“Soon,” she whispered to it, and it retreated back into the night, satisfied to know that she would follow.
Wren tracked the movement of the moon across the night sky, forcing herself to stay awake in the dark nursery. It was her last night here, in this room, dreamer or not. Tomorrow, she was meant to board a ship to Astanrog, where she would meet and marry her betrothed, the young prince Nikov Panilovich. The ladies of the court had little good to say about him, though to be fair, they had little good to say about anyone. Spoiled, entitled . . . short. Wren did not fancy herself a shallow girl, but she had always pictured herself with someone tall.
It had only been a month or so since Wren had decided she would not marry the prince. In fact, she did not want to marry any prince. She felt bad if she thought about it too much—bad for her father, sorry for young Jae in case the girl had to take her place. But she knew her future did not lie in politics and ball gowns. She longed, instead, for freedom and independence, and she thought she knew just where she could get it.
For the most part, her grandmother had lived a solitary existence in a secluded estate on the edge of the Frostwater lands, tucked away in the Black Glacier Mountains and really only accessible by boat. Wren had never been there, but she’d heard all about it.
“Starlake will always be there for you, my little dreamer, if you ever need refuge,” her grandmother would whisper into her hair at night before tucking her in. “It has a way of knowing just what a visitor needs.”
Well, she needed refuge now. Even though her grandmother had passed away a year before, she had no doubt that the estate would still be waiting for her. There was something about Granny that made Wren believe every impossible thing the older woman said, and she had never been wrong.
It was a tinker who had helped her arrange passage to Starlake a month before for the price of a penny. “There’s a captain who’ll take you there, but he won’t be in the Frostwater until the next half moon,” he’d said after biting the coin between his yellowed teeth.
“And if I’m wed before then?” she’d asked. “What if there’s no time?”
He’d shrugged. “Time is chasing after all of us, milady.”
And chase her it did on this, her last night in the nursery, as she watched the last half moon she would ever see from this window, with the shudders thrown open and the curtains flapping lazily in the breeze. When the white eye of the moon was just past the nursery window, Wren threw back her covers and slipped into her leather shoes, wrapping herself up in a threadbare cloak she’d stolen from one of the kitchen girls downstairs.
The iron rails of the small balcony beyond the window could not hold her, not this night. With one last glance back at the sleeping forms of Finch, Jae, and the baby, she swung herself over and shimmied down the drain pipe that ran along the edge of the house as easily as if she’d been doing it her entire life. She felt light and free, almost as if she could fly, though she dared not release her grip on the pipe to test whether or not her arms had turned into wings.
Her feet hit the cobblestones quietly, and she scurried through the garden, crouched low so as not to be seen by anyone on the ground floor of the house, until she was through the gate and into the street. Though fairly quiet, the streets were not empty, and no one paid attention to what appeared to be a servant girl hurrying home before curfew.
The wharf was still busy, even at this late hour. Drunken singing rang out from the open windows of a well-lit speakeasy near the water, and other sailors who were not done with their work hustled to and from their ships with barrels and crates slung over their shoulders. Her eyes scanned the smaller boats in their slips. The tinker had told her that the brigantine ship was too large to enter the marina, and she would have to meet the captain’s bosun, a man named Mr. Smiegel, at his skiff.
In the second slip to the right, she thought she’d found it. The boat was small, obviously part of a larger ship, and in it, a man was sleeping with his red cap pulled down over his eyes.
Wren leaned over. “Excuse me?”
The sailor continued to snore, his shirt riding up over his rotund belly to expose a strip of brown skin.
“Mr. Smiegel?”
No response. Wren picked up the oar which lay across the bow and gently poked the man’s chest. He woke with a start, nearly capsizing the boat as he tried to rip the cap from his eyes at the same time he scrambled to his feet.
He fell back to his seat and looked up at Wren crossly, wringing his hat in his meaty hands. “Well? What is it, then?”
“I’m your passenger,” she explained.
The man’s face changed from annoyance to intrigue as his eyes scraped her up and down. “So you are.”
She shifted uncomfortably and then gestured toward the skiff. “Shall I board, or are we waiting for others?”
“Oh.” He seemed surprised, and she wondered at his mental capacity. It was not unlike that of a much younger person. “Oh, of course. Please.”
When he did not offer her a hand, she stepped somewhat ungracefully from the dock onto the wooden bench in the bow of the ship. She sat, wrapping her cloak tightly around her and pulling the hood lower, worried that one of her father’s men might recognize her and stop them. But no one said anything as the bosun rose to his knees and untied the mooring line from the dock cleats and shoved them off. He took up the oars and propelled them smoothly through the marina.
Wren twisted in her seat and looked back at the town where she had spent her entire life. Just there, rising above the buildings of the wharf and the marketplace a few blocks back, was her father’s estate, gas lamps burning along the fence line but all the windows dark and quiet. The houses surrounding it were much the same, beautiful, but sad, too, when she thought of all the quiet, empty-headed sleepers tucked away safely inside their rooms.
Once she had seen her fill, she turned back around, hoping to catch a glimpse instead of the ship that would carry her away from the Frostwater and into her new life. Wind whipped against her face and made her eyes water.
