Stricken with inspiration, she spun to face the closed curtain. "I could teach you to stitch!" she called out.
Thimbler appeared again, drawing the cloth aside with only two fingers. "You know how?"
"Yes. I can do a fantastic backstitch—that's my best one—but I know lots more. My mother taught me."
"What would you get out of it?"
"I need a place to stay, and food, and I'm trying to make clothes that fit. I need supplies."
"I see," he said.
Thimbler twisted his jaw and chewed on the idea. The anxiety of waiting for his answer left her heart in her throat. While a little odd, he seemed like a much more agreeable person than Roker.
"I don't know you," Thimbler began, to which Minerva really wanted to interrupt and introduce herself, but he denied her the opportunity. "That means you must be new here, which is a problem in Riggersport. Plenty of sailors come and go, and trusting them to make good on their word is a coin toss at best. For all I know, you won't be here tomorrow. That means you need someone to vouch for you. Someone that I trust. Understand?"
Minerva understood all too well. His answer was a very wordy, but resolute, no.
Chapter 32
Loyal Knights
"Nezzen— Says. He thinks— She went. Off to buy clothes— And! Find work."
It was an odd sentence for the twins, as one of the pair gasped for air—having just vaulted up the mast to the crow's nest and back—while his brother urged him on. Olbus and the twins stood on the deck of the Skyraker, staring off into the tangle of ships that made up the port.
"What would she ask – if she was looking for clothes?"
Olbus looked over at the twins, who were clearly lost. Riggersport was home to them, and they could easily navigate its treacherous society, but they had no experience with the minds of teenage girls.
"A seamstress," Olbus offered.
Luff and Leech mirrored the wide-eyed gaze of the other.
"Roker," concluded the black man, gritting his teeth.
All together, they thundered down the gangplank and into the city, leaving an angry crowd in their wake.
Chapter 33
One of Roker's Girls
Outside of Thimbler's Fine Textiles, Minerva didn't know where to turn. It was getting late, and drunken pirates had begun to stumble about wherever she went. A few leaned towards her with grasping hands as they passed, sending her leaping away. Although she hated the idea, her only conclusion was to go back and see Roker.
When she arrived at the Needle and Thread, many additional girls loitered outside the ship. She realized then that they were all wearing clothes made by Thimbler. Some of the larger girls truly tested the limits of his handiwork.
"Welcome back," Roker said with a slick grin that made her skin crawl. "No new dress for you?"
"I couldn't afford one," she said, lowering her head in shame.
Roker bent at the waist and put his arm around her. "Don't worry, you won't need one. Come with me."
Leading her by the shoulder, Roker directed Minerva into his establishment. The open floor warmed her bare feet, and the infrequent carpets tickled her soles. Metal trimmings and stained wood gave everything a comforting glow in the dim lamplight. Leather couches and benches littered the area, hosting lounging pairs of women and men.
In the confined space, Roker's perfume overpowered almost everything else, and Minerva choked on the mixed scents of pipe smoke and alcohol in the crowded room. The men around her all smiled when they saw her, raising their eyebrows and nodding towards Roker, who returned their looks with a broad grin.
Deeper within the ship, they descended a staircase into what likely used to be the hold, and entered a long hallway filled with sturdy doors. Outside each door stood a fearsome looking sailor, nearly as big as Olbus. It made her feel like she just walked into a guarded fortress.
Minerva's inner voice was busy forming a multitude of objections to her current situation, including escape plans, when Roker stopped at a reinforced door at the far end of the hallway. Before she could find a polite excuse to leave, he pulled a long metal key from his pocket and opened the door, urging her through ahead of him.
Once inside, Roker locked the door and returned the key back to his pocket with a pat. "Come, sit here," the man in white said, motioning her towards a cushioned bench near an impressive, and roaring, fireplace. He sat down across from her on a leather chair with a high back, and removed his hat, revealing dark straight hair.
