I nod, and he pulls a set of curtains closed hurriedly.
“I don’t like it,” he says yet again, which leaves me thinking Isaac doesn’t like much of anything. “It’s a bad time to be smuggling fugitives ’cross the Gulf. It’s a bad time to be on the Gulf in general.” He blows out the candles in the front of the house and yanks those curtains closed as well.
“Ryder said you were a man we could trust,” my father says. “If this is true, I’m sure you don’t believe everything you read on Franconian signage.”
“Course not,” Isaac mutters. “How could I when the Order keeps patrolling our streets like we’re criminals and taxing our drinking water like it’s gold? They’re gonna make me broke. I’ve had to start buying off this guy that goes by Badger. Man’s shifty as they come but his water’s clean and cheap, and I ain’t turning down that sort of deal. Even if he does live in AmWest.”
“AmWest?” Bo echoes. “I thought water was even harder to come by out that way.”
“Supposedly is, but they’ll trade for the right price: information. Anything Franconian they can get their hands on, so long as it’s trustworthy, and I know a boatload about the Order’s shipping habits from all my time on the Gulf. They’re planning something. Don’t know what, but if it knocks the Order ’round a bit, gets them outta my hair as much as theirs, I ain’t complaining. You know, sometimes I catch myself wondering if those AmWest guys are just like us, only caught on the opposite side of a line drawn in the sand.”
Isaac pulls the last set of curtains closed. “We’ll leave well before dawn,” he announces to the room. “Pack your black clothes away—they won’t be worn on my ship—do not utter the word drown on deck, and when you step on board, lead with your right foot, else you’ll brew up a storm and bury us in the Gulf. Is that clear?”
Everyone nods, but when Isaac retires to bed Bree mumbles, “What a load of crap.”
We spread out in the tiny house, sleeping bags practically overlapping. Those in the group who have not yet bathed take turns using the washroom. I’m squished between Bo, who is humming his song about red berries, eyes closed; and my father, who is cleaning his rifle. I show him May’s letter and the Harbinger story. He reads silently, forehead wrinkled.
“What’s it mean?” I ask when he hands them back.
“I don’t know. Could mean a lot of things. The Harbinger is clearly an underground paper published by people here in town, so its facts are only as good as rumors, which is to say, not good at all. And the letter? It’s just one girl’s words to a fisherman she likely met on the sea and fell for.”
“But the rumors in the Harbinger match most of May’s letter, plus some of what Isaac said earlier. And besides, wouldn’t rumors have some basis in truth?”
My father nods and frowns in one motion. “A very good point.”
I watch him run a cleaning rod through the rifle. “I just . . . I think we’d be stupid to not look into it.”
He puts the weapon down. “Let me see those again.” I hand him the papers and he reads through them. Twice. “We’ll talk to Isaac again tomorrow. Try and get more out of him. I think I might have September poke around town after she gets Aiden settled, too. See if she can confirm any of these rumors.”
I nod, settle deeper into my sleeping bag. I’m not sure what will come of it, but it seems the right thing to do: follow these odd stories until the truth unearths itself. I’d still be sitting in Claysoot if I hadn’t done the same after my doubts about the Heist surfaced.
Behind me, I can hear Dixie hissing as Jackson tries to coax her into his lap. It took him forever to win over Rusty. I don’t know why he’d expect to have success with the cat. Forged Blaine flashes through my mind, how I couldn’t sense his true nature, and I feel a little pathetic for having worse instincts than a house pet.
“You sure we should take the Forgery on the boat?” I ask my father.
“It would be too easy for him to tip off the Order in Bone Harbor. And I don’t want to regret leaving him behind if Clipper ends up having complications with the Outer Ring.”
Dixie hisses at Jackson again and I worry that he will be a greater risk to us than ever once we are on a boat and Aiden is left behind. The child miraculously brings out a semblance of humanity in him.
“You should sleep, Gray,” my father says. “It might not come as easily once we’re on the water.”
I roll over and try to block out Bo’s humming. Outside, wind surges against the house. The ocean is a distant noise now, practically drowned out by the creaking of floorboards and drafty walls. It seems like my eyes have closed for only the briefest of moments when someone is shaking me awake.
It is time to greet the sea.
THIRTEEN
ISAAC IS FRANTIC IN THE morning.
“Let’s get going,” he urges. “The Order’s been inspecting boats at random before they push off these last few weeks and I want to disappear before they start crawling the shore. Hurry, hurry!”
We are rushed through our good-byes. September promises to take care of Aiden and find him the very best of homes. We all peer into the bedroom before leaving, even the Forgery. Aiden’s dark hair is splayed out against his pillow, Rusty curled up at his feet.
We gather our gear and head out, Isaac mumbling about early departures and how we’re bound to get flagged down if we don’t pick up the pace. By the time we reach the docks, most of the team is stressed. Even Sammy seems flustered.
The vessel is larger than I expect, a looming giant emerging from thick morning fog. Sammy says it’s a fishing boat, a trawler, to be exact, but I can’t imagine sneaking up on any animal in something so massive. He laughs at this and says the boat is midsized, but when I look through the harbor, not many of the vessels surpass Isaac’s in scale.
The sky has barely started to lighten, but I can make out Catherine painted on the boat’s side. I wonder if the ship was named after Isaac’s daughter as a token of good luck or simply because he loves his child so much that her name helps him feel near her when he’s at sea. The captain left fruit by the fireplace when we set out this morning, along with a doll and wooden top, which makes me suspect the latter.
Isaac won’t let us board until he’s spit in the sea—yet another ritual for luck—and warned us again about leading with our right foot as we step on board.
“He’s something else, huh?” I say to Bree as we shuffle along the dock.
She stares ahead, hands grasping the straps of her pack.
“The captain,” I clarify. “All those superstitions.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her face full of mock concern. “Were you saying something?”
“Bree, you can’t avoid talking to me forever.”
“Watch me,” she snarls, marching toward the boat.
“Ah-ah-AH!” Isaac scolds. “Your right foot first. Your right!”
Bree throws her hands up and even with her back to me, I’m positive she’s rolling her eyes. She switches her footing and continues forward.
Sammy nudges my shoulder. “What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing. Just Bree being Bree.”