“Exciting, isn’t it, Mr. Smiegel?” she asked in an effort to make conversation.
“Oh, yes,” he answered, pulling on the oars and moving them past the last of the slips and into the open water. “But please, milady, call me Smee. All my friends do, yes.”
She smiled at him. “Only if you will call me Wren. I do not wish to be a lady, not anymore.”
“What will you be, then?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she answered as the boisterous sounds of the wharf faded away, drowned out by the gentle sounds of the water lapping against the wooden hull of the skiff. “Anything I can dream up, I suppose.”
Chapter 2
The brigantine rose up in front of her, larger than anything she could have ever imagined, and that was saying something considering the scope of Wren’s imagination. With her father as a master trader, she had, of course, seen large ships, but nothing to match the elegance and beauty of this one.
Even Mr. Smee seemed to appreciate it as they grew nearer, leaning back and resting for a moment to admire the ship and the figure it cut in the moonlight against a backdrop of a sky heavy with stars.
“Home, sweet home,” he declared.
“What is it called?” Wren asked.
“She’s the Jolly Roger, she is.”
“And its captain?”
“Captain James Hook, and never a finer captain will you meet.”
Wren smiled at that. Her father always said that the true test of a captain’s character was how his crew spoke of him when he was not around to hear. He would not hire any captain onto one of his ships whose crew did not admire and respect him. So, Wren took it as a good sign that she could trust this Captain Hook.
A spotlight shone down on them from the deck of the Jolly Roger and a shadowy figure hailed them with a wave of its arm.
“Ahoy!” Mr. Smee shouted back, seeming to row faster now that the end was in sight. To her, he added, “You’ll lo
ve it on board, you will. It’s a ship of dreams.”
She turned to him sharply, though she could hardly make him out, framed by light as he was. “Do you dream, Mr. Smee?”
“Oh, no, milady. I lost my battle against the Dream Thief long ago. In fact, I was one of the first, I was, with the rest of the crew.”
“One of the first? What do you mean?”
He gave another mighty heave that brought them right up alongside the looming ship. A rope ladder dropped down and he released the oars to grab it, holding it steady. “That is not my story to tell, no indeed.”
Wren didn’t like the idea of being greedy with stories, not when they were so few and far between. But they had a long voyage ahead of them, she knew, and she would get it out of him one way or another. Then she thought of all the sailors on board, and all the stories they held in their heads. She decided then to collect them as a pirate collected valuable jewels, and if she ever lost her own battle against the Dream Thief, she would at least have these stories to fall back on during her waking hours at Starlake, or wherever she ended up.
Mr. Smee gestured her forward. She stood on shaky legs and inched her way over to him. He caught her by the wrist and placed the rope ladder in her hands. Gazing up the wooden-plank wall that was the side of the ship, she wondered how she would ever muster the strength to climb it.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Smee said. “All you have to do is hold on tight, you do.” He bent and placed one of her feet on the bottom rung.
“What do you mean?” she asked, but he did not get a chance to answer because just then, the rope ladder went taut and began to rise, taking her with it. She jerked a little, causing the ladder to spin, but Mr. Smee just laughed and straightened her out, keeping a gentle hold on the ropes until she was out of his reach.
Wren squeezed her eyes closed, not daring to look down. This was ten times—no, twenty times higher than the nursery window, and unsteady to boot. The rocking made her queasy as she bumped off the side of the ship on her way up, but she didn’t remove a hand to stop the collisions, not when that meant she would fall to an icy death in the water below. Once, she felt a wooden splinter grab at her sleeve and tear. She gasped but still did not open her eyes.
She didn’t know how long she’d been hanging there, swaying between life and death, when she realized she was being silly. Wasn’t this what she had come for? A life of adventure? She had just regaled Jae with tales of a fearless pirate queen and here she was, refusing to open her eyes the very first time she ever boarded a ship.
“Be brave,” she urged herself, and then she opened her eyes and found she was nearly to the top.
Big hands reached down and grabbed her by the arms, pulling her up and over the railing as if she weighed no more than a babe-in-arms. She righted herself, straightening her cloak. The ordeal had knocked the hood back so she stood bare-headed in front of the group of giant men. There was no hiding her identity if any of them recognized her.
“Hello,” she said, holding her head high.
The men looked at her warily, as obviously uncertain of her as she felt of them, though she dared not let them see.
“Are you the captain?” she asked the largest man. He wore a tri-corner hat, though it was a bit tattered.
That brought a smile to his rotund face. He elbowed the man beside him. “Am I the captain, she says?”
“Well, are you?” the other one asked, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.
The first man straightened himself to his full height and puffed up his chest. “Aye, that’s Captain Two-Toes to you, Longfellow.”
Her eyes immediately dropped to his feet, which were, thankfully, encased in thick, leather boots. She was not sure she cared to see whether or not he was called Two-Toes for the obvious reason.
“Aye, if you’re the captain, then I’m the King of the Frostwater.”
“The Frostwater doesn’t have a king,” Wren offered.