The smell of Roker and his perfume wholly permeated the space. It was a cozy cabin lit by a large golden chandelier, fully furnished by wooden liquor cabinets, fine carpets, and several leather chairs and couches. It boasted an immense bed, complete with massive pillows and dark red sheets, and an exquisitely crafted headboard.
"New in town?" he asked, watching her examine the room.
Minerva nodded.
"And you're looking for work?"
She nodded again.
"What sort of experience do you have?" His voice drawled smoothly, as if every word held great meaning.
"I have a lot of practice sewing. My mother taught me every stitch she knew." Minerva tried to keep her answers terse and focus on her strengths. Mostly she wanted to leave, but she also felt that a successful interview wouldn't do any harm.
"Oh," Roker said, tilting his head back a bit. "You're an experienced tailor?"
Minerva nodded again, but took note of the extra emphasis he put on the word tailor. Maybe he knew about magic, she thought, and considered revising her answer.
"I see," he said again, moving over to sit beside her, a little too close for comfort.
Minerva moved away slightly, but Roker put his arm around her and pulled her back. When she looked up at him, trying to figure out what he was doing, he brushed her hair and face with his hand. Her pulse spiked instantly and she shivered. Something about Roker twisted her guts the wrong way.
"No work in a dress?" he asked.
She shook her head, somewhat confused. It wasn't a normal question, but her answer seemed to make him happy.
"Never worked on bed sheets, I understand?"
"I made my own sheets when I was six," she explained honestly, worried that the answer went contrary to his hopes. Again, he was more than pleased. Disproportionately so, she decided.
Up until now, Minerva had been doing her best to ignore her inner voice, but it was growing louder the more that Roker spoke. It was telling her to leave, immediately. At this point, it was practically screaming.
Roker put his other arm on her leg and slid it up towards her hip. She put effort into stopping him, but he put more force into the act than she was politely willing to resist. The sensation made her writhe and gave her good reason to pull away from him, but his grip only tightened.
"Tsk, tsk, sweetie. Don't run, now."
Run! Now! Get out! Her inner voice commanded frantically.
"I need to go," Minerva replied quietly, and stood up. She pushed away from his grasp as best she could, but he spun her around suddenly, forcing her to stand between his legs, facing him. His long arms wrapped around her when she held him back.
"I'll be gentle," Roker snickered, slipping his arm down her back.
Right then Minerva reacted intensely to his unsolicited advances. Her body went tense, her emotions reeled, and violence became the only option she could conclude in a split-second decision. It wasn't the disgusting grin on his face, or the smell of fish on his breath. It wasn't the way he said one thing, but his eyes said something else. It wasn't the fact that he pinned her against him in a way that left no personal comfort space. None of this would have caused her to do anything more than protest verbally, or push him away politely.
It was the way he forced his cold hand into her pants, down her backside, and between her legs.
Roker reeled back swiftly from the impact of Minerva's forehead vaulting straight into his nose. When he did not immediately release her, she did it again,
pulling hard on his collar for extra effect. Blood exploded onto her face with the second impact as the filthy man fell backwards off the cushioned bench.
Minerva ran for the door, turned the handle and pulled hard, but it didn't open. She tried again with a push, but again it stood resolute.
He's locked you in, her mind screamed. The key is still in his pocket! Minerva dashed to the opposite side of the room, putting the bed between them.
Roker stood slowly, wiping his nose. He snorted once, blowing a red streak across the carpet, and a wild flare sparked in his eyes.
"Just you and me, darling. I can wait all night."
He has no weapon, she thought. Make him give you the key!
When Minerva drew Velvet from her bun, her hair flew wild and free from its binding. She extended the sabre to its fullest length as fast as she could.
Roker stepped back, but his grin only widened. The blood from his nose had trickled into his mouth and stained his teeth. "Got some fight in you, girly."
