Unraveling

by Sara Ella

  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.

  She swallows. Lowers her cup to rest on her growing belly. “Baby girl, I know you better than anyone. What’s on your mind?”

  The Void. My connection to Joshua. I love him, but do I really love him? Is it my choice or was it orchestrated? Sigh. I wish I knew. If I could just find a way to destroy the Void once and for all, perhaps this feeling of obligation to Ky would vanish. Then I could decide who it is I want to be with. Not who the Verity says I care for most, but who I do.

  Mom takes another sip. “Your coronation will be the event of the year. I know you are nervous, but you will be splendid. The belle of the ball.”

  Hands shaking, I set my mug on a side table. “To be honest, I haven’t thought about it much.”

  “You should.” She sips again. “It’s the first day of your new life.”

  New life. Right. I chose this, I suppose, when I ended Jasyn and imprisoned the Void.

  Then why does it feel as if I have no choice?

  “There’s always a choice.”

  My body trembles and my eyelids snap open, the memory-slash-dream fading with each blink. I squirm. Ugh. My arm’s asleep. Hate that.

  Charley stands above me, her face upside down and tilted. I sit, massage my tingling arm.

  “Captain Warren will see you now.” Traces of fear slither into her words. This Warren guy must be as unpleasant as they come.

  Lovely.

  I trail her up to the deck. My clothes are wrinkled and damp. My bun loose and falling. The sun is buried beyond the horizon now, dusk’s marbled-gray tint shrouding the sky. A shiver quakes my tired bones. The deck is deserted aside from us. Charley leads me up another set of stairs, onto an upper deck. Two doors stand to my left and a brass bell hangs to my right, overlooking the main deck. I stop and lean closer to examine the bell. Words etch its bottom rim.

  Dive deep if you ever hope to rise.

  Why are the words familiar? Have I seen them before?

  An exasperated sigh draws me from the bell. Charley waits on a curving set of steps, ascending to another, higher deck. It’s small, with barely enough room for two people. A large steering wheel stands proud, and behind it a lone door with an iron knocker waits. Charley raps the knocker three times. Must be the captain’s cabin. I may not be able to distinguish stern from bow, but I do know the captain of a ship generally has his own private quarters.

  We stand there, Charley with her arms crossed, refusing to make eye contact. Me fidgeting from foot to foot.

  Thirty seconds. A minute. “Come in,” a muffled male voice says from beyond the door.

  Charley turns the knob, opens the door, and stands aside. When I don’t move, she jerks her head, signaling me to enter first.

  The modestly furnished space is warmer than I expected, not a hook or an eye patch in sight. Several oil lamps send shadows wavering against the walls. A drafting desk sits off to one side, maps unfurled over its surface, their edges curling. A map on the wall behind the desk showcases pins poking every major city across the world from Hong Kong to New York, Athens to Phoenix. Just beneath it, a globe rests on a small, circular table.

  And there, at the room’s end, a wide, curving window sectioned into at least two dozen miniature ones looking out over the sea. A small kitchenette flanks the window’s right, and a full-length mirror leans against the wall to its left. But it isn’t these modern accessories or the gorgeous nautical view with its rippling silver waves that catches my eye. It’s the boy with his back turned toward me, hands clasped behind him as if he’s waiting for something. For someone.

  For me.

  Ky.

  Since when did I forget how to breathe?

  I step forward, but Charley’s hand on my shoulder stops me. I shrug her off. I’d almost forgotten she was here.

  Ky turns. Gives no indication he knows me. No smile of recognition. No jaw set in anger. His expression is passive. Stoic. Indifferent.

  It’s like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

  Something inside jolts my feet into action. I don’t think. I move toward him.

  Charley grabs my arm. “You will wait for Captain Warren t
o invite you to approach. Do you know nothing of protocol?”

  Swatting her away, I toss a glare over my shoulder. My eyes meet Ky’s—Captain Warren’s?—and plead with him to tell her he knows me. This is all a huge misunderstanding.

  Ky narrows his eyes, then focuses on Charley behind me. “This is the girl Miss Archer delivered earlier today?” His voice carries a deepness that wasn’t there before. It’s been less than two months. How is that enough time for this boy to grow up?

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “She doesn’t look like much, does she?”

  Charley snorts.

  Gee, thanks.

