Corpses washed up with bullet holes in their heads.

The lamplight danced in his eyes, his smirk curling into something darker.

“Where did you hear this?” he growled, taking a long step towards her.

Again, his necklaces caught the shifting gleam of flame and moonlight, rippling gold and silver. And one above all, the old Arcayan amulet seeming to wink at her. Cat stared at it, trying to decipher the markings, the tiny notches cut into the gold inscrutable to her eye. But not impossible. Certainly, there was an answer, something to make it all come together. The song priest in Alvaris, an Arcayan tower in a colonial harbor. Valerian’s faith, part of him since the day they met. And then Ana, shut up in her tower, watching the sea with a keener eye.

You betrayed the sea, she told Cat, with no explanation as to what it could mean.

Until now.

The wind was warm, but Cat shivered as she raised her eyes, dragging them up from Valerian’s chest to a face that still made her heartsick. But she did not linger, looking beyond him, far out to the Lyrian. Stars hung bright and piercing across the black sky, but for a band across the horizon, where the guardian storm still churned. As she watched, many miles stretching between island and horizon, lightning flared within the far-off clouds. The distance was too great, the sound of thunder never reaching the ship.

Cat felt it anyway, a tremor in her heart.

“I told the governor you were using the storms to steal Meridian ships. I did not realize how close I was to the truth.” Her voice felt heavy, the words ridiculous even as she spoke them. “You’re not just using the storms, Valerian.”

Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m foolish and going mad. After all she had seen, in the gallows of Archenport or her own worst nightmares, it would hardly be shocking.

But Valerian kept silent, unblinking.

As if urging her to continue.

“You’re calling them,” she whispered.

The lightning flashed again. This time, thunder followed, low and shuddering as a drumbeat.

Slowly, Valerian drew out the Arcayan necklace, the amulet passing between his fingers. The gold seemed to darken at his touch, as if consuming the light. His nail tripped against the notches, counting them, one by one. She felt each tap of his finger as if tapped against her spine.

Her mind spun but there were no answers to grasp. It was like being thrown into a dark room, blinded and searching for something in the blackness.

“You never were a believer, Cat,” he muttered, shaking his head at her. “It’s bit late to start now.”

Valerian can call down storms across the Lyrian Sea. Her heart thumped, pulse fluttering at the vein in her throat. This was not a game Cat knew how to play, and Valerian held all the cards. Cards she never even knew existed.

This time, when she reached out to touch the necklace, Valerian did not pull back. He let her look, turning the amulet over in her hand. It felt heavier than it should have, as if the gold was mixed with something else. What, Cat could hardly guess.

The notches were strange but not unfamiliar.

It’s a whistle, she realized, thinking of the song priests in their towers, and their voices carrying across the sea.

Or the wind in the Archenport harbor, hissing through the stone arch in a forgotten melody.

“Arcayan magic,” she breathed, dropping the necklace back against Valerian’s chest. It nestled alongside another golden chain she knew, the first she ever saw him wear.

Her prayer bead hung at the arc of it, never removed. Unremarkable next to his collected treasures and many tattoos. But it gleamed, freshly polished, as if it were his greatest jewel.

Even now.

Send me back to Nera. Let me run. I will turn my back and never speak of you again and let you turn the Lyrian Sea to blood. The navy’s and your own.

“Storms and the sea itself,” she whispered, forcing herself to look up into Valerian’s face. He glowered down at her, and she knew he weighed his options too. “Another pirate armada, all the ships and sailors still left.”

The words seemed to stick in her throat, her breath hitching. She remembered this feeling, the abject terror of losing Valerian to something so much bigger than even he could be. She barely survived it before.

I won’t survive it again, she thought, pushing down the urge to drag him as far away from the Lyrian Sea as she could.

For there was another path to walk, and a new hand yet to play.

“It still won’t be enough to destroy the Meridian navy, Val,” Cat muttered, watching as he recoiled.

His brow furrowed, shadows gathering across the lines of his face.

“That’s hardly your concern anymore,” he snapped, gesturing for her to go back to the cabin.

Cat did the opposite, seizing him by the arm, in the same place he grabbed her. Just above the elbow, on the swell of the muscle. She knew what burned beneath, what image itched him as it itched her.

The red rose. Her palm flattened against the swell of his bicep, chasing the burn she felt in the exact same place.

“It will not be enough to destroy the Meridian navy,” she said again, the horizon unfolding in her mind. A horizon filled with possibility, opportunity.

A chance they never had before.

She grinned wide and white, a shark’s smile on her face.

“But it might be enough to kill the King.”

Epilogue After

VALERIAN

“IT MIGHT BE enough to kill the King.”

Cat looked up at him with a smile to cut flesh, her words hanging between them like a body in a noose. The spare lanterns of the main deck burned behind her head, turning her curls to a flaming halo.

Valerian’s first instinct was to turn away, to protect himself from the torture that was Cat Rose. He’d had enough of her amber eyes this night, coin-bright in her beautiful face. All he needed to do was spin on his heel to leave behind the siren in human skin.

But Valerian Kane was well accustomed to the wounds Cat inflicted. What is one more?