With a flourish, he whipped a red-hot poker out of the fire, sending coals scattering across the floor, and then he advanced, swinging hard and fast. His first few blows went wide in the air, but the last one connected with a cabinet full of alcohol. The contents spilled to the floor in a shower of broken glass, and the poker hissed as the droplets fell upon it.
Minerva scrambled across the bed. When she looked back her vision was suddenly hazy, and the visage of a stately woman, with a dark and formless face, advanced upon her. Roker attacked again, rushing across the bed, but the image of the ghostly woman sent Minerva reeling away before he could strike.
Hot coals suddenly pressed against Minerva's bare foot and she screamed, falling sideways onto the deck. Roker left no quarter for her to recover, bringing the poker down fast. She deflected it into the floor with her blade at the last second, without even thinking about it. The moment he spent regaining his balance was just enough for her to limp backwards to the door.
Minerva's right foot throbbed in agony. When she turned around the ghostly woman was there again, and she was speaking, but her words were voiceless. Minerva couldn't understand, and the woman abruptly lunged at Minerva's head with a spectral blade. Minerva dodged instinctively, rolling away to the side.
Broken planks splintered above Minerva as a blistering poker embedded itself in the door. She did her best to circle around the room again, coddling her foot as she went, but alcohol covered everything around her. When her wounded sole touched down beside the broken cabinet, she hauled it back into the air beside her, stinging badly. Tears clouded her sight and a shard of broken glass bit into her other foot, leaving her balanced against the top of the cabinet with one hand.
"Tsk, tsk," Roker chided, laughing at her predicament. "Any more of this and you'll be damaged goods before I even get to you."
Whenever Minerva looked at Roker, a strange apparition fogged her sight. She couldn't concentrate on the threat at hand. The apparition of a woman blocked her thoughts, but while it did, the idea of persuasive words whispered in the corners of Minerva's memories. Minerva tried to listen. To understand. The woman was teaching her something, pointing to her feet and knees while crouching up and down.
Roker dashed forward, catching Minerva unprepared and driving the poker against her shoulder. An awful smell wrenched her back into the real world and she tumbled backwards between the bed and the wall with a painful shriek. She pushed herself back up into the corner, scrambling for balance and using her sword as a crutch to stand up.
No time for tears, her mind begged. She sucked in hard and readied Velvet in both hands to attack.
"You won't win," Roker said, stepping away and dropping his poker into the fire again. "You've got spirit, no doubt, but who doesn't like a mare with a little fight in her? Makes things fun while you break her in." Then he removed his soaked jacket and tossed it to the floor beside him before reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
The specter of a woman took Roker's place in Minerva's mind, replacing his words with its mysterious miming. While Roker spoke, Minerva listened to her tutor, obeying its desire for her to stand with her knees bent in a wide stance.
Roker threw his wet shirt aside and loosened his belt. For a thin man, he possessed an incredible build, and was obviously no stranger to violence. His scarred and tattooed flesh stretched tight against his sinewy muscles.
"Last chance, cutie," he said, slinging his arms to his sides and allowing his pants droop low on his waist. "Last chance to do this the easy way."
All Minerva felt in that moment was hatred for an ugly and disgusting man. He wasn't looking at her like a person, but like an object, and he wanted to hurt her. The more she cried out, and the more she resisted, the wilder he grew.
Minerva slowed her breathing, lowered her injured foot, and took the best bent-knee stance she could imagine.
Roker smiled with a spark in his eyes, and then removed his leather belt and flexed it in his hands, just as Olbus had done with the rod.
Minerva grit her teeth and locked eyes with the faceless ghost that veiled her opponent. When she blanked her mind, the idea of its words coalesced inside her thoughts, replacing her consciousness with its own and revealing its motives; it was showing her how to fight, and she needed to wait for an opening.
A sudden flick of the wrist sent a cord of snapping leather straight towards Minerva. Although his reach greatly exceeded her own, Roker's bloodlust left his body exposed, and Minerva leaned into his attack, stabbing the lanky man in the shoulder. He recoiled quickly with blood oozing down his front. If her arm had been any longer, he would have lost a limb.
