“Not hungry,” she said simply.
And without being told, Flora knew. That was the price of the stew. It was appetizing and perfect. But Xenobia had given up her appetite for it.
Xenobia nodded at Flora. “Are you ready to listen?”
Once there was a lonesome man who went to a witch so that she might grant him a wife.
“Please,” he said. “My brothers laugh at me, and my mother worries. I need a wife so that I might have family and tend my father’s farm.”
But the witch told him: “I do not deal in the magic of love. Go comb your hair and leave me be.”
“I have tried everything,” he said. “And I need a wife.”
The witch sighed. “You must know, loneliness is power, too,” she told him. “On your own, you can accomplish great things, unencumbered by the many webs and nets love weaves.”
The man would not listen, would not be dissuaded. “Please,” he begged, and he begged, and he begged.
Day turned into night, turned into day. But the man would not leave.
And he wept and he wept until his tears became so dense, so thick with his feeling, with his despair, that they turned into pearls. All around their feet, the pearls rolled.
“Fine,” the witch said. “I shall do this thing you ask. But it comes at a price.”
“Anything,” the man said.
“I will take your loneliness,” she said. “But you must never introduce this wife I grant you to your family nor your friends, and you must never speak of her to anyone, so long as you both shall live.”
The man blinked, confused. “But then, how will she work upon my father’s farm?”
“This is the price,” the witch said, and she would say no more.
The man agreed, and the witch smiled.
“I shall take your loneliness, then,” she said. “And within the week, you shall meet a beautiful woman who wants nothing else but to be your wife.”
“Yes!” the man cried. “Thank you, thank you!” And he left the witch’s home with a lively step. To be free of his loneliness would be a great relief.
Every day, the man woke up hoping to meet his wife.
On the seventh day, he did.
She was even more beautiful than he could have ever dreamed. Her black hair flowed, long and perfect, curling into the wind. She had smooth brown skin and wide hips. Her legs were strong; her lips were full. And in her eyes, the man could see the Sea in summer, cool and calm.
He wed her on the shore of the Sea. It was, she said, where she was from, but the man did not care. All he cared about was the ebb of his unending loneliness, of the warmth in his bed night after night.
Together, they had many children, who worked the farm just as the man had desired.
“Where do all these children come from?” his brothers asked again and again. But the man could not say.
Soon, the brothers grew suspicious. “They are slaves,” they told the townspeople. Not long after, word came back to the man that his children were to be taken away.
“No!” he cried. “They are my children!”
But no one believed him, for none had ever met or even heard of his wife.
When the people came, with their blades and their guns, to take the children, the man fell to his knees.
“Please!” he begged them. “They are my children! Mine and my wife’s!”
And he flung open the door to his home so that they might look upon his wife in all her beauty.
But all that remained there was a small black fish, gasping for breath and flopping on the ground. As the people watched, the fish died, lying still upon the floor.
So they took his children. Later, the man realized that the fish had been his wife. Now just as dead and gone as his children from his life. He would never see any of them again.
Angry and desperate, he returned to the witch.
“My wife is dead!” he raged.
The witch shrugged. “You did not do as I told you. This is the price you pay.”
In his anger and in his sorrow, the man made to strike the witch. But he found the blows would not fall. He could not touch her.
“You gave me your loneliness,” the witch said. “It could have been your power. Instead, it is mine.”
And she turned the man into a pearl and wore him — along with his sorrow — around her neck.
For days, Evelyn was kept to the confines of her assigned chambers. It was a beautiful set of rooms, appointed with the mahogany furniture and tatami mats Evelyn had grown up with — but it was still a prison. The servants had been told to keep her there under all circumstances other than a fire, and Inouye stood at her door day and night. And so Evelyn had little to do save stare out the window into Commander Callum’s rock garden or chat with the various servants that came in to tend to her. She swapped stories with those that were willing, learned what life was like on the Floating Islands. Or Barilacha, as they called it. It was not nearly so exotic as she’d been led to believe.