He steeled himself against the sight and smell of her, her chest rising and falling under the hem of a wet gown, the salt water of the sea drying on her bare skin—Enough, Valerian. A bullet wound would have been easier to bear; he would rather bleed than face down Cat and her machinations, every word laced with both lies and truth. For years he never had to unbraid one from the other, his trust in the Widow Rose absolute.

And I was stupid for it, blinded like every other man who trails after a woman, weathering the storm of her love as best he can.

His jaw clenched and his eyes wavered, forcing himself to suffer another second of her presence, to search her face, to read her thoughts as he once could. Enough to kill the King. It was a terrible prize to offer, impossible to believe in—and just as impossible to ignore.

To strike at the King, to cut off the head of the imperial snake—the opportunity was simply too good to pass up, no matter the odds.

The amulet seemed to agree, the ancient Arcayan gold like a chip of ice against the bare skin of his chest. It always felt that way, no matter the temperature or the warmth of his body. Valerian ventured he could throw it into a fire, and the artifact would still be cold to the touch, in testament to its inscrutable power. Worse still was the weight of it, heavier than it should have been. Not around his neck, but deeper, as if a stone lay behind his ribs, lodged in his chest alongside his beating heart. It lingered always, more and more difficult to ignore.

He swallowed against the now-familiar sensation, all but leaning into the cold heaviness of the amulet. Like a bullet, it was still better to bear than Cat Rose.

She did not speak, letting him look at her. As if she knew how difficult it was for him to do so. Valerian suspected as much. The Widow Rose had not survived this long without being perceptive, or sly. He curled a fist to hide a shaking hand, palm aching to cup her cheek or the swell of her hip, to feel her warm skin against his. To trace her freckles, vibrant and familiar as the constellations across the Lyrian sky.

But Cat was not the same, no matter how similar she looked to six months ago. She was exactly as he remembered, and yet not at all. Every torturous inch of her, freckled and smooth and welcoming, was nothing compared to the blood he saw all over. Red and black, fresh and old. Flowing from wounds or strangled mouths. Blood from too many bodies to name.

Harry’s blood.

His nostrils flared, and Valerian forced himself to breathe her in, succumbing to the familiar wash of vanilla and the ever-present tang of salt. Somehow even sweat smelled good on her, and he gritted his teeth.

Cat was the only thing in the world that smelled better than the sea.

He drew breath again, until he could smell the blood too, a copper ghost suspended between them.

I am not stupid anymore.

His jaw set, his closed fist shoving open the door behind him as his other arm snaked around her waist. She was a familiar weight, easy to pull close, his body burning with the threat of it. One inch too far and there would be no return, like a fish caught in a net.

Valerian knew better. Or told himself he did.

He kept her moving, his boots a hammer on the timbers, forcing Cat to keep up in a breathless whirlwind. If she protested, he could not tell; a dull roar filled his ears.

The king.

Between Cat’s close figure and the prospect of the Meridian monarch, he could barely think, all his focus trained on hurrying through the quarterdeck.

They skirted the council table, and he slammed the next door open with a well-placed kick, the wood almost falling off the hinges as Valerian dragged her into his cabin. It was hardly the first time one had pulled the other into the captain’s cabin, but the circumstances had bitterly changed. He would draw the truth from her if it killed them both.

Only when the cabin door shut again did he force himself to face her, looming over her body in a way that felt too familiar. But Valerian refused to give her any quarter, or indication of his own weakness where she was concerned.

Cat Rose was an enemy, a lethal one. And Valerian Kane faced his enemies head-on.

Acknowledgments

Almost two years ago exactly, I went for a walk. A story unfolded while I paced, the Pirates of the Caribbean score repeating in my headphones. And a few hours later my agent, Suzie, received a very harried email with a sloppy synopsis and a request for a gut check—should I abandon the proposal I was working on to consider this “pirate” thing instead?

Her response was immediate. Both my agent and her amazing assistant came back with the validation I needed to embark on the voyage that brought us here. I must send my deep thanks to Sophia Ramos for being the most needed cheerleader (and accidental Zoom twin). Your enthusiasm for Tempest in the early days was vital to me.

At this point in my career, after nine books published, I thought I would run out of things to say about Suzie Townsend. But here we are, and there is no end to my gratitude, admiration, and love for my incredible agent. I would not be here without her foresight, vision, and guidance. Nor would I be anywhere near sane. Thank you, Suzie—here’s to nine more books.

I would also be nowhere without the extended New Leaf Literary family, of which I am a willing evangelist. Thank you to Keifer and Lindsay for being such excellent safety nets; you catch everything I drop. And endless thanks to Tracy as she carries our stories to new shores. Thank you to Hilary, Eileen, and Katherine for their sparks of genius. To Joe, our contract king. To Jo, thank you for your endless vision and bottomless heart. And to the many, many New Leafers who have answered emails and phone calls and held fragile baby bird authors through every whirlwind. We love and appreciate your tireless dedication to this shared calling of telling stories in a rapidly changing landscape.