  “Thank you, Second Mate Hallen. You may report to the galley for supper. Please inform Chief Cook Toshiro I will take my meal in my quarters again this evening.”

  What’s with the formalities? The fake name? This isn’t Ky. Why must everything change? Everyone? I thought I could count on Ky to be himself.

  Wrong again.

  ASIDE

  KY

  She’s here.

  She’s here.

  I run my hand down my face.

  At last. Our journey can begin.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A Lady Who’s Withdrawn

  The door clicks closed behind me. A clock on the wall tick, tick, ticks, echoing my time-bomb pulse. Charley is gone. I’m alone with someone who knows me so well, but he’s a stranger and maybe I never knew him at all.

  Then, as if twenty thousand leagues of ocean have been lifted from his shoulders, Ky exhales. Drags a hand over his face. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

  In the silence I take a moment to examine him. It isn’t only his demeanor, name, and voice that have changed. His hair is darker, shorter. Gone are the wavy highlights falling into his eyes. They’ve been cropped into a cleaner, more mature cut. His complexion is still pocked and scarred in places, but clearer than the last time I saw him. He bears a new scar as well, running from behind his left ear to the base of his neck.

  The truth hits me like a runaway bus. Splat. Ky could be tattooed from head to toe, completely bald, or even missing all his teeth and I’d still be drawn to him.

  Why?

  Lowering his hand, he locks those two-tone eyes on mine.

  I’m naked. Completely exposed. A mess, and he’s gazing at me like I’m a drink of water in summer. A cozy sweater in autumn. A first kiss in spring.

  Then he’s moving, shedding his wintry manner in exchange for something achingly familiar. A relaxed grin reaches his eyes. This is too much. Ky acted as if he didn’t know me with Charley in the room, and now he’s reaching for me as if he’s found a lost treasure. He’s suddenly himself, and I’m not sure if I can handle being so close to him.

  Joshua. I love Joshua. Joshua with his piercing blue eyes. Joshua who would do anything and everything to keep me from harm. Joshua who will flip a lid when he discovers I’m not in the castle, and here I am standing in a room with someone he considers his enemy.

  I’m confusing obligation with affection. Ky carries the Void because of me and—

  He pauses a foot away. No words. Just breaths, and my pulse quick, quick, quickens.

  My train of thought switches tracks. “Finale B” from Rent takes over my mind’s rails.

  “Only us.”

  “Only this.”

  “Forget . . .”

  “Hi,” Ky says. It’s the most un-epic word in the English language. But then his smile deepens, double dimples forming.

  And I’m melting. Hi, I mouth. I lift a hand to my throat and shake my head.

  His lips press. His eyes see straight through mine. “I know. We’ll fix it.”

  The ache inside lifts. I don’t know how or why, but I believe him. I fiddle with the rose-button necklace resting just above my T-shirt’s neckline.

  His gaze lowers, lopsided grin reaching his eyes. And then . . . oh, then . . .

  Ky’s arms are around me, enfolding me. His earthlike scent is oxygen. And I’m inhaling, my nose pressed into his shoulder.

  At first my arms remain pinned at my sides. But Ky strokes my back, coaxing the tension away, and I relax. My arms slip through his, my hands reaching up and forward and finding comfort in fistfuls of sweater at his shoulders. I open my eyes for the briefest instant. When did I close them? I take one look at my grimy fingernails and try to pull away. I so need to bathe.

  But he doesn’t release me. His nose nuzzles my hair, and this feels so wrong and so right on a hundred different levels. It’s just a hug. A greeting. I’m not betraying Joshua. I’m not.

  “It’s going to be okay now.” He withdraws a few inches. His hands cup my face. “You’re here.” His eyes close, he leans in, so near I can taste his breath—

  I lurch back, but the knife ripping my gut remains. Confusion pins me and I find it hard to breathe. I’m so turned on end, I don’t even know which way is up or where my heart resides.

  He doesn’t bat an eye at my reaction though. He takes my hand and leads me to a leather armchair near the window. I sit. Then he’s across the cabin, crouching and opening a trunk. He withdraws jeans, a long-sleeved V-neck tee, a hoodie . . . No, not just any hoodie. My hoodie. The heather-gray one with “Music Is Life” screen-printed in cursive on the front. Those are my clothes, from my dresser, from my bedroom, from my brownstone. No wonder my drawers seemed barren. Ky had already been there. He knew I would come. He was prepared.

