Her pale blue eyes lifted to meet mine and she let me go. “Welcome home, Fable.”
Home.
The word stretched and folded, the sound of it strange.
I clutched my skirts with both hands and walked through the door, biting back the turn of my stomach. Saint may have gotten what he wanted, but now Holland was the one with the upper hand, and she knew it.
The guard led us into another corridor that ended at the foot of a winding staircase, and we followed it up to a salon that overlooked the bottom floor. He didn’t stop until we reached a door at the end of the row. It was painted pearly pink with a bouquet of wild blooms at its center.
“Someone will come for you at the first bell,” he said, letting the door swing open.
The room was bathed in pale moonlight cast through a large window. Beneath it was a bed, half of it shrouded in shadows.
West stepped inside first, and the man caught him in the chest with a hand. “This room is for her.”
“Then I’m staying here too.” West shoved past him, holding the door open for me to follow.
I looked over my shoulder to Clove. He leaned against the banister, giving me a reassuring nod. “See you in the morning.” His manner was cool, but there was an unsteady look in his eye. I wasn’t the only one who could see that Holland was the oil in a lamp, ready to catch flame.
The guard who’d dragged Zola into the dark appeared at the top of the staircase. He walked toward us with quick steps, and I studied his jacket and hands for any sign of blood. But he was crisp and clean, just like the gala and its guests below.
He took a place beside the door and West closed it behind me, stilling to listen when the latch fell into place. When footsteps faded into the distance, his shoulders relaxed. He leaned into the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced me.
“What the hell is going on, Fable?” he grated.
My throat ached, seeing him washed in the icy blue moonlight. “Saint.” My father’s name felt foreign to me, somehow. “He used me to lure Zola here so that Holland would kill him.” I wasn’t even sure I understood it all, but those were the pieces I’d put together.
“Lure him how? What is Holland to you?”
“I think…” I searched for the words. “I think she’s my grandmother.”
West’s eyes widened. “What?”
The word sounded odd and misshapen as he said it, and I realized that the darkness was moving around me. I couldn’t draw the air into my chest.
The ghost of my mother hovered between these walls, some echo of her in the air.
In the flood of memories that danced in my mind, I searched for anything Isolde may have told me about this place. But there was nothing but tales of dives and the streets of the city where she was born. Nothing of Azimuth House or the woman who lived here.
“When Isolde ran away from Bastian, she took a place on Zola’s crew.” I pressed my hands against the blue silk wrapped around my torso. “Holland is her mother. That’s why Zola lost his license to trade in the Unnamed Sea. That’s why he hasn’t sailed here in over twenty years.”
He fell silent, but the room was filled with his racing thoughts. He was looking for a way out of this. An escape from the trap we’d both walked into.
I went to the window, looking out to where the harbor would sit in the darkness. “What about the crew?”
West stood and the shadows found his face, making the darkness under his eyes more severe. “They won’t make a move.”
“You sure about that?” I asked, thinking of Willa. When we didn’t show up at the harbor, she’d be ready to tear the city apart.
I sat on the edge of the bed and he stood before me, looking down into my face. His hand lifted as if he was going to touch me, but then he froze, his eyes focusing on the shine of gold tucked beneath the fabric of my dress. He slid the tip of a finger beneath the twine and pulled until the ring dangled in the air between us.
He stared at it for a moment before his green eyes flickered up to meet mine. “That’s what you were doing in Dern?”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.” The words broke in my throat.
The crease in his brow deepened. “For what?”
“For all of this.”
I wasn’t just talking about what happened that morning at the gambit. It was everything. It was Holland and Bastian and West burning Zola’s ships. It was for everything he didn’t want to tell me about what he’d done for Saint. When I’d stepped off the Marigold, I’d set our course to this moment. And I didn’t want to admit that West looked different to me now. That he looked more like my father.
He touched my face, fingertips sliding into my hair.
I didn’t know what he’d done in the Narrows, trying to find me. But the weight of it was heavy on him. He was darkened with it. In that moment, I only wanted to feel his rough hands on my skin and swallow the air around him until I could taste him on my tongue. To feel as if I were hidden in his shadow.
His face lowered until his mouth hovered over mine, and he kissed me so gently that the burn of tears instantly erupted behind my eyes. My hands moved down the shape of his back and he leaned into me, inhaling deeply, as if he was pulling the warmth of me inside of him. I put what Clove told me out of my mind, closing my eyes and imagining that we were in the lantern light of West’s quarters on the Marigold.
His teeth slipped over my bottom lip and the sting resurfaced from where the skin was still healing. But I didn’t care. I kissed him again and his hands reached for the skirts, pulling them up until I could feel his fingers on my legs. His touch dragged up, and when his hand wrapped around the stitches in my thigh, I winced, hissing.
West pulled away from me suddenly, his eyes running over my face.
“It’s nothing,” I whispered, pulling him back to me.
But he ignored me, pushing the skirts up to my hips so he could look at it. The clumsy stitches puckered in a jagged line at the center of a trailing purple bruise. He brushed a thumb lightly around it, his jaw clenching. “What happened?”