I am equally lucky in my West Coast team—Nicole and Steve, my sword and shield. I’m so excited for next steps in taking our stories from page to screen.

After eight books in the young adult world, the leap to adult publishing was terrifying. But I had a champion with me every step of the way, pushing me forward and challenging me to reach new heights. Thank you, Priyanka. Tempest is better for having you, and I look forward to weathering many more storms together. And across the pond, thank you to the entire Gollancz team—and my dear Bethan, who has the uncanny ability to jump inside my head and see exactly what I see. I am also indebted to my various foreign teams at agencies and publishers. It is a privilege to see my words embraced across the world through your efforts.

I was so grateful to maintain my relationship with the Harper family and work with the most talented team in publishing. Your enthusiasm and creativity are a force to be reckoned with. Thank you to Grace, David, Jen, Kaitlin, and Liate for fighting the fight with us. I owe endless thanks to Hope for making Tempest a reality and to Lauren for the best copyedit I’ve ever received. I have been tremendously lucky with design, but Will, Mumtaz, and Patrick really knocked it out of the park with the cover and interior for Tempest. I still can’t get over this beautiful package. And all of us would be nowhere without the incredible outreach from publicity and marketing—thank you to Lara, Heidi, DJ, Sam, and the brilliant jewels of the Epic Reads team. I continue to be your biggest fan and luckiest colleague.

While embarking on the endeavor of writing Tempest, I had the immense privilege of sailing through history, and sifting through both the reality—and the fantasy—of piracy in the Caribbean. I did my best to join the vast and wonderful lexicon of pirate media, from Muppet Treasure Island to Robinson Crusoe. Of course, I would be remiss not to highlight the immense inspiration I drew from Black Sails. And naturally, Pirates of the Caribbean, which set my brain on fire when I was thirteen, and again at age thirty-three.

I must give my deepest thanks to Michelle, our fantastic tour guide at Fort Charlotte in Nassau. You were integral to this book, as are the history and peoples of the Bahamas. I must also thank Isaac Davey at the National Maritime Museum of the United Kingdom. Thank you to Fort Fincastle, the Pirates of Nassau Musuem, the National Maritime Museum of the Netherlands, and the Rijksmuseum. I am also indebted to The Republic of Pirates by Colin Woodward and Black Flags, Blue Waters by Eric Jay Dolin. It was a joy to meet Emily Lawrence, not to mention a lovely turn of fate. Thank you for the help connecting me to so much research on the Taino peoples; you and your husband are much appreciated.

I must also express my thanks to and grief for the enduring spirits of the Caribbean, those who threw off enslavement and those who were erased by colonial greed. You are remembered and mourned.

It is solitary work writing stories. But I simply could not do it alone. Especially not without my incredible circle of author friends, who have shaped me, supported me, and taught me so much in our years together. There are simply too many of my dear friends to name, and it feels like bragging. Love to Soman, my partner in crime and forever friend. And endless gratitude to Alex, Sooz, Leigh, Veronica, and Sabaa for your support, commiseration, genius, and invaluable friendship over so many years.

I would not be walking this path at all without the love, support, and encouragement of my family, especially Mom and Dad. Thank you for making me a reader from the start and never limiting the scale of my dreams. And thank you to Andy for being my first fellow storyteller and to Michelle for sending me into the galaxy far, far away.

I feel so lucky in my circle of friends, my California family. I can’t believe we’ve been together sixteen-plus years now. It has been a privilege to grow up together and chase our futures alongside each other. My love to all of you, especially Morgan, Tori, Jen, and your joyful families.

I am luckier still in my two, J and Indy. I love you more than words can say and will not embarrass us all in the attempt.

Before I end what is becoming an inordinately long and indulgent acknowledgments, I must send my utmost gratitude to the wide, wonderful book community. To everyone who loves stories and shares books—be it on social media, in book clubs, in classrooms, in bookstores big and small. With your close friends or on the big, bad internet. It has been a joy to work alongside you as we share our love for storytelling.

As always, my last and deepest thanks go to you, the reader. I live my dreams because of you, and I hope I give you some dreams in return.

All my love,

Victoria

Announcement

THE STORY CONTINUES in Tyrant, book two of the Lyrian Sea duology.

About the Author

VICTORIA AVEYARD is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Red Queen series and the Realm Breaker trilogy. Her books have been translated into over forty languages and counting. Born and raised in a small town in Western Massachusetts, she now lives in Los Angeles with her dog and her husband.

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Also by Victoria Aveyard

THE RED QUEEN SERIES

Red Queen

Glass Sword

King’s Cage

War Storm

Broken Throne: A Red Queen Collection

Red Queen: The Official Coloring Book

DIGITAL NOVELLAS

Queen Song

Steel Scars

NOVELLA COLLECTION

Cruel Crown

THE REALM BREAKER SERIES

Realm Breaker

Blade Breaker

Fate Breaker

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

TEMPEST. Copyright © 2026 by Victoria Aveyard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

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FIRST EDITION

Cover design by Will Staehle/UnusualCo

Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2026 ISBN: 978-0-06345139-1

Version 07242026

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-356622-4

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