  My hands are cold and fidgety. I tuck them beneath my thighs.

  He returns to my side, places the fresh clothing on the chair’s wide arm. He looks at me and his gaze speaks volumes. How can so much be said without any words at all?

  I run my fingertips over the hoodie’s fleece lining. Then I reach behind me, retrieve the compact with the letter. Draw out his socked knife.

  His hands cover mine, pushing them to my lap. “I have so much to tell you.”

  Rap, rap, rap.

  He moves to stand beside his desk, rolls his shoulders.

  Now that he’s not so near, I can think. Inhale. Exhale. I purse my lips, unsure how to process his words and actions. He was expecting me. The letter said he’d wait, but how could he be sure I’d come? Did he and Ebony plan this? When? Why? So many questions I’m unable to voice.

  “Come in,” Ky calls, all business again.

  The door swings inward and a younger, shorter, thinner, nonbald version of Kuna enters. His black hair drapes his face, stopping at his chin. He wears khaki shorts, a white tank, and flip-flops.

  Is he not aware it’s the dead of winter?

  The boy carries a round tray with a silver-domed lid. When his notice falls to me, he offers a curt nod.

  “Thank you, Chief Cook Toshiro. That will be all.”

  Another nod from the boy. “Yes, Captain.” He sets the tray on the drafting desk, taps the right side of his chest with one fist, and gives a shallow bow. Then he’s gone.

  Returning, Ky kneels before me. He removes my sneakers. My socks. “I’m sure you must have a freight’s worth of questions.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry about Kuna. And being separated from your mom. I know it’s been a difficult week for you.”

  Tears well, spill, stain. I don’t have the energy to fight my emotions tonight. It’s too much. My throat burns and I long to sing my heart. To express myself through music. But I can’t. I mourn the loss like a death. So much tragedy. But . . . how does Ky know so much?

  “To answer your questions, Warren was my mother’s father’s name. I chose an alias because it’s vital I remain discreet. No one can know who I am or where I come from. They’d connect it back to the Second and discover I’m a vessel of the Void. Hard to get people to trust you when you hold the darkest entity known to mankind within your soul. You, Ebony, and Khloe are the only others aboard the ship who know the truth.” His gaze locks on mine.

  My pulse thrums in my ears. Upon hearing Khloe’s name, I feel relief swell. My other half sister is here. I need to see her.

  �
��You will,” he says, reading my thoughts again. “But she’s fallen ill. Pneumonia. I won’t have you catching it and making your throat worse.”

  My heart longs to meet her. But the feeling is quickly replaced with a surge of adrenaline.

  Those eyes.

  His touch lingers on my bare feet a few beats longer than necessary.

  I bite my lower lip.

  Rising, he crosses the cabin and sets a kettle on the kitchenette’s stove. Just like in the Second, the ship looks ancient but houses modern conveniences as well. I hope this means a hot shower is in my near future.

  Ky turns a knob. Click, click, click. A burner lights. “The Callings are losing power. The Thresholds are draining.” He retrieves the tray from his desk, then comes over and sets it on my lap, lifts the lid.

  Sigh. Steam rises from a bowl of white bean chili, warming my face.

  “Why, Em? Why are those things happening?”

  I hang my head. Because of me. Something is wrong with me.

  “No,” he says. “That’s where you’re mistaken.”

  I snap my head up. Eyebrows pinch. He . . . heard me?

  “Yes. It’s real. Our connection. I can hear you. And you can hear me. You just don’t know it yet.”

  But how? Why?

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

  I retrieve the spoon resting on the tray, lower it into the bowl, and lift it to my lips. Mm. Cumin and cilantro. Potatoes and celery. Perfection.

  “What have you learned of the origins of the Void and the Verity?”

  Can you hear everything I think?

  “Not everything. I’ve learned to tune in to the important things, though. And when you’re thinking of me? Well, that makes it a whole lot easier. And now that you’re near? It’s like the volume has been turned up.”

  I stare into my bowl. How red is my face right now? Ever heard of privacy, Ky?

  The kettle whistles. Ky smirks and pours hot water into a basin, carries it over, and sets it on the floor. He lifts my feet and sets them gently into the just-right water.