The only thing he wanted from Creesjie was a wall between them.
Through one of his men, she’d discovered that he had a wife and daughter in Drenthe, both of whom he loved without reservation. Four years since they’d seen each other last, but he’d never taken his pleasure elsewhere. The soldier – in an incredulous tone – had claimed it wasn’t something Drecht boasted of, as he didn’t boast of breathing, or being able to speak. It was simply the vow he’d taken.
And that was where Creesjie’s campaign had ended. Men such as Guard Captain Drecht were rare and dangerous. They would do their duty no matter how much misery it caused them, or those around them. His wife was welcome to him.
Standing aside, Drecht allowed Creesjie inside.
Once the door shut behind her, Creesjie’s face changed. Abandoning the winsome smile, her eyes became coals.
As Sara had promised, her draught had put Jan Haan into a deep sleep, his thin chest rising and falling, every rib showing.
She looked at him distantly, like he was a bluebottle flapping its last on the window ledge. Whatever strength Jan Haan once commanded had long ago left him, but he disguised the fact with his accomplishments, his abrupt manner and the willingness of hounds such as Drecht and Vos to acquiesce to his every whim. She tried to imagine what they’d think if they knew why he really summoned her every night. It wasn’t because of his virility, or because of his unquenchable appetites.
It was because he was afraid of the dark.
Most nights, she simply undressed and lay beside him, so that when he woke in fright, he’d have somebody to wrap a thin arm around.
Occasionally there was sex, but Creesjie was convinced Jan only called on her because Sara wouldn’t stay the night with him.
The thought of her friend’s stubbornness lit a fierce pride in her.
Any other woman would have submitted to his demands without complaint, believing it worth the life offered in return.
Not Sara, though.
Throughout the beatings, scoldings, humiliations and tantrums, she’d held strong, like a block of stone refusing to yield to the sculptor’s hammer. Many a night, Creesjie had arrived to find Jan raging against his obstinate wife, revealing a passion he would be mortified to show in public. All these long years, his arrogance had convinced him he was tormenting her, but Creesjie knew it was the other way around. Sara was the only enemy he’d never been able to best.
Jan murmured in his sleep, rousing her from her thoughts.
Hurrying to the desk, she’d found the list of names Sara had seen earlier that afternoon. Her friend had asked her to copy them, and Creesjie was in the habit of doing nearly everything Sara asked without question. For the truth was, Sara was more like her husband than she would admit, though her authority was built on a foundation of kindness rather than greed.
Picking up the quill, her eye landed on Jan’s armour stand. A piece of folded parchment was tucked behind a strap on his breastplate.
‘Now, what’s that?’ she wondered.
42
Sara didn’t hear the whisper at first.
It was almost dawn, but the sleeping draught had drowned her mind. One drop was all she ever took, though some days in Batavia she had itched for more. Bad days, dark days, when the boredom had crushed her and she’d gazed out at the horizon, wishing she could choose any other life than the one that had chosen her.
On those days, she would stare at the vial for what felt like hours, until eventually she had Dorothea hide it. Far away from her longing.
– Sara –
The whisper crawled up the walls and along the ceiling, running over her body on a thousand legs.
Blinking, she came awake, unsure at first what had woken her.
The room was still dark, the hour uncertain. With the deadlight across the window, it could have been one hour or seven since she’d fallen asleep.
It was stuffy, her mouth dry. She reached for the jug at her bedside.
– Sara –
The whisper caused her to freeze, her skin prickling.
‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, blood thumping in her ears.
– Your heart’s desire for a price –
The whisper was jagged, the words raking across her. She slowly felt around her bedside table for the dagger, her fingers curling around its hilt.
Last night it had felt reassuringly heavy, but now it just seemed clumsy.
Summoning her courage, she sprang off her bed, searching the four corners of the cabin. It was empty. Her only company was the moon, the tattered edges of the clouds giving it teeth.
– What do you yearn for? –
She rushed to the door, yanking it open.
A candle guttered in its alcove, revealing an empty corridor.
– What do you yearn for? –
Sara clutched her ears. ‘Go away!’ she demanded.
– What do you yearn for? –
Freedom. She almost said it out loud. She almost shouted it. She wanted to go where she desired without being told she couldn’t. She wanted to decide each day how she wanted to live it. She wanted to pursue her talents without judgement and be the mother she wished to be rather than the mother she had to be.
– What do you yearn for? Tell me and I’ll depart –
‘I want freedom,’ she said quietly.
– And what would you give for it? –
Sara’s mouth opened, then shut. Even in the dark. Even terrified, she was a merchant’s wife. She knew what bargaining sounded like.
‘What would it cost?’
In his nightshirt, Vos clutched his hands to his ears, trying not to listen to the whisper.
– She’ll reject you –
‘She won’t,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
– She’s laughing at you –
‘No.’
– Blood spilt and a bargain sealed, and she’ll be yours –
– I would place the dagger under the bed –
Eyes wide in the candlelight, Lia held tight the model of the Saardam she was carving. It was such a simple offer, she thought. Such little effort for so great a reward.
– What do you yearn for? –
Johannes Wyck rolled off his mat and spun towards the door with his blade drawn, immediately alert.
A boatswain couldn’t afford to sleep deeply. Those that did usually died mid-snore.
Wyck’s compartment was below the forecastle, where the crew took their recreation. He could hear the fiddle and the skitter of dice above him.
– What do you yearn for? –
‘Who’s that?’ he demanded, throwing open the door to the sailmaker’s compartment. That useless sod was snoring in his hammock, as usual.
– Old Tom –
‘Old Tom,’ repeated Wyck, his expression changing. He returned to his compartment. It was pitch black, but he didn’t mind the dark. They had an understanding.
‘Aye, I know you of old, don’t I?’ He tapped his eyepatch. ‘Was wondering when you’d come find me, though I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
Silence met this declaration.
‘Did you think I didn’t recognise you on deck?’ gloated Wyck. ‘I kept your secret once and lost an eye for it. That was the last honourable thing I ever did. I know what you’re doing on this boat, and I reckon I know what you’re doing it for.’