by Mackenzi Lee
“You and him both,” I reply.
“Oh. Well then.” She straightens her dress and holds a hand out to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“Not sorry for the kick?” Monty asks.
“No, not particularly,” she replies.
There’s a heavy step from the fo’c’sle behind us, and before I can turn I’m nearly knocked flat as Percy wraps the entirety of his long limbs around me. “Dear Lord, Felicity Montague,” he says, and somehow he holds me even tighter. “I’ve been sick over you.”
I don’t say anything, just press my face into his chest and let myself at last be held. Behind me, I feel Monty’s arms wrap around the pair of us, the long-ago threatened Monty-Percy sandwich manifested, and I don’t mind it. It feels safe, and good to have been missed after so long thinking I had no one to return to.
But all that sentiment can be enjoyed just as easily without my face squashed into Percy’s scratchy coat and Monty breathing down my neck—literally. “All right, that’s enough, I think.” I extricate myself from the two of them as best I can, feeling a bit like I’m wiggling out from a tight canyon.
Monty lets his arms fall away, but Percy keeps a hold on my shoulders and peers very seriously into my face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t been taken advantage of in any way?”
“No.”
“And you know that you have driven us absolutely mad since you left. I swear to God, Felicity, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
“That I have some objections to,” Monty says from behind me.
“You came for me,” I say, looking between them.
“Yes, we have quite literally followed you to the end of the earth,” Monty replies. “And there was only mild complaining.”
“Incorrect use of literally,” I tell him, then remember Johanna hanging slightly behind, watching this maudlin display with a timid slant to her shoulders. “Oh, this is Johanna Hoffman.” I lead her over to Percy for an introduction. “I don’t know if you two ever knew each other.”
Percy takes her hand, and Johanna looks suddenly less misplaced and more shy and girlish. Her cheeks are a pleasant pink. “Mr. Newton.”
“We met a few times,” Percy says, pressing Johanna’s hand in between his. “We’re just as glad you’re safe.”
“Would you like a hug as well?” Monty asks, then quickly steps back, hands shielding himself again. “Though perhaps not from me.”
“How did you find us?” I ask, looking between him and Percy.
“When it became apparent you had absconded with a member of Scipio’s crew, I consulted him for information about your partner in crime,” Monty says. “At which point he informed me that the woman you had chosen to hang your hopes upon is a member of the Crown and Cleaver fleet and that any dealings you might have with her were likely to be criminal at best.”
“Why did he take Sim on if he knew she was dangerous?” I ask.
“I was raised under the Crown and Cleaver,” Ebrahim says from the stairs, and I jump. I had forgotten he was there. “I vouched for her.”
“Which of course led to him feeling responsible,” Monty says, “and Scipio feeling responsible, and also Percy and I felt responsible and we were all determined to get you out of whatever trouble you had so determinedly gotten yourself in. Don’t look so surprised. We’d move heaven and earth for you. Unless of course there is any actual heavy lifting involved, in which case, I’ll abstain, but don’t believe that in any way tarnishes the sentiment.”
“Did you sail to the Crown and Cleaver outpost?” Johanna asks. Her cheeks are still very pink.
“We did indeed,” Monty replies. “Ebrahim still has the ink on him, which, as it turns out, literally opens doors.”
“Again, incorrect use of literally,” I mumble.
He swats that away. “Stop. I’m telling the story of our heroic rescue. So we were intending to hold an audience with the pirate lord himself and beg for your freedom, but your lady love beat us there.”
“My . . . who?”
“Your pirate paramour,” he says. “The one you made that bargain with. She showed up with a group of very brawny gentlemen who had no qualms about leaving their shirt sleeves unfastened—”
“Careful,” Percy says, but Monty butts his forehead against Percy’s shoulder.
“Please. You were looking too.”
“I wasn’t.”
“How could you not? It was like some very lascivious god sculpted them all with a very generous hand—”
“Monty, focus,” I snap.
