“Hold still, or you’ll only make this worse for yourself,” he snaps.
Of course, that just makes me try to get away even more, but he shoves his hips against me, using his legs to pin me in place so I have nowhere to go, no way to move. I want to cry at the helplessness of it all, but I swallow that down. There’s no time for that, no time to break down.
He turns the lock with a click, shoving the key back into his pocket. But before he can turn the handle, Quarter calls for his attention. “Cap! We got a hawk!”
Captain Fane turns to look, keeping me stuck shoved against the door. I can’t see him, but I hear Quarter stomping up the stairs.
“Just came, Cap,” Quarter says as he stops beside us.
From the corner of my eye, I can see a large tawny hawk with a black beak sitting on Quarter’s forearm, talons digging into the fur.
The captain grabs a small metal vial off the bird’s leg and unrolls it, careful to keep it held beneath the eave, blocking it from the haggard rain. It’s a short piece of parchment, though its length grows as he unrolls it. All I can see is a messy scrawl of black, but the captain’s brows draw down, water dripping off his beaded beard as he reads.
Captain Fane mutters something I don’t catch and then shoves the parchment and vial into Quarter’s chest. “We need to send a reply?” Quarter questions.
“No. They’ll be here before the hawk could deliver it, anyway.”
Quarter frowns at the captain before replacing the empty vial on the hawk’s leg. As soon as it’s secure, the bird takes flight, shooting up into the sheet of rain and disappearing from view without a sound.
“Who’s going to be here?” Quarter asks.
Instead of answering, Captain Fane holds out a hand. “Give me your sash.” Quarter blinks for a moment before he reaches beneath his furs and begins to loosen the white sash tucked around his torso.
Captain Fane turns his attention to me. Without a word, he starts to wrap my ribbons around my torso, pulling them so taut that it makes me grit my teeth in pain. He wraps them around and around, until their long lengths are completely bound around my middle, and then he ties the ends all in a knot, so tightly that I can’t move them at all.
“Get all the saddles in the kitchens and put them to work. Cook needs to get a dinner ready to be served within the hour. We have guests coming.”
He holds out his hand again, and Quarter quickly passes over the sash. The captain wraps it around me, just as tightly as he wrapped my ribbons, and ties that off too. Another deterrent in place to keep my ribbons immobile.
The captain spins me around and lowers himself so we’re eye-to-eye. His expression is angry, severe. “If any of the saddles try anything or disobey in any way...I want them stripped, whipped, and tossed overboard.”
Quarter nods at him, though his eyes are on me. Even with his red band over his face, I can tell he’s grinning. “Aye, Cap.”
With one last lingering glare my way, Captain Fane shoves me toward Quarter before storming off to the front of the ship, shouting orders about changing course.
“Alright, come on, you. And don’t even think about fucking up with those puppet strings of yours, or I’ll slice them clean off your back.”
The skin along my spine flinches, like the ribbons heard the threat.
With a grip on my arm, Quarter leads me down to the main deck again, straight over to the huddled saddles. “Right, you cunts! Follow me!”
Quarter doesn’t wait to see if they listen as he turns us, heading for a set of stairs in the middle of the ship that leads below deck. I can hear footsteps trail after us as Quarter and I make our way down the creaking stairs.
We pass through a narrow corridor, and then we go deeper into the back of the ship where we enter a long galley kitchen that reeks of potatoes and smoke.
At least we’re out of the storm and the kitchen is warm, thanks to the cast iron oven with roaring flames inside its belly. The walls and floors are made from the same white wood as everything else, except it’s been stained, black with soot in some places, splatters of old food stuck on others.
Standing over the iron oven is the cook, the only pirate I’ve seen so far who isn’t dressed in the same white fur as everyone else. He’s in a simple white leather vest and trousers instead, his meaty arms bare and littered with sloppy tattoos. He’s stout and short, with a crooked jaw that juts to the side, and a low brow that makes me wonder how well he can see above the pot he’s stirring.
A scowl crosses his ruddy face when he notices us enter. “What the damned hell I got women in my galley for?”
“Cap’s orders, Cook,” Quarter replies. “We got guests coming, apparently. We need a meal served up deck.” He jerks his head in our direction, where all of us are grouped together near the doorway. “They’re your help.”
Cook lets out a garbled string of curses, but Quarter pays it no mind. “Cap wants it ready by the hour.” Cook sends him a crude gesture but starts to yank out tinned supplies from the cupboards.
Another pirate comes in and leans against the wall, a dagger held in one hand as he stares at us. A guard dog to watch us and attack, if necessary.
Quarter looks back at us. “I’ll warn you now. Cook’s the meanest bastard of all of us. Getting whipped and tossed overboard will be the least of your worries if you fuck up in here.”
With those lovely parting words, Quarter pushes past us and walks out, leaving us alone.
Cook takes one look at us and narrows his eyes, using a
