“Excuse me.” Ebony pitches against her captors. “You don’t have to hold on so tight. I’d rather walk away from this unscathed, thankyouverymuch.”
Charley and Streak whip their heads in her direction.
“You’ll be quiet, girl, if you know what’s good for you,” Charley says.
But then Streak squints and a smile spreads across his sunworn face. “By the Reflections, if it isn’t Bones.”
Bones?
“I ’aven’t seen you since . . .” Streak lists his head. “When was it?”
“November, dimwit.” If Streak is bothered by Ebony’s insult, he doesn’t show it. “When I brought Khloe to you to be transported to the Fourth. Looks like you’ve upgraded vessels though.” She gives the ship a once-over. “This craft is much grander than your dinky little fishing boat.”
“Aye.” Streak winks. “The Seven Seas, she’s called. She be a sturdy one, at tha’.”
Charley’s face quirks from lip to eyebrow. “This is Bones? The Bones?” She elbows Streak. “Why didn’t you say something?”
What did I miss?
“I thought I jus’ did,” Streak says.
Charley plants her hands on her hips and shakes her red head. “We’ve been shore ridden far too long. You’re losing your marbles.”
Scratching his scruff, Streak whines, “Am not.”
“This little back-and-forth is fun and all, but would you mind telling your minions to release me?”
The men on either side of Ebony let her go. She rubs her arms, swaggers her way out from between them.
My neck burns. I trusted her. Again.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I assume your captain is interested in fair trade?” Ebony—Bones—saunters over, glares down her snobbish nose. “This girl here is worth at least five thousand Third Reflection dollars, if not more.”
Streak and Charley exchange amused glances.
“You’ll get wha’s comin’ ta ya, Bones, don’t ya fret now.” Streak claps Ebony on the shoulder.
She wobbles, then brushes his hand away as if it’s infected. “Carry on, then.”
Teeth bared—the ones he still has, anyway—Streak grabs me, throws me over his shoulder. His stained white shirt is taut over his back muscles and smells of alcohol mixed with used mop water.
Ick. I pound him with my fists. Try to scream but no sound emerges. Why do I bother? I’m nothing without my Calling.
“Not true.”
Ky? Where are you? If you’re near, why are you letting them do this to me?
My thoughts go unanswered as Streak laughs and marches across the deck, shoulder quaking against my waist. Charley remains behind, chuckles racking her form. So glad I can be the onboard entertainment for these two.
Ebony doesn’t give a second glance as she glides in the opposite direction. How can she do this? We shared a Kiss of Accord. Our contract is binding. She has to help me. She has—
Unless, hmm. Is she up to something? Could it be she is helping me?
I watch her walk toward a short flight of stairs. Wait for it . . .
There! A peek over her shoulder. A wink.
My heart sashays. Maybe she won’t let me down this time. #fingerscrossed
I cease my resistance and relax. A breeze gusts, sends a loose sail flapping. The ship groans and creaks, and my stomach churns along with it. A bout of seasickness—or maybe it’s Streak’s pungent odor—threatens to upend my last meal. Do not lose it. Clear your mind. Think.
Could Ebony and Ky be in on this together? What reason would they have to make it appear as if they’re against me?
My mind wanders and I survey my surroundings. Rope and line cover everything, wind around railings and hooks, snake up a mast toward a crow’s nest. Streak angles left and we descend a staircase, the railing wrapped in more rope. Stomp, creak, stomp, creak. My courier doesn’t bother to step lightly. I’m nothing but unsolicited cargo.
At the bottom, a long room stretches. On either side canons are rolled against the walls, their mouths sticking out of pane-less square windows. Between the sixteenth-century weaponry, canvas hammocks hang from the low ceiling. A border of copper-colored trunks and dark-brown barrels divides the space in half. One trunk is open, revealing curved swords and throwing knives. Streak lifts one leg and kicks the lid closed before moving to the far end of the room.
I’m hauled through a door and down a spiraling metal stairwell into the ship’s core. Scarce light peeks through the floorboards above in slivered shafts. I blink hard, force my vision to focus. Barrels upon barrels line the walls. Crates are situated into rows, forming a sort of maze. Coils of rope sit atop several, while sacks of flour and other food supplies are stacked on top of others.
Streak maneuvers his way toward a barred cell in one corner—a human-sized cage scarcely taller than me and not much wider than a bathtub. I’m set on my feet and shoved inside. No chair. No cot. Just floor and the musty aroma of damp wood.
Clang. Rattle. Streak shuts the cell door and locks me in with a key chained to his belt. He grips a bar and jiggles it. Then he pivots and strides away.
My fingers wrap around the cold, rusty bars. I sink to my knees as the sound of Streak’s footsteps fades into the shadows. I wait five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Half an hour? With each tick of my heartbeat my hope dwindles. Perhaps Ky isn’t here. Maybe Ebony sold me to a band of pirates in exchange for passage to the Fourth, or wherever it is she’s headed. Was the Kiss of Accord not binding? What if the kisses are affected by the weakness of the Verity as well? No, not the Verity’s weakness.
My weakness.
I scooch back into one corner and hug my knees. Déjà vu wraps me like an itchy blanket. I’m not cut out for this. Another cell. Another betrayal. Except, who will rescue me this time, and furthermore, why should they? I should be able to rescue myself. I am the Verity’s vessel.
And I am helpless. Insignificant.
Alone.
“The dress is perfect.” Mom beams at me from below the small platform where I stand.
I hold still as Reggie, who doubles as a coronation gown seamstress apparently, measures my bust, my waist, my height.
“Don’t move, darlin’,” she says through the pin caught between her teeth. “Wanna make sure we don’t end up with the wrong numbers.”
Mom crosses her eyes at me. My upcoming coronation has made her giddy. She’s shed her serious demeanor for one much more fitting for a woman in love. Silly. Not a care in the Reflections.
Thank the Verity for Makai. I laugh, then hold my breath when Reggie eyes me. Oops.
“That’ll do for now.” Reggie stuffs her measuring tape into the front of her apron. “I’ll be back tomorrow with some sample fabrics.” She sways through Mom’s suite, grabbing an empty tray off the table before she waltzes out the door.
Mom glides to the common area and sits on the sofa. She may be pregnant, but her poise and grace are ever present. In the way she carries herself. In how she reaches for her cup of Earl Grey.
I join her, though my coffee is nothing but a few stray grounds at the bottom of my cup.
“Are you getting excited?” She sips her tea, holding her cup by its too-tiny handle.
I am not so proper, grasping my mug in both palms. “For the coronation? Of course.” Why do my words lack enthusiasm? Maybe I’m just tired.