As prisons went, Evelyn could accept that she was lucky, if frustrated.
She thought of the last time a young man had been assigned to be her keeper and wondered where Florian was now. What Florian was doing.
Surely, Florian would be looking for her.
Surely, Florian would come to rescue her. Just as he had before.
Surely, Florian of all people would know how.
She thought of the princess that despaired and felt a swell of empathy for her. Likely, that princess had suffered an education of art and architecture, of etiquette and elocution as well. Of beautiful and useless things. The despair wasn’t self-pity. It was a deep disappointment in her teachers.
She had been marinating in the bath Callum’s servant had drawn for her. The steaming water left her skin red and tingling, and she relished the cleanliness of it, the way her skin felt soft and familiar once again. She hadn’t realized what a great gift a hot bath was until she’d been without one for so long. The water had gone cold some time ago, but still she sat, to feel anything other than the constant, itching anxiety to return to Florian. She was still in the tub when Commander Callum came into her room. Without knocking.
Evelyn nearly splashed all the water out of the tub in her shock. She held an arm across her chest protectively and glared at Commander Callum, who seemed wholly unperturbed by the consternation he had caused.
“It seems you were telling the truth about at least two things,” he said by way of greeting. “The ship carrying the true Evelyn Hasegawa has not made port, and rumor is that pirates have taken it.”
“Sir, I’m naked,” she said, hoping that somehow maybe he hadn’t noticed and would be properly chastened once it was called to his attention.
“You are either my future wife or an interloper,” he said calmly. “Either I would see you in this condition shortly, or else you are a criminal and have renounced your right to privacy. So your honor is hardly at stake here.”
Evelyn folded her knees to her chest. If he was determined to talk to her while she was nude, she could at least make herself comfortable.
“At any rate, it’s still highly suspicious that you would have escaped on your own, and much more so that you would have made it to your intended port as well.”
He looked briefly toward her chest without any self-consciousness that Evelyn could discern.
“I will need you to give me more information.” He pulled a chair toward the tub so that he sat uncomfortably close. The lines in his face were visible in the daylight. She had not seen him, not once since their first meeting, and had not been able to get any sort of read on him. He looked as stern as the stone Emperor Henry who loomed over the church.
“We are alone now.”
Evelyn suppressed an impatient roll of the eyes. Obviously, they were alone. She had rather been enjoying the solitude of a bath until he’d come charging in.
“You can tell me the whole truth. How did you escape?”
“I told you,�
�� Evelyn said. Her voice was peevish; she hated the sound of it. As if she were whining to her parents. “A sailor aboard the Dove helped lower me.”
“Why.”
“Because . . .” She tried to think of what Rake’s motivation could possibly have been but came up short. She knew nothing of his mind, knew nothing of his life. “I don’t know. But he did not seem to like the captain?”
“Captain —”
“Lafayette.”
Callum nodded, and she could see his eyes alight with something that must have been recognition. When he saw her looking at him, his face hardened into an impassive shape once more.
“So you think one lone pirate, seeking to sow revenge, decided the best way to do this was to free only one of the captain’s purportedly many prisoners?”
“I —”
“Listen. Do you think you are the first young woman I have ever interrogated? Did you think that your Imperial blood, or your youth, or your sex would grant you any clemency from me?” He leaned so that he could peer directly into Evelyn’s eyes. “I have broken grown men trained in stoicism. Breaking you will take little effort from me. But I promise, it will elicit great suffering from you.”
Evelyn could taste her heart in her throat, the heft of it, the flesh. She could feel herself trembling before this man, knew her fear was likewise naked.
Callum leaned back and pulled a small glass vial from a pocket in his coat. It was only the length of his pinky finger and narrow, half-full with a white powder. He rattled it before her face.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“This is Kiyohime powder.” He opened the vial and took a sniff of it, his eyes closed in evident pleasure. “It is my favorite poison. Do you know of it?”