I pushed the frock back down between us, embarrassed. “One of Zola’s dredgers tried to make sure I didn’t come back up from a dive.”
West’s eyes were bright and sparkling, but the set of his mouth was still. Calm. “Who?”
“He’s dead,” I murmured.
He fell quiet, letting me go, and the space between us again grew wide and empty. The warmth that had been in his touch was gone, making me shiver. The last ten days flashed in his eyes, showing me a glimpse of that part of West I’d seen the night he told me about his sister. The night he hadn’t told me about Saint.
I don’t need to know, some part of me whispered. But the lie in the words echoed behind them. Because eventually, we would have to unearth those buried bones, along with whatever else West was hiding from me.
SIXTEEN
I sat on the floor against the wall, watching the beam of morning light crawl across the tassel-edged rug until it touched my toes. The hours had passed in silence, with only the occasional sound of boots outside the closed door.
West stood at the window watching the street, and I could see the finery of his coat much better in the light. The burgundy wool fell to his knees, the color making his hair look even more fair, and I wondered how in the world anyone had gotten him into it. Even his boots were shined.
I hadn’t slept, watching West’s tired eyes stare out the window. He looked as if he hadn’t closed them in days, the cut of his cheekbones sharper.
As if he could feel my attention on him, he looked over his shoulder. “You all right?”
“I’m all right,” I said, my eyes dropping to his hands. The last time I’d seen West, he told me he’d killed sixteen men. I wondered how many it was now. “You’re worried about them,” I said, thinking of the Marigold.
“They’ll be fine.” I could tell he was reassuring himself, not me. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
A soft knock sounded at the door and we both stilled. I hesitated before I got to my feet, grimacing when the stitches in my leg pinched. My wrinkled skirts rustled as I walked barefoot across the carpets, and when I opened it, a small woman stood in the hall with a fresh frock in her arms. It was a delicate pale pink fabric, almost the same hue that colored the walls of the room.
Clove still stood against the banister out on the salon, his box of coin sitting at his feet. He’d stayed out there all night.
“I’ve come to dress you,” the woman said, looking up at me.
“I’m not a doll,” I snapped. “I don’t need to be dressed.”
Behind her, Clove stifled a laugh.
The woman looked confused. “But the hooks—”
I snatched the frock from her hands and closed the door before she finished. The garment shimmered as I held it up, inspecting it. It was garish, with a high neck and a pleated skirt.
West seemed to be thinking the same thing, wincing as if looking at it hurt him.
I dropped it on the bed with a huff and reached back for the closures of the blue frock I was wearing. The fastenings at the top came undone with a snap, and when I couldn’t reach the ones at the center, I groaned.
I reached into the pocket of my skirts and found the knife. West watched from where he stood at the window as I slid the blade along the seam at my ribs, jerking. The tailored waist loosened with the tear and I rolled the bodice down until the entire thing dropped to the floor in a heap. My sore ribs and shoulders ached, finally free of the constricting silk.
West eyed the underdress and panniers fitted around my hips. “What the—”
I stopped him with a sharp look, stepping into the new frock and fastening the buttons in the back as far up as I could. When my fingers couldn’t get to the next one, West finished them with a scowl on his face. The short sleeves would show my scar, and for a moment the thought unnerved me. I was used to covering it up.
I pulled the pins from my hair and let the length of it fall around me before I shook it out. The deep auburn strands spilled over my shoulders, dark against the pale color of the bodice. When I opened the door again, the woman was still standing there, a pair of shoes in the same pink fabric clutched in her delicate hands.
Her eyes went wide when she saw the shredded blue silk on the floor behind me. “Oh my.”
She composed herself, setting the shoes down, and I stepped into them one at a time with the frock bunched in my arms. She bristled when she caught sight of the scar on my arm, and I dropped the skirts, waiting for her to stop staring.
Her cheeks bloomed crimson. “I’ll show you to breakfast.” She gave an apologetic bow of her head.
West was already waiting in the hall with Clove. The woman stepped around them carefully, as if she was afraid to touch them, and Clove looked pleased. He moved aside, letting her pass, and she led us back down the staircase. The corridor we’d walked down the night before was now filled with sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Painted portraits lined the inner wall, their deep, saturated colors depicting faces of men and women wrapped in robes and adorned with jewels.
The coin in Clove’s box jingled as we followed the woman, side by side, down the turning steps.
“It’s time to tell me what the hell is going on,” I said in a low voice.
Clove’s eyes cut to West warily. “You know what’s going on. I took on Holland’s bounty and brought Zola back to Bastian from the Narrows.”
“But why?” Clove was loyal to Saint, but he wasn’t stupid, and he hadn’t risked his neck for nothing. There was something in it for him. “Why would you come all this way on Saint’s order?”
He arched an eyebrow, irritated. “He made it worth my while.” He tapped the silver box under his arm. “I’m using the coin to start a new fleet under Saint’s crest.”
“What? Why not strike out on your own?”
Clove laughed, shaking his head. “Would you want to be in competition with Saint?”