“Ah, right, yes, your pirate girl. Turns out she’s the firstborn of the commodore, and she informed us that his very valuable map had fallen into the hands of an English rascal called Platt who would use both it and you two ill.”
“Is she here?” I ask.
“She is indeed,” Monty replies, “and she’s desperate to see you.”
Ebrahim returns to the helm to keep a watch as Monty leads the way down to the second deck where the cargo is stored, Percy at his heels. Before following, I take Johanna by the arm. She’s still very flushed. “Are you all right?” I ask. “You needn’t worry about kicking my brother. I know he’s dramatic, but he’s fine.”
“No, it’s just . . .” She covers her cheeks with her hands. “I never told you this because it was right when we were being terrible to each other, but I used to be very, very smitten with Percy Newton. And apparently still am. How is it that we’ve just been kidnapped and extorted and practically sold, and yet I still can’t look him in the eye because I was so infatuated with him when I was thirteen?”
I want to laugh. More than that, I want to hug her, an impulse that so rarely strikes it startles me. But there is something about that single moment, treacle in a swig of vinegar, that swells my heart. Those small, precious things do not cease to exist in the shadow of something large and ominous, and hearing her say it makes me feel human again, a person beyond these last few weeks of my life.
“Johanna Hoffman,” I say, and it takes everything in me to keep my face straight. “You are a married woman.”
On the lower deck, a makeshift seating area has been arranged out of crates and barrels pulled into a formation of chairs around a table. It’s like a child’s attempt to build a fortress from his bedclothes and chair backs.
Scipio, Sim, and a man I don’t recognize are seated around the table, with several more corsairs standing behind the stranger. Sim is back in the wide-legged-style trousers she was wearing when we first met, and her bare feet are pulled up in a knot under her. Scipio and the second man both stand when we arrive. Scipio gives me a quick kiss on the back of the hand—I have a sense he’d like to lecture me about my recent irresponsibility, but bites his tongue—and gives Johanna a hand as well, before turning to Sim and the man beside her. His skin is a few shades darker than hers, and he’s got the Crown and Cleaver inked on the side of his neck, thick and ornate and showier than hers. The men behind him have it too—one on his wrist and the other peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
“This is Murad Aldajah, the commodore of the Crown and Cleaver fleet out of Algiers,” Scipio introduces him. “And you know his daughter, Simmaa.”
I’m not sure if I should shake hands with Aldajah or bow or even look him in the eye. His gaze is the sort of steely that passes judgment and falls for nothing. He’s bald-headed, with a thick beard and gold hoops in each ear.
Johanna, seemingly of a similar confusion on this subject, bobs a quick curtsy and says, “Your grace,” like he’s the king of England.
He doesn’t laugh, but his nostrils flare. “Sit down,” he says, motioning all around.
Johanna and I share a seat on the crate across from Sim, and together, we explain to our crew what has happened since we parted ways with her.
“So Sybille Glass’s map to the nesting island is in the hands of the Europeans,” Aldajah says when I’m finis
hed, one hand running over his beard.
I look over at Sim, her shoulders braced against her seat. She looks different in her father’s shadow, somehow more like a soldier and a child at the same time. She sits straight as a lectern, her gaze sharp and mouth set, like she doesn’t know which way an independent thought given voice will tip the scales. Like some days he’s her father and others, her king.
“Platt has the map, yes,” I say. “But we have a copy, too.”
“Was there a duplicate?” Aldajah asks.
“There is now,” I reply. “We made one. And Platt and Stafford don’t know it exists. Platt and his men are leaving soon to find the island and take specimens back to England to secure full funding for their voyage.”
“Then give us your map,” Aldajah says. “And we will make certain they’re stopped. We have another ship waiting for us off the coast.”
“It’s my mother’s map,” Johanna interrupts. “It’s her work.”
“It’s our land,” Aldajah counters. “Our home.”
