His arm was stable. Talis dried her hands on a cotton cloth, then gathered up gauze and ointment for Tisker’s burns.
Hankirk said no more, focused on tying up his arm in a sling with the strips of bandage, using his teeth to make a knot.
She put her supplies on the tray with the water and started to leave, but his voice made her pause in the doorway.
“Help me, Talis. I’ll make it right. We’ll fix it all together.” His voice sounded earnest, but the words were still nonsense.
She’d helped him plenty already. She could only shake her head at him in disbelief.
There were people aboard she actually wanted to survive. She headed above-decks to tend her wounded pilot.
Chapter 42
The condition of Tisker’s hands let him off the hook for cooking dinner. Talis decided to handle it herself, letting the others rest or work as they wanted.
To keep the wind out, Sophie and Dug had hung a sheet of oilcloth across the breach in the galley’s bulkhead, and stretched it as tight as they could. They nailed it into place along the fractured edges of the hull. The oiled canvas flapped, pushing in and out against the air currents like an enormous exposed lung. Put Talis on edge.
With the breach in the hull as big as it was, they’d been lucky to only lose the spice rack and not all their food, though the spice supply was something Talis relied on to disguise her lack of grace in cooking. The bench on that side of the table was gone, too. Even if they could tolerate the flapping of the oilcloth or the pervasive smell of linseed it gave to the room, there’d be no place for everyone to sit and eat a meal in the galley.
To compensate for the lack of spices, she cubed and fried a slab of salt pork from the barrels in the hold. Then she steamed a pot of rice and spooned tallow into the water. It was a trick she’d learned in her days as crewman on a ship whose captain considered spices a frivolous expense: extra fat would enhance the flavors and make plain taste less plain. They needed to replenish their energy, anyway. There were wounds to heal, and no small amount of work to do to make sure Wind Sabre made it to Heddard Bay.
She added a cutting board full of vegetables to a second pot, choosing those that were starting to soften rather than coordinating flavors. Boiled them with more bits of salt pork and lard. It’d fill them, whether or not it would satisfy them.
She tasted a bite of the greens to check their firmness and made an involuntary face as the food hit her tongue. It would fill them, anyway.
“Need a hand, Captain?” Sophie hovered in the doorway behind her, leaning one forearm against the frame above her head.
Talis put the lid from the vegetables in the sink and killed the burners.
“Just about done. You wanna set places at the table in my cabin?”
But Sophie moved to the stove and filched a piece from the mound of steaming vegetables. Blew on it a moment, then popped it in her mouth.
Her face contorted. She grabbed for a napkin and spit the barely-chewed piece out.
“The rice should help. Though I salted that, too.”
Sophie shook her head vehemently, as if trying to shake the flavor loose from her tongue. Her short tousled hair flopped with her enthusiasm. “Get away from the stove, please.”
Sophie leaned into the depths of their icebox, digging until she retrieved their jar of cream with one hand and a smaller cotton-wrapped jar in the other.
“Here,” said Sophie, letting the cooler hatch drop back into place. “By your leave, Captain. Tisker can drink his coffee black until we get to Heddard Bay.”
Talis took a step toward the drawer for a peeler, but Sophie grabbed a pile of plates and pushed them into Talis’s arms.
“I’ve got it, Captain, not to worry. Old family secret.” Sophie held up the little jar like a talisman that could repel her captain from the galley. She looked as though she was worried Talis might object.
No chance. The burn of over-salted food was still on Talis’s tongue. She gathered the plates onto a tray with napkins and cutlery and withdrew to dress the table, trusting Sophie to do what she could for the meal.
Plates were traded for bowls once Sophie transformed Talis’s botched efforts into a thick chowder. She’d used all the cream, plus added the okra Talis had skipped over. Each bowl was served with a piece of hardtack floating in the center, soaking up what moisture could make it through the bread’s near-concrete surface.
Talis and Sophie stood back after placing the filled bowls at each seat, overlooking the softly lit table. Talis eyed the fifth and sixth place settings at the table as though they might brandish spoons at her without warning.
“I don’t know which of them bothers me more.”
Sophie crossed her arms. “Really, Captain? They’ve each proven where they stand at every opportunity. I think the choice is pretty clear.”
Talis raised an eyebrow. But it was true, wasn’t it? With a self-pitying sigh, she went below to find Hankirk and Scrimshaw while Sophie fetched Dug and Tisker.
Hankirk sat at the far end of the table, closest to the door of Talis’s cabin. He still wore what was left of his shirt and jacket—the half Talis hadn’t cut free with the shears. He’d found a rough-spun blanket in the cargo hold to cover the rest of him. The blanket was one they used to protect the corners of crates underway. It was probably full of splinters.
Talis didn’t have to debate whether or not to give Hankirk something more respectable. Spare blankets had been stowed in crew quarters. He might have borrowed a sweater from Tisker or Dug, but crew clothes had been stowed in crew quarters. There was nothing