"Ha! Eye for an eye, I see. Nasty sticker you got there."
Roker put his spare hand to the wound and pressed it closed, attempting to clot it.
Minerva shuffled hastily across the alcohol and glass onto open boards, doing her best to push the shards aside and block out the sting. As she moved, Roker snapped the leather towards her, baiting her into an attack. Unfortunately, he was skilled at feinting, and Minerva lunged at a bad angle. He seized the moment with incredible flourish, wrapped her blade in leather, and wrenched it from her hands as he spun her around himself. Unable to control her momentum, Minerva tumbled over the corner of the bed and into the wall near the hearth.
Roker shouted in pain as Minerva landed. A wide and wicked gash snaked its way up his arm. "That thing's sharp!" he cried.
Bloodied and red, Velvet clattered to the hardwood, shrinking quickly as Roker kicked it away into the corner. Minerva grabbed the hot poker that lay at her feet, doing her best to wield it as Roker had done. It was much heavier than Velvet and difficult to control, and no ghost appeared to aid her.
"My, you are a quick one. Rile me up, darling!"
Use your eyes, she told herself, while Roker cracked the belt in her face. As he moved, he put excess weight on his forward knee, locking it straight. On the third whip, she put both hands to the brand and swung hard and low. The belt stung very little when it clipped her ear. At the same time, sailing searing iron smashed into Roker's unbent knee, toppling him with ease. Minerva spun fast with the rebounding metal and connected again. Roker hissed angrily as the skin on his ribs melted away and the bone broke. While he lay writhing, she drew the poker up high and hammered it down into his jaw, tearing half his lip off in the process.
An iron rod is not a well-balanced blade, however, and Minerva lacked the strength to attack rapidly with it. While she prepared her next strike, Roker unfolded his good leg straight into her hips with the same power as an angered mule.
Pain shot down Minerva's back and legs as she bounced off the wall and crumpled to the floor.
Roker pushed himself to his feet with considerable effort, coddling his face and knee. "You bitch!" he barked.
Minerva's eyes searched frantically for a weapon. The fire poker lay where she dropped it, directly between the two of them. A terrible pain assailed her legs as she stood, forcing her to lean against t
he wall.
Roker shook in fury. "I'm gonna murder you!"
"Better men than you have already tried," she retorted with a sneer, withholding an urge to spit on the ground.
Right then, in the absolute heat of their standoff, a knock emanated from the door, loud enough to command the attention of them both. The second time it landed, a few shards of wood jumped off the doorframe, the iron hinges bent, and every glass in the room shook. Someone, or something, was doing its best to break into the room. Then it struck again, and the door caved partway. Whatever it was, it was clearly succeeding.
"What the—" Roker began to say, but was cut off as the remnants of the door exploded inward, showering the room in dust and debris.
Shirtless and hobbled, Roker did his best to pinwheel away from the bursting wood while something massive and dark rushed through the opening. It grabbed him by the throat and shoved him backward.
Through the flying wreckage, Minerva saw Olbus in a terrifying state. His whole body flexed beneath a light covering of dust, and he stood like a statue while Roker twisted in his iron grip. When Olbus turned to face her, she felt a sense of fear like nothing she had ever known. His lips peeled back and an unspeakably intense fury burned in his eyes.
"Leave. Now."
He said it slow and quiet, but it didn't matter. He could have said anything and Minerva would have obeyed. She did her best to exit quickly, leaning one hand against the wall. Outside the room, she discovered a mass of half-dressed men and women that had gathered, both curious and afraid, and a handful of burly guards that lay unconscious on the floor. Before she could decide what to do, Luff and Leech materialized from the crowd and lifted her into the air, rushing through the ship.
When her escorts lowered her onto a bench beneath the sign for the Needle and Thread, they began patting her down, seemingly checking for injuries. Their efforts quickly revealed the burns on her foot and shoulder.
The Maiden in the Mirror Page 13