by C. Vandyke
It’s been three years since Leonora left. Two years older than me, she had always been like the wind: a force of nature, tearing up all obstacles in her path. Just like the wind, she’d slipped right through our fingers. I couldn’t remember a time before her tales of adventure on the open sea—the look of excitement glistening in her ocean blue eyes as she stared out across the endless waves. We were never meant to keep her. The moment the Midnight Scythe, captained by the infamous Bottomless Braddock, appeared in Half-Moon Landing, she was gone.
For three years, I’d assured myself that she was fine. My father and I had no choice but to let her go; she left us listening to the murmurs in the market, grasping hold of any news of the ship. When Squanderer’s Bay had flooded with rumours that Braddock had been captured and killed, I’d feared the worst. There was no news of his crew, however, and I knew in my heart that she wasn’t dead—that she wasn’t rotting at the bottom of the ocean.
I inhale deeply, the sea air mixing with the scent of fish and incense from the stalls of the merchants lining the floating boardwalks. I hope she’s happy. One of us should be.
Sheathing my knife, I stomp back along the boardwalk towards my stall. Lockheart’s Daily Catch was one of the most popular fish sellers in the market and had been for several generations. I’d asked Betty to mind it while I paid Terry a visit, and I could only hope most of today’s stock was still there. Betty is a dear but, half blind and approaching a hundred, if anyone wanted to rob my store, she’d have no choice but to let them. I quicken my pace. Since Father got sick, it’s fallen to me to keep the business going, which means long hours and never quite being able to rid myself of the stench of fish.
“Aye, Tamara,” Betty croons from her table of knitted scarves and shawls as I approach. “Did you get what you needed?”
I grunt in response, casting an eye over the stock to see if anything’s missing.
“Is that Terry’s blood on your blouse?”
Betty’s question stills my search and I glance down at the ruby splatter across the blouse spilling from my worn leather corset. “Damnit.”
“Is this to do with the rumours?”
It occurs to me that, over the years, I have perhaps not given the elderly busybody enough credit. “And what rumours would they be, Betty?”
She rolls her milky grey eyes, her brows folding into the thick wrinkles lining her face. “Don’t waste your breath playing coy, Tamara. I’ve heard the rumours that the Midnight Scythe has been sighted and I know your sister was last seen on its cursed decks.”
Two shipbuilders sidle up to the store and purchase some cockles and a haddock, which gives me enough time to weigh my response. Once they move on through the market, I fold my arms across my chest and turn to the old woman.
“And what of the rumours?” I ask. “Apparently Braddock’s head is pickled in a jar.”
Betty raises a white eyebrow. “And what’s that to do with anything?”
“If his head’s in a jar, he’s probably not sailing a boat.”
“There’s not a single part of that sentence that isn’t swimming with assumption.” She shakes her head, and her chins take a second to follow the movement.
“Are you looking for the Midnight Scythe?”
I turn at the unfamiliar voice and find a middle-aged woman standing at the stall, her braided brown hair escaping from a thick shawl around her head. Her eyes are so dark, it’s impossible to tell where her pupil stops and her iris begins. “Who’s asking?”
“No one,” she says, turning her attention to the baskets of fish between us. “But if you were wanting to find it, I’d pay Lia Edda a visit.”
My eyes narrow to blue slits as I study her. “Who?”
“Lia Edda. She works in a coffeehouse called Le Chevalier Riant in Newport.”
“Newport,” I echo. “That’s on Isla de Los Torcidos.”
She nods and gestures to a large skate.
“If I were to travel there,” I say as I package her fish, “what would she do for me? Does she know where the Midnight Scythe is?”
The woman hands me a coin and takes her fish, tucking it in her bag. “She knows things. Whether she knows that, I couldn’t say. But she might.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing, watching as the woman melts into the busy crowd. I’ve never left Half-Moon Landing. The idea of making my way across the sea to another island on a whim—a hunch—turns my stomach. A light sweat breaks out on my brow.