Two-Toes leered at her. “But you’re its princess, aren’t you?”
She took a step back, not liking his tone.
“That’s enough, Two-Toes,” came a cold voice from behind her. “You’re scaring our guest.”
Wren turned and came face to face with—well, not who she expected. She’d imagined Captain James Hook to be not unlike Two-Toes or Longfellow—old, fat, and sea-worn. But that was not the case at all. The captain was young, maybe in his twenties so not very much older than her, with dark hair, a dark, scruffy beard, and resplendent in a black suit. The only thing that could be said to mar his appearance was the large silver hook he had in place of his left hand, but even it was not entirely off putting. Instead, it gave him an air of danger and intrigue.
Two-Toes and Longfellow straightened themselves up, wiping any mocking smiles from their ugly faces.
He lifted that hook now and placed it under her chin, tilting her head up so that she was forced to meet his eyes. “Passage to Starlake, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Wren answered. “Do you know it?”
“Oh, certainly.” The hook trailed down her neck and hooked around the gold chain holding the ruby, which was tucked inside her dress.
She brought a hand up to her chest and pressed it down to keep the necklace hidden.
Captain Hook smiled, but it was not a kind smile. It was the kind of smile a lion might give a zebra before it pounced. She did not like being the zebra in this particular scenario.
“What are you wearing? A bit of treasure?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “Just a family heirloom.”
He released the chain. “Something to remember them by.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Just then, Mr. Smee tumbled over the railing. Captain Hook moved away from her and she exhaled with relief.
“Smee,” the captain said, crossing his hands behind his back, “thank you for bringing our passenger safely from the Frostwater. Shall we be on our way?”
“Aye, Captain,” Smee answered. Behind him, two other sailors were using ropes and pulleys to bring the skiff back on board.
“Good.” Captain Hook surveyed the crew and then his eyes landed back on Wren. “Let’s away with our prize, then, before some other treasure hunter shows up to steal her away.” With that proclamation, he swept toward the helm while Mr. Smee bade her to follow him to her room belowdecks.
They had sectioned off a corner of the sleeping quarters for her with heavy linen curtains. Her cot was cleaner than some of the others she’d seen on her way in, and they’d given her a chest to store any belongings, of which she had none. It was dark except for the light shining through the slats in the wall of the ship, and when she commented on it, Smee shook his finger at her.
“No oil lamps belowdecks,” he said. “Fire and ships do not mix.”
“Of course not,” she responded, perching on the edge of her cot and bouncing. It was attached to two walls, and hung just high enough that she wouldn’t brush the ground when she lay in it.
He then walked her to the galley. The cook was sleeping in a corner of the kitchen in his own cot, but a servant boy brought her a cup of steaming tea that tasted a bit like dirt. Wren was too kind to say anything, and instead sipped at it daintily.
“We’ve never had a woman on board before,” the boy said. “Captain says they’re bad luck.”
Wren cut her eyes at Mr. Smee.
Mr. Smee just smiled in that easy way he had. She was beginning to suspect it hid more than he let on. “Well, might be that our luck is changing, it is.”
The servant boy didn’t get the hint. “Oh, I don’t know. There are some men think that she’ll bring doom to the Jolly Roger.”
The bosun’s smile became strained. “Stuff and nonsense.” He put a hard hand around the nape of the boy’s neck, making him squirm. “Now, get back to work before I tell Cook to tan your hide, I will.”
Mr. Smee continued the tour, showing her the empty, dirty-looking infirmary and letting her peek into the storage
area on the lowest level of the ship, both places she hoped not to have to visit again. When a bell rang over head, he deposited her back into her makeshift room and disappeared upstairs.
Wren sat on her cot for a long time, trying not to vomit as the ship rocked, swinging her little cot and all the others in the sleeping quarters. Men came and went, some napping for what seemed like just minutes, their snores loud enough to rattle windows if there were any. Wren tried to lay down, too, but found that sleep would not take her. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself longing for her small bed in the nursery, for the baby’s midnight whimpers, for Jae’s warm body curled up against hers when she woke up afraid of whatever lurked in the dark.
Had she made a terrible mistake? What if she got to Starlake and it wasn’t the safe haven she thought it would be? Perhaps she had read too much into her grandmother’s words. How could a place, after all, anticipate her needs? And what was her plan, anyway? How long before her father realized where she’d gotten to and came for her? She would have to figure out somewhere else to go, and soon. As much as she wished she could make Starlake her home, she knew that it was only a temporary respite.
When her racing mind got the better of her, Wren threw back the scratchy woolen blanket and crept up the ladder to the main deck. It had grown mostly quiet. A man she did not recognize stood at the helm, and he tipped his hat at her when their eyes met. She turned toward the bow and climbed the stairs to the forecastle deck, pulling her cloak tighter around her. She was used to the cold, living in the Frostwater, but the wind on the open ocean was something else.
She squinted into the darkness, trying to see the shore.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind her. “How much larger everything seems in the dark?”
She did not have to turn to know it was Captain Hook. He came to stand beside her. Something about his presence made her feel small, and she did not much like that.
Kingdom of Crowns and Glory Page 35