“Well, we won’t tell you where it is,” Johanna says, and crosses her arms over her chest.
Aldajah folds his arms as well, mirror to hers. “This is not a negotiation, ladies.”
“You’re right, because you have nothing to negotiate with,” I say.
“You’re aboard my ship.”
“My ship,” Scipio interrupts. “They’re under my protection.”
“And you sailed colorless into our waters,” Aldajah counters. “Your ship and your men have been seized.”
“We are not your property,” Scipio says. “We are in your employ.”
Aldajah spreads his hands. “More men on this ship are loyal to me than to you.”
“Stop it,” I snap. “If you’re so determined to make this a pissing contest, Platt will be back in England with his boat full of eggs before we’ve weighed anchor. This is not about you or your ships or your manly pride. Now, shut up and listen to what Johanna has to say.” My ferocity silences both Scipio and Aldajah. Behind their backs, Monty gives me a silent round of applause, which Percy grabs his hands to stop.
“Are there any terms under which you would agree to surrender your duplicate?” Aldajah asks Johanna.
She clears her throat. “Yes. First, you will take Felicity and me to the island with you to stop Dr. Platt and his crew. Once he’s thwarted, my mother’s original map will be restored to me, but you may have the duplicate. You will have claim to their crew—any men willing to join your ranks will be yours, and you can have their ship as well.”
“And it’s quite a fancy one,” I add.
“But we will take one copy of the map,” Johanna says. “You the other. Then you let us return to England safely, with the Eleftheria and their crew.”
“Then we trade one kind of European invader for another,” Aldajah says. “You’re no different from your mother.”
“Maybe not,” Johanna says, “but those are our terms. You can accept them, or we part ways here.”
Aldajah runs a hand over his beard, curling the tip around his finger. Beside him, Sim looks like she’d very much like to say something but grinds her teeth instead.
“Your English ship will not give up without a fight,” he says at last.
“So?” Johanna crosses her arms. “You’re pirates, aren’t you? You know how to brawl.”
“Pirates avoid a fight,” Aldajah replies. “Don’t want to waste men or damage your prize. But this expedition will not be so easily intimidated by a shot across the bow, I think.”
“This ship,” Scipio adds, spreading a hand to indicate the whole of the Eleftheria, “and Makasib are not made for a battle. That English ship will rip us apart.”
“But there are two of us and one of them,” Johanna replies. “Surely that counts for something strategically.”
“And their crew is likely mutinous,” I add. “Or they will be by the time they reach the island. Platt’s losing all his investors, so they can’t be paying their men well. They’re more likely mercenaries than navy men. They may be better equipped than us, but their crew will likely be greener and sicker.”
“And Platt and Stafford are at each other’s throats already,” Johanna adds.
I nod. “Platt’s a mess of a man, and Stafford seems rather tired of playing nanny to him.”
“Father?” Sim says, her voice softer than I’m accustomed to. An ask rather than an answer. Her father flicks his gaze toward her but doesn’t turn. “It may be time for a change.”
“And what change is that, Simmaa?” Perhaps he senses there’s an undercurrent to her words—a change in leadership, a change in his fleet, a change that starts with his daughter inheriting his world instead of his sons.
But if Sim means any of that, she doesn’t betray it. She keeps her gaze low and says, “We have kept these creatures secret for so long, but we’ve also hidden the resources they could provide.”
“Provide at a cost,” Aldajah says, but Sim presses on.
“But we can control the cost if we accept that change is coming. We cannot fight the turning of the world, but we can prepare for it. And we can prepare our world for it.”
Aldajah clenches his jaw—the same nervous tick I’ve seen in Sim, though he doesn’t grind his molars together like she does. The same vein on his temple presses against his skin. His eyes slant in the same way when he looks at me, then Johanna.
“Fine,” Aldajah says, then to Johanna, “I accept your terms. Now show us your map.”