“You should go,” Betty says, watching my fingers as they clench around the leather money pouch secured to my waist.
“The stall,” I mutter. “My father.”
I’m not sure which is the bigger reason to stay. My father has been bedridden for the last couple of months, his sight all but gone. His health is declining by the day. What if he dies while I’m away? What if he doesn’t and I don’t make it back? Without me, what would become of him?
“Your stall can survive a week or two without you,” Betty says. “No-one could replace Lockheart’s Daily Catch. Everyone knows why you get the freshest fish.”
I swallow, my heart racing as I toy with the idea of leaving. Betty’s right. The fishermen give my father—and now me—the best fish because their great grandfathers struck a deal with my great grandfather, bound in blood. If I closed the stall for a fortnight or so, that deal would be waiting when I returned.
“And as for your father,” Betty continues. “I’ll ask Sally to check in on him.”
I blink at the kindness of the offer. “Would she not mind?”
Betty waves a liver-spotted hand. “She’ll do what her grandmother tells her to.”
My lungs are tight with possibility. Could I really leave Half-Moon Landing? I couldn’t help but wonder if Leonora had been this nervous before her adventure. Doubtful.
“I’ll give it thought,” I say, blowing out a long breath.
For the rest of the day, the idea is never far from my mind, and by the time I close up the stall, I’ve weighed all the possibilities. The biggest issue is coin. I’ll have to pay for passage on a ship to get to Newport and I know there’s no way I can afford it.
“Have you decided?” Betty asks as she stands with a series of groans and creaks.
I shake my head. “I can’t go. It’s too much coin and too great a risk.”
Betty regards me for a moment. “Don’t confuse reason with fear.”
“It’s not fear,” I snap. “It’s the responsible thing to do.”
The old woman shakes her head and shuffles away, leaving me frowning at her retreating form. My stomach twists.
My father’s cries carry on the wind, reaching me as I make my way along the creaking planks to our front door. My chest tightens at the sound, and I quicken my pace. I wrench open the front door and rush to his room, to find him sitting up in bed, his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes red raw from crying.
“Father,” I breathe, rushing forward. “Are you okay? What happened?”
He looks up at the sound of me entering, alarm painting his face. “Leonora? Is that you?”
My stomach rolls. “No, Father. It’s me, Tamara.”
“Where’s Leonora?” He looks past me with unseeing eyes. “Why isn’t she here?”
“She’ll be back soon,” I lie, sitting down beside him and drawing him close.
My father’s memories are fading as fast as his eyesight and the heartache he felt when Leonora walked out our door is magnified with each passing day.
“I’m not long for this world, Tamara,” he sniffles against me. “I don’t want to leave without hearing her voice one last time.”
His words slice through my heart. Our home had felt empty when Leonora left. But without my father… I swallow, wincing at the pain.
“I’ll find her, Father,” I whisper.
He looks up from his misery. “Pardon?”
“I’ll find her,” I repeat, more certain this time. “Betty’s granddaughter will
check in on you. I’m going to go and find her.”
I wait for his protests—his concern for my safety—but none come. Instead, he smiles and holds me close for a moment before lying down on his narrow bed and drifting to sleep. Staring at the ghost of a smile on his lips, I try not to feel hurt by his reaction. Leonora would have been my favourite, too. Any appetite I have from a hard day’s work evaporates and I heave myself into my bed and lay staring at the ceiling until sleep wins.
* * *
The yolk of the sun is barely peeking above the horizon as I set out for Fiddler’s Green. When I pass Betty’s house, I slip the note I’ve been clenching in my sweaty palm under her door, trying to ignore my trembling fingers. Every inhale of salty air, every echoing cry of circling gulls, every lapping wave beneath the boardwalks, seems sharper and more poignant under the fear that it might be the last time I experience them.
