Sara looked at Arent, trying to gauge his mood. Normally, his face was a mask, every emotion locked away. Not tonight. Fury showed through his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. It coursed through his tense shoulders and balled fists. He was ready to sink this ship with his bare hands.
‘What’s the alternative?’ asked Lia, her voice quivering. ‘What happens if they say no? Will you kill us?’
‘No,’ exclaimed Creesjie, horrified. ‘No, dear heart, no. If any part of me could let that happen, I wouldn’t have confessed when I thought Isabel was going to burn you.’
‘If you don’t like our bargain, you’re free to stay on the island in peace,’ said Sammy, sounding genuinely pained by the idea. ‘There’s food enough for years and the hunting’s good.’
Obviously discomfited by Arent’s anger, he peered at Sara. ‘Old Tom asked you what you most desired, and you said freedom. Now, we’re offering it to you. The question is: what will you pay for it?’
Sara looked at Lia, then Arent.
Lia’s stare was pleading. This was everything she wanted. By contrast, Arent’s huge frame seemed to fill the great cabin, his massive shoulders rising and falling, like a bull pawing the ground. Here was the Arent of the songs, implacable and unstoppable, sent by heaven to topple kingdoms. But the god he’d served had disappointed him. There could be no forgiveness.
Sara knew that whatever she said next would decide whether Arent lived or died, and how many people lost their lives trying to stop him.
What was her heart’s desire? And what would she pay for it?
For a second, there was only the creaking of wood as they awaited Sara’s decision.
‘No,’ she said softly. There was an intake of breath from around the table. Arent tensed, ready to spring out of his chair. ‘No, I’m sick of being dictated to,’ continued Sara. ‘There’s a third way.’
‘I assure you, we’ve thought of everything,’ said Sammy, eyeing Arent warily.
‘Hush, Samuel,’ rebuked Creesjie. ‘What’s your third way, dear heart?’
‘Atonement,’ said Sara. ‘These passengers deserve recompense for all they’ve lost, and you’ve treasure enough to give them new lives, but you can’t saunter away afterwards like nothing happened. Too many innocent people are dead. You have to make amends.’
‘And how do you suggest we do it?’ queried Creesjie, cautiously.
‘By turning Old Tom to noble purpose,’ replied Sara excitedly. ‘By making sure he whispers to those who deserve to hear his voice.’ Sensing their gathering objections, she rushed on. ‘We all know there are hundreds of others like my husband who do terrible things, but are so powerful they go unpunished. What if that wasn’t the case? What if the next time a noble murdered his maid, Old Tom found him and made him pay God’s price? What if the next time a king led an army to slaughter, then fled the battlefield in cowardice, Old Tom was waiting in his castle?’
Sammy and Creesjie exchanged an incredulous glance, but Arent was smiling. As was Lia.
‘Look at the lengths you’ve gone for your revenge,’ pressed Sara. ‘Four years you planned this and Arent and I solved it in a few weeks. Lia invented The Folly to fend off boredom. Imagine what the five of us could accomplish together. Imagine the good we could do.’
‘We can’t avenge every act of evil in this world,’ protested Sammy, but his words were at odds with the eagerness in his voice. He wanted to be talked around, Sara realised. Here was a challenge that would last the rest of his life. She just needed the right words.
‘We don’t need to avenge every act of evil,’ said Arent in a low rumble. ‘But we can make people terrified to commit them.’ He stared at Sammy. ‘You’re a scheming, lying, betraying bastard, Sammy Pipps, but you were my friend until today, and I’d wish it so again. You blew up the Eighth Lantern because I asked you to prove I could still trust you. Now I’m asking for this.’
‘Creesjie, please,’ begged Lia, reaching for the older woman’s hand across the table.
Creesjie looked hopefully at her brother. ‘Is it even possible?’
‘We’ve treasure enough,’ mused Sammy. ‘A ship, an island. Not to mention cleverness and cunning aplenty. It just might be. I’d certainly like to find out for myself.’
Tentative smiles were exchanged, as a strange new contract was signed between them.
‘Then maybe it’s time a devil did what God will not,’ said Creesjie gaily. She turned her inquisitive stare on Sara. ‘Where do we begin?’
AN APOLOGY TO HISTORY. AND BOATS.
Hello, friend.
Sorry for barging into your evening uninvited. I wanted to turn up after the plot dust had settled and have a word.
You see, I believe a book is whatever you decide it is. The sights, the smells, the characters – everything you believe about them, you’re right! That’s why I love books. No two readers are the same, which means no two readings are the same. Your version of Arent isn’t my version of Arent, as demonstrated by the amount of people who think Arent’s hot. Sexy bodyguard really wasn’t my intention, but who cares. If you want sexy Arent, sexy Arent you shall have.
Equally, I don’t like pinning a genre to my stories. Seven Deaths – my prior book – was variously described as a golden age mystery, a metaphysical sci-fi novel, a modern fantasy, and a horror. In every instance, they were right. It was their book, so it could be whatever they damn well pleased.
I suspect as many genres will be pinned to Devil, and that’s fine. Except … I’m a bit worried some people might describe this as a ‘boat book’, or a piece of historical fiction.
At a glance, they are. Devil’s set in 1634, so it’s definitely historical. And it’s definitely fiction. And it’s definitely set on a boat. My concern is that people looking for Hilary Mantel and Patrick O’Brien are going to come looking for detail I wilfully ignored. Not from arrogance, but simply because it got in the way of the story I was trying to tell.
An Indiaman would have had dozens of officers, all vital to the running of the ship. I had three, because I didn’t want to bog the story down with that many characters, or subplots. The history that snuck into my book often happened differently, much later, or not at all. The technology is far more advanced than it should be, as are some of the attitudes – and the speech. Definitely the speech. This is all intentional. I did my research, then I threw away the bits that hindered my story. See what I mean? This is historical fiction where the history is the fiction. Hopefully, you don’t mind that. But I know lots of people will, because lots of people want chocolate, not coffee. They want the details I tossed overboard.
This is quite a long winded way of saying please don’t send me critical letters about proper rigging techniques on galleons, or women’s fashion in the 1600s. Unless they’re super interesting facts you’d like to share.
I love a good fact.
Right, I’ve kept you long enough. I truly hope you enjoyed Devil, as I’ve enjoyed our chat. Have a lovely evening. Let’s talk again in two years when my next book’s out. It’s going to be really fun, I promise.
Bye,
Stu
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Buckle in kids, I’m going full Gwyneth. On Seven Deaths, I thanked half the people I should have. This time I’m thanking absolutely everybody. Writing Devil was hard work, as was having a new-born baby while I was doing it. I moaned a fair bit about both. Sorry everybody. I’m happier now. Come find me, I owe you a pint.