Of course she knew of Kiyohime powder. It was reviled and respected among the Imperial elites, who saw it as both deeply powerful and unspeakably cruel. It was the chosen poison of the Imperial Guard, and it was known that any who died of Kiyohime poisoning died by the Emperor’s leave.
Callum tipped the vial so that the powder hung precariously close to the vial’s mouth. “Do you know what would happen if I, say, emptied this vial into your bathwater?”
All she could see was Callum and the poison. All she could feel was terror.
“Death,” Evelyn managed.
“True. But not immediately.” He held the vial over the tub, toying with her. “First, you would feel a burning. Not everywhere. Only in the parts of your body I am too proper to mention. I am a gentleman, after all. Though this is not a gentle poison. And it would not be a gentle burning, mind you; it would be a burning like fire. It would spread from down there through your veins. You’d feel its passage, too. From those tender hidden corners to the tip of each finger and the end of each toe.” He ran a finger along her bare knee softly, just barely touching her, as if to show her, to mimic the flow of death through her body. “And as the burning passed through you, your body would try to reject the poison, convulsing and vomiting. Emptying your bowels. But it would be to no avail. Once Kiyohime powder enters the bloodstream, it cannot be stopped. It is an ugly death, miss. One I should not think you would relish.”
Tears rolled down Evelyn’s cheeks. She was too afraid even to be ashamed. The shame would come later. In that moment, all she could think of was the vial tipping into the water. Of the burning that would follow. Of her body, cold and useless and twisted in the ignominy of death. And she knew, with all the certainty that she knew her own name, that he would kill her. And he would not regret it.
“There were two,” she admitted. Her voice cracked.
Callum corked the vial. “That’s better.” But he did not put the vial away. He rolled it between his fingers restlessly, never once looking away from Evelyn. “Tell me everything.”
It was not that he cared for the boy. But he had given Flora his word, and however little that was worth, it could at least be worth checking that Alfie hadn’t died of infection.
Alfie was laid out on his stomach in a cabin also being used to store the various treasures stolen off the passengers. It was an odd sight. Silk kimonos were draped over luggage trunks, and one delicate ivory sculpture of a dragon teetered with the motion of the Dove. Alfie lay, wheezing more than breathing, next to piles and piles of treasures all kept together in one of the Dove’s finest cabins. A tansu chest stood ajar, and in it Rake could see the glimmer of gold likely packed for trade on the Floating Islands.
It was a testament to how badly Alfie was injured that he could be trusted in such close proximity to the treasure. Anyone could tell just from looking at him that thievery was the last thing on his mind.
Alfie’s back was — Well, it was ruined. Fawkes’s lashings had wrought deep wounds. In one horrible spot, Rake thought he could see the white of bone.
“Who’sit,” the boy mumbled. He couldn’t even muster the strength to lift his head.
“It’s me, Alfie. It’s Rake.” Rake took a seat on a spare trunk that wobbled under his weight. He thought about reaching out, touching the boy. But it would likely cause more pain than comfort.
“When’ll death come?” Alfie sounded drunk. For an idiot, it was at least a realistic question. Rake did not have the heart to tell him Death was already there. Death was always there.
Rake looked around. A bottle of rum lay empty next to Alfie. Fair enough. Rake knew Alfie to be an incurable drunk, though he hardly blamed the boy.
“Not yet.”
“H’will, though.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Mmm’yep. Yep. Sure is.” Alfie made like he was going to roll over but then seemed to think the better of it and stayed as he was. “Cook. G’man. Dun. Dun get ’em in trouble.”
“Hardly seems worth it,” Rake said, and he meant it. Giving the boy rum had been a rare act of kindness aboard the Dove. “I came to see that you’re all right.”
“Ohhh, m’great,” said Alfie. “’Bandoned. Whipped. Great.”