I’ve only been to Fiddler’s Green once before. Many years ago, when we were barely in double digits, Leonora heard a rumour that one of the merchant’s sons had started selling chocolates and sugar. Her thirteenth birthday had been approaching, and she insisted if she didn’t taste chocolate before she became a teenager, she would die a slow and painful death. Being barely ten myself at the time, I had believed her. Fiddler’s Green had been a terrifying place—a ship’s graveyard—filled with scavengers and treasure hunters, moving between the mists like ghosts. Leonora had dragged me around for hours, but we never found the merchant’s son. By some miracle, she didn’t die from her lack of chocolate.
The air thickens and cools as I draw closer, the sea mists climbing from the waters to swirl around the shattered hulls and snapped prows of long forgotten frigates and galleons. Masts rise from the depths like the desperate hands of drowning sailors, and the sight sends a shudder down the length of my spine. There’s no reason to be scared. I’m no longer a naïve ten-year-old hiding behind her sister’s skirts. I know full well that the goods found here are sold by my friends and neighbours in Squanderer’s Bay. Even so, I clutch my satchel tighter to my side, my other hand lingering over the hilt of my dagger.
The merchant selling sweet goods is no longer a rumoured mystery. Now, almost ten years later, I have heard many tales of Barnard Stickleby. The wealth he has acquired has helped to expand his empire to a small fleet of ships. These ships sail between the islands, gathering the ingredients for his product and trading his wares across the seas. This is my plan: to gain passage on one of his ships for a minimal fee. Unfortunately, his fleet of ships is not the only thing I’ve heard tell of. Many have whispered tales of his chocolate truffles—laced with truth serum; you’ll spill your secrets or your guts before him.
“Excuse me?” I pause by a pair of boys sitting on the boardwalk, lines dangling in the water. “Could you point me in the direction of Mr. Stickleby?”
The boys don’t deem my question worth a glance in my direction. One of them lifts his arm and points to a large ship at the end of the dock.
I mutter my thanks and continue toward the ship, aware of how loud the echo of my boots is amidst the quiet morning air. If Stickleby doesn’t see me coming, he’ll certainly hear me. The ship is impressive—a towering galleon; the prow embellished with gleaming metal that looks gold, but I assume must be brass. Surely no one would be cocksure enough to sail the waters with such wealth on display. The figurehead is a beautifully carved woman, her long hair trailing behind to twist around the bow. I roll my eyes at her exposed, ample chest and make my way to the gangplank. Fiddler’s Green is quiet, and although I spy a few crew members moving around the deck, I start to wonder whether Stickleby will be awake.
“Good morning, lass,” one of the crew calls out as I make my way up the gangplank. He looks to be in his fifties, and despite the gaps in his teeth and the large scar across his face, his grin is more friendly than intimidating. “What brings you to the Lucky Maiden?”
I cringe inwardly at the name and return his smile, straightening my shoulders. “I’d like to meet with Mr. Stickleby. Is he available?”
With no shame whatsoever, the sailor drags his gaze along the length of me before nodding. “I’d say he would be.”
My skin heats as I huff in disbelief. “Excuse me, Sir. I’m not sure what you think I might want with Mr. Stickleby but—”
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” the sailor cuts me off. “He only takes unsolicited meetings from existing clients and pretty women. I’ll go and see if he’s free.”
Beneath my skin, my blood bubbles hotter than the sun, and I know it’s going to take all my self-control not to punch the man in the throat when he appears. The sun has begun to burn away the morning mist, revealing more of the surrounding carcasses of ships and my stomach twists as I stare at the gaping holes and smashed wood. Was the damage caused by storms or by pirates? I swallow.
“Good morning, milady.”
I spin on my heel at the deep rumbling tones, a frown already on my face and distaste bitter on my tongue. Somewhere between turning and taking a breath, however, my thoughts jumble together, and I find myself silent as I stare at the approaching figure. He’s much younger than I expected, appearing to be somewhere in his late twenties. Dark brown hair hangs in loose waves across his forehead, curling at his ears and the nape of his neck. His sun-kissed skin gleams in the way only those with wealth do.
“Good morning,” I manage as I stare up at him. “Mr. Stickleby?”
