Badger claims these notes hold too much damning evidence. I’ve pleaded with him, said we can change names, places, anything—we’ll talk in code if we have to—but he refuses to be our courier.
This is my last letter.
I’ll be fishing with Charlie where the catch is good the week of the holidays. You know the place: our favorite spot southwest of the Gulf. Meet us, won’t you? You can come west for good. We’ll give up fishing and head for Expat protection. I know you’ve never liked my brother, but this was all Charlie’s idea: getting you out, having you join us. We can even sink your seiner, make it look like you went down. No one will come after you.
Please, Carl. The Order has taken everything from your people: their hope, their resilience, their freedom. Don’t let them take your heart, too.
You know where to find me.
All my love,
May
I realize then what I hadn’t before: the clothes on the drying rack are not the slightest bit damp; the fruit on the kitchen table is beginning to spoil. The owner of the house—Carl—is long gone. And he won’t be returning.
Also on the desk are dozens of paper scraps, edges ragged as though Carl tore them from a larger source. There’s a story about Order troops being stationed in gulfside towns as additional border control, an announcement on freshwater taxes, a note mandating curfew, another saying all ships are subject to random search upon leaving and entering port. The Franconian emblem sits at the end of each story.
A crumpled piece of paper catches my eye because it’s a different shade from the others—more tan than ash gray. I skim a few sentences about water prices and black markets. Badger’s name appears twice. There is no Franconian mark on this paper, merely a line at the bottom that reads The Bone Harbor Harbinger—burn after reading.
I frown at the conflicting stories, run my thumb over Badger’s name.
Aiden steps from the bathroom, and I slip the Harbinger and May’s letter into my pocket. I’ll show them to my father later, but at the moment, we need to move.
TWELVE
THE STREETS ARE QUIET AS we steal through them. We pass a building with a cross on its peak. People are singing inside, and a single candle burns in each window. Most other buildings in town lie dark and seemingly vacant, and we spot only one Order member on our way to the harbor. He stands with his back against a brick wall, staring at the stars instead of the streets he should be watching.
When we get to the docks, the rest of the group is already there. The horses are gone and I assume this means my father had success selling them.
Bree greets me with a curt nod. “Nice haircut.”
“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
“I’m not. But it’s good to know you aren’t dead.” She pivots and stalks off to join Xavier and September in a discussion about something called high tide.
My father is scanning the town, binoculars to his eyes. Clipper does the same. “Three flames in the highest window, one in all the others,” Owen says to him. “That’s the signal.”
“There,” Clipper exclaims, pointing at a tiny house set back in the cove.
“It’s a good thing everyone is preoccupied with holiday eve celebrations,” Bo says. “Otherwise getting to that house unseen would be a difficult task.”
“Yeah, hooray for holidays,” Sammy mumbles behind me. “This is exactly how I like to spend them.” Rusty yaps in agreement, and half the team hushes him all at once.
When we get to the marked house, my father raps on the door, a funny little pattern that I’m sure is another signal. The door is yanked open and light floods the alley. The man standing before us is plump and lively, with bushy eyebrows and an even rowdier mustache. A pipe is rooted between his teeth as though it grows there.
“Merry Christmas, friends!” he says. “Come in. Come in! It’s nearly curfew.”
And then we are ushered into the warmth of his cramped home for a series of introductions, the cry of the ocean shut out by the door.
The captain, Isaac Christopher Murphy, is the most superstitious person I have ever met. He nearly faints when he learns that there will be women on board his ship.
“This weren’t part of the agreement,” he spouts. “Ryder didn’t mention no women. I won’t have it! Wouldn’t’ve taken the job if I’d known.”
Isaac paces around the small sitting room, puffing on his pipe and claiming the females will sink his boat. It’s not until a small girl walks into the room and points at Isaac’s tabby cat, which has curled up in Bree’s lap, that Isaac finally calms.
“Look, Pa,” she says. “Dixie likes the lady.”
“Well, it changes things a bit,” Isaac says after some consideration, “but I still ain’t fond of the idea. Lunacy this is, bringing women on board. Especially with the state of things! Order members increasing their presence in town. Tensions rising along the borderlines. When I was fishing with my regular crew on the western shores of the Gulf a month back, we heard wind that AmWest is trying to convince AmEast citizens to come to their side. ‘The real patriots are Expats,’ they’ve been saying. Have you heard this chatter?” I’m about to mention May’s letter when Isaac gasps, the pipe tumbling from his lips.
“There will be thirteen of us! Thirteen, including Dixie. More bad luck. Not to mention it ain’t comfortable with over ten, but thirteen! No, I won’t have it.”
“It’s fourteen, actually,” Bree says. “If you count Rusty.”
“You don’t count dogs,” Isaac says, as if this should be obvious.
“But you counted the cat.”
“Course I did. Cats are good luck on a ship.”
“Hold on a minute,” my father says. “Not everyone continues from here, so the number won’t be a problem. September will be setting up a post in Bone Harbor.”
“I will?” September says, as surprised as I am by this news.
“We agreed to take Aiden as far as the next town, and the upcoming leg of our journey is no place for a young boy. But since we can’t just dump him on the streets, I’m hoping that you, September, can find him and Rusty a good home. Then we’ll need you to sit tight until we are able to send word for you to join us. So that drops our number down to ten, Isaac. Eleven, if you insist on counting the cat.”
“We’ve established the cat’s counted,” he grumbles. “I still don’t feel good ’bout the women, but I suppose I ain’t got a choice in the matter. Can’t very well strand friends of a friend.” He puffs on his pipe a moment longer and adds, “I don’t suppose you ladies would be willing to remain naked on board? A bare woman is good luck, you know.”
“You’re dreaming,” Bree says. “We’re coming and we’re keeping our clothes on and everything is going to be fine.”
“What about you, then?” Isaac raises his bushy eyebrows at Emma.
She just blushes and stares at her hands. Bree nudges her shoulder and whispers, “Go on, Emma. Don’t let him make you uncomfortable. Tell him to shove it.”
But before she can, Isaac’s daughter and Aiden erupt with squeals. The girl has been teaching him a new hand game—one where they join fists and battle to pin each other’s thumb down.
“Catherine, child. Bed!” Isaac motions toward the hallway. “If you’re expecting Saint Nicholas to come with even the smallest of holiday tidings you’ll be asleep before I count to three. One . . . two . . .”
But Catherine is already gone. Emma leads Aiden after her.
“My sister’ll be here early to take care of Catherine. I’d prefer to be gone before she arrives—that woman’ll talk our ears off—so rest while you can.” Isaac stares at me, as though he is seeing me for the first time despite the fact that I shook his hand when we arrived. “You . . . You’re the boy on the posters.”