“You know . . .” The boy was drunk. Drunker than drunk, he was nearly gone. He’d not remember anything come morning, not even, likely, that Rake had paid him a visit. “She’s free now. Better off. You should be happy.”
This time, Alfie did turn, if only fractionally, so that he could look Rake in the eyes. “Yeah?”
“So.”
“Ah, that’s. Thasomethin’.” Alfie’s eyes filled with tears, and Rake looked away. He wasn’t sure who he was embarrassed for, the boy or himself.
“Anyway.” Rake pulled his flask out of his coat and took a swig. It was the unpalatable rice liquor favored by Imperial peasants, but it was still booze. He didn’t need it. “Take it,” he said, proffering the bottle to Alfie. “This here’s the only comfort I’ll be giving you. Next time I see you, I’ll likely be here to kill you.”
Alfie let out an unmanly sob but took the bottle. He took a long, ineffective swig, dribbling most of it down his chin. “Thanks, I guess,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
Rake left him with his tears and the bottle.
The captain hadn’t made the order yet. But he would. Rake was sure of it.
And when it came to the captain’s acts of cruelty, Rake was not often wrong.
As he stepped out of the cabin, he nearly ran bodily into Fawkes. Internally, Rake sighed. The last thing he wanted was to interact with Fawkes. With all the care he could find, he tried to erect the shields he held around his heart.
“Checking on little Alfie, then?” Everything Fawkes said sounded cruel. It didn’t matter what it was; he could ask what was for breakfast and he’d still sound evil. Rake wanted to slap Alfie’s name out of Fawkes’s mouth.
“Just seeing that he’s alive,” Rake replied. “And that there was no treasure in his pockets.”
Fawkes grunted his approval but did not move to let Rake pass. He smelled of stale sweat, stale booze. Rake hated him. Why did anyone so malevolent need to be so gigantic? His body alone seemed pro
of there were no gods, save for Death.
“Seeing as the mermaid is gone,” Fawkes said finally, “I was thinking it’d be fair to let me have a bit of that treasure.”
“The captain’s treasure?” Rake raised an eyebrow. He had little patience for impertinence.
“Well. Since Florian absconded with my best and most valuable treasure, it seems only right.”
“And you’re asking me because . . . ?”
“Because you can get in a good word with the captain.”
“And I’d do that for you because . . . ?”
“Aww.” Fawkes made a sound that Rake supposed was meant to be jocular laughter. “C’mon, then.”
“I won’t. I won’t because that is the captain’s treasure and it is not my place, just as it is most certainly not yours to decide what he does with it. And besides, if he wanted you to have some as recompense for being on watch during an escape, I’m sure you’d know by now.”
Fawkes glared at Rake but still did not let him pass. He stood, boulder-like and terrible, on the spot. But he did not mention the truth that hung between them — that it’d been Rake’s orders that led him out of Florian’s way, clearing the path for escape.
“It’s not right,” Fawkes said.
“Take it to the captain, then.” Rake gave him an impatient nod to signify the conversation’s end. For a moment, he thought Fawkes might try to fight him. It was not a favorable matchup. But after some time, Fawkes stepped aside, allowing Rake to pass.
Soon, Rake thought. Soon, all these men would know the hangman’s noose.
For Alfie, it would be a mercy.
Rake had only been aboard the Dove a year, maybe less, when the two orphans had come along. Pirate ships were always stacked with orphans, though not typically from the Imperial shores. But these two were no Imperial-blooded youth — their black skin and gray eyes did away with that notion right off.
Several of the men had caught the pair trying to pickpocket them, but were impressed by their seeming lack of fear once they were caught. They had argued and thrashed until they were set free. The captain, amused by his sailors’ account of them, had invited them aboard the Dove so that they might beg for a place on the ship directly to him. He had them meet him in the galley, which was at the time full of treasures plundered on the previous voyage, ready for sale in Crandon.
The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea Page 17