I wouldn’t. No one in their right mind would. This was a way for everyone to get what they wanted.
“I’d been trying to convince Zola to come back to Bastian for over a year, but he wasn’t interested. He was too afraid of Holland.”
“Until you used me as bait,” I muttered. “If Saint wanted to use me to get Zola to Holland, he knew where I was. He could have come to get me from Jeval any time.” Clove kept pace beside me, silent. “Why now?”
Clove glanced over his shoulder, looking to West again, and I stopped short, the skirts slipping from my fingers.
“So, I was right.” I glared at him. “This is about West.”
West looked between us, but he said nothing. He’d likely already been thinking the same thing.
Saint had been working against Zola for some time, but when he realized I’d used him to help West, he’d seen a way to solve not one problem, but two. He’d get Zola to Bastian and me off the Marigold.
“That bastard,” I growled, gritting my teeth.
West watched me from the corner of his eye, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Once, he’d said he’d never be free of Saint. I was beginning to wonder if he was right.
We took two more turns before we were standing at a wide set of doors that opened to an enormous solarium. Walls of glass rose to a ceiling that framed the blue sky, making the light so bright that I had to blink to let my eyes adjust.
At the very center of the room sat a decadently dressed round table, where Holland was waiting.
The belt around her waist was studded with trailing swirls of emerald, the same stone that hung from the gold chain around her neck. It caught the light as she faced the windows looking over the city, a teacup in her hand.
West studied her, an undecipherable question in his eyes.
Our escort stopped at the door, gesturing for us to enter, and I stepped into the room with West at my side, Clove trailing behind.
“Good morning,” Holland said, her eyes on the golden landscape before us. “Sit, please.”
The solarium was filled with plants, making the air warm and humid. Wide leaves and choking vines crawled up the windows, and blooms of every color were scattered along fronds and branches.
I reached for the chair but a young man appeared from behind us, pulling it out for me. I sat cautiously, taking in the contents of the table.
Pastries and cakes were arranged in ornate patterns atop silver platters and stands, and fresh berries were piled into white porcelain bowls. My mouth watered at the smell of sugar and butter, but West and Clove kept their hands in their laps. I did the same.
“Like looking into the past.” Holland gingerly set her cup onto the saucer before her. “You’re a perfect rendering of your mother.”
“So are you,” I said.
That made her mouth twist a little, but it was true. I could see my mother in all of her angles, even with her years and silvered hair. Holland was beautiful in the same wild, untamed way Isolde had been.
“I take it she never told you about me.” Her head tilted to the side inquisitively.
“She didn’t,” I answered honestly. There was no point in lying.
“I admit, when Zola sent me a message saying he was bringing me Isolde’s daughter, I didn’t believe him. But there’s no denying it.” Her eyes ran over me again. “I’m still trying to figure out how you slipped my notice. Nothing happens on the sea that I don’t know about.”
But I knew the answer to that question. No one but Clove knew who I was, and I’d spent four years on Jeval, far removed from anyone’s curiosity. For the first time, I wondered if that was one of Saint’s reasons for leaving me there.
“Isolde was a stubborn girl,” she breathed. “Beautiful. Talented. But so very stubborn.”
I stayed silent, paying close attention to the corners of her mouth. The shifting of her eyes. But the surface of Holland gave away nothing.
“She was seventeen years old when she left on the Luna
without so much as a goodbye. I woke one morning and she didn’t come down to breakfast.” She picked up her cup, and it shook in her hand as she took another sip of hot tea. “If her father hadn’t already been dead, it would have killed him.”
She selected a pastry from the platter, setting it onto the plate before her as the doors opened behind us. A man stepped into the room, his jacket buttoned all the way up to his neck and his hat in his hands. It took me a moment to place him. The harbor master.
West seemed to realize it in the same moment, turning just a little in his chair to keep his back to him.
He stopped beside the table before he handed Holland a roll of parchments. “The Luna is being stripped as we speak. There’s a good bit of supplies, but no inventory. Sails are good.”
“Well, we can always use sails,” Holland murmured, looking over the parchments. “The crew?”
“Down on the docks looking for work,” he answered.
I glanced at Clove, thinking of the dredgers. If Holland took the Luna, they likely hadn’t been paid. They’d all be looking for passage back to Jeval.
“Strike the berth from the log. I don’t want anyone digging around,” Holland said.
West’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. She hadn’t just killed Zola. She was sinking the ship and covering up the fact that he’d ever been in Bastian. By the time she was through, it would be as if he’d never made port.
“I want the Luna at the bottom of the sea before the sun goes down. I don’t need the Trade Council getting wind of this before the meeting.”
Clove met my eyes across the table. My only guess was that she was talking about the Trade Council meeting that took place between the Narrows and the Unnamed Sea in Sagsay Holm.
The harbor master grunted in answer. “One unscheduled ship is noted there, too.” He pointed to the page in Holland’s hands. “The Marigold.”
I instantly went rigid, my cup hitting the saucer a little too hard. Beside me, West’s stillness made me shiver. He looked like he was about to launch himself from the chair and cut the man’s throat.
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