He’s a striking figure, the expensive cut of his emerald frock coat showing off his broad shoulders and trim waist. Now that he’s close, I realise the most fascinating thing about him is his eyes. One is a deep emerald green and the other a striking sea blue.
“Indeed. Please call me Barnard. And who are you?” He smiles, revealing a mouth filled with pearl white teeth.
I blink. The overall effect is quite disarming and I’m extremely aware that’s most likely his intention. “My name is Tamara Lockheart. I’m seeking passage to the Isla de los Torcidos.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Oh? And what business do you have there, Ms. Lockheart?”
“Does it matter?” I ask. “Can you provide passage or not?”
Barnard stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “I cannot. My ship leaves for Newport this afternoon but I’m afraid we are already full.”
“Full?” I echo. “What difference would one person make?”
He bows and backs away. “Apologies, Ms. Lockheart. I wish you the best in your endeavours.”
I move to follow him, but the toothless sailor from before materialises before me, blocking my path. “You heard him, miss. Off you go.”
Before I know what’s happening, I find myself being led down the gangplank. My head spins. I’d expected to have to convince him—to barter. I hadn’t expected him to reject me within a second, with no explanation. Turning around, I gape up at the ship in consternation. There is no way I’m missing this opportunity. No way.
* * *
Pulling the hat lower on my head, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to blend in with the people moving along the boardwalks. By midday, Fiddler’s Green is a very different place. Shouts fill the air as scavengers hock their wares or yell directions from the water. The clothes I’ve borrowed from my father are surprisingly comfortable, but I miss the swish of my skirts around my boots. It’s barely a plan, but I figure if I can just get back on board the Lucky Maiden, I can try to hide until it’s too late to turn back. Of course, there’s the chance Stickleby will just throw me overboard, but I really hope he doesn’t.
The Lucky Maiden is crawling with people, the gangplank a constant flow of people and crates. Sidling up to a young man attempting to wrestle a large wooden box, I stoop and help him, ensuring my face stays hidden. He grunts his thanks, and we move up the gangplank onto the ship. We move across the deck toward the stairs leading to the cargo hold, and together we make our way below deck. As soon as the box is lowered, I slip into the shadows and hide between the
stacks of crates. The young man loiters for a moment in confusion, but then mutters something under his breath and heads back to the stairs.
I stay crouched in the shadows, barely daring to breathe as more boxes and crates are loaded on board and people come and go chatting about the journey ahead. It turns out, the Lucky Maiden is heading to Newport and then on to St. Madeline before heading to The Whispering Isle. It’s of no matter to me though. I just need to get to Newport so I can find Lia Edda.
It feels like an eternity before the ship moves from the dock; the motion knocking my aching muscles. My painfully dry throat reminds me with every swallow that I’m trapped in the belly of the Lucky Maiden with no food or water; my plan is even more half-baked than I thought. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I decide the best thing to do is try and get some sleep. With any luck, I’ll wake up and we’ll be docked in Newport.
* * *
Laughter tears me from my fitful sleep, and I blink awake, my head pounding from dehydration. On the deck above, music bleeds through the stomping of feet and the sound of merriment. I groan and try to cover my ears with my shoulders, but to no avail. A whimper builds in my throat, and thirst has me scrambling to my feet. It sounds busy. Surely I can sneak up, grab a drink and maybe some food, and then get back down until we dock.
My heart hammers in my throat as I push open the hatch and emerge by the mast between the quarterdeck and the main deck. There’s a pile of crates that must have been too big to move below deck blocking me from view, but it does little to calm my nerves. Pulling my hat over my ears and tucking in the stray strands of long black hair, I edge my way over to a stack of kegs. The taps are steadily leaking red liquid onto the deck, creating a bloody puddle, and the stench of wine fills my nostrils. I’d have preferred water, but on a ship, beggars can’t be choosers. Grabbing a goblet from an empty barrel, I fill it almost to the brim. If it doesn’t quench my thirst, at least it will help me sleep.