Johanna looks over at me and nods. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, victorious and conspiratorial. I reach down and start to pull up the hem of my skirt, and all the men in the room make a protestation as one—Monty does an exasperatingly dramatic throwing of his hands over his eyes and exclaims, “Dear God, Felicity Montague, keep your clothes on.”
“Like you’ve never seen the outline of the female form before.” I pull up my skirt to my knees, careful to keep myself as covered as possible lest one of these brawny gentlemen need a couch to faint upon, and manage to untie the petticoat from my waist.
“How is taking off your underthings any better?” Monty says, watching through his fingers as the petticoat falls to my ankles and step out of it. I flip the petticoat inside out, letting it blossom and float before I spread it across the table so they can all see the replicated map Johanna and I stitched there.
There is not, as I expected, an astonished and impressed gasp. None of the men seem to catch on to what it is. Most of them are too busy avoiding looking at my underthings to make any deductions. It’s only Sim who, with a slow, slick smile sliding over her face, says to Johanna and me, “You’re quite the rascals.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We had some time on our hands.”
“It’s not as complete as we hoped it would be,” Johanna says. “The map Platt has is far more detailed and legible. But is this something you can make a heading from?”
“I think so.” Scipio looks like he wants to take up the petticoat, but then stops, unsure what the most gentlemanly response is to being handed a lady’s drawers for navigational purposes.
“The Eleftheria will keep the map,” I say to Aldajah. “And Johanna and I will stay aboard here. You can follow us in your second ship.”
“Then Simmaa stays here as well,” Aldajah says. “To keep you honest.”
It isn’t a question, but Sim still nods. Johanna nods too. “Acceptable.”
I want to leap to my feet and thrust my arms aloft in victory. We’re back. We’re at our own helm again. My life as an adventurer, a researcher, an independent woman with a world to discover has unfurled its sails yet again after a near miss with captivity. Johanna darts a glance sideways at me, like she senses how badly I want to execute some sort of ridiculous dance in celebration, and presses her shoulder against mine.
“Miss Hoffman,” Scipio says at last, “will you join me at the helm and help me decipher this . . . unorthodox guide?”
&nbs
p; Johanna takes up the petticoat, letting it wave behind her like a flag as she follows Scipio up the narrow stairs. A hand up from Percy leaves her flustered more than helps.
Aldajah and his men follow, and I start to go as well, but Sim steps in front of me, blocking my path. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at my shoulder and toes the planking. I wait.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” she says at last, her words stepping on each other’s heels in their haste.
“I’m glad you didn’t abandon us,” I reply.
“Did you think that I had?”
I offer a noncommittal shrug. “You must admit it looked very incriminating.”
“A guns-blazing charge down the hill would have done you no good.”
“It would have given me quite a bit more confidence in your noble intentions. Though I suppose you wouldn’t abandon us, so long as we had the map.”
“There are other reasons I wouldn’t abandon you,” she says, and her eyes disappear behind the thick fringe of her lashes as she looks down again.
“You didn’t tell me your name was Simmaa,” I say.
Her nose wrinkles. “I hate it. My father picked it up sailing when he was young and vowed he’d call his first daughter Simmaa.”
“Why do you hate it?”
“Because it means bravery.” Her mouth twitches. “I think he meant for it to be ironic.”
“But you’re brave.”
“But not brave enough to lead his fleet. I don’t think he ever intended for that daughter to have an opportunity to be brave.”
I purse my lips. “Should I call you Simmaa now, or would you prefer captain? This ship is under your command now.”
She lets out a laugh. “Have you ever seen a command post so begrudgingly awarded?”
“But at least it was awarded.” She’s staring at the ground. I push my toe against hers. “I’m sorry your father doesn’t see it.”
“See what?” She raises her eyes to mine, and we trade a look that feels like a dare.
“How bloody brilliant you are,” I say.
“Am I?” She tugs on her headscarf, pressing a crease behind her ear. “You must be rubbing off on me.”