8
Vinicola
“Thought you were so sly, huh?” An older man without a front tooth hollers at me, his words punctuated by a fine mist of spit that—of course—lands squarely on my face. “That we wouldn’t catch your scrawny ass?”
Ah, the infamous pirate welcome. Really warms the heart.
I twitch, instinctively wanting to wipe the saliva off my cheek, but—oh right—the iron cuffs binding my wrists are not exactly cooperating.
The usual medley of pirate ship aromas—sweat, seawater, and stale rum—wafts around me, painting a vivid picture of how far I’ve fallen from grace. But a man’s spit dripping down my cheek? That’s really the cherry on top.
I glance up at my toothless friend. He actually wants me to engage. His gap-toothed grin is practically begging for a response.
“Oh, I never doubted your determination for a second,” I reply, flashing my most winning smile, even though the spit is now dangerously close to my mouth. “But... enlighten me—who exactly is this ‘we’ you speak of?”
The man bristles, his thick hands slamming onto the railing of my cage with a clang that makes me flinch. My smile falters, just for a second.
Then, he makes that god-awful noise—a sort of guttural half-choke, half-growl that men like him produce when they’re trying to sound menacing. It’s the sound of someone gargling gravel, choking on bad wine, or speaking a throaty language without knowing a word of it.
I’d much prefer he laughed. Laughter, I can deal with. This… this sounds like he’s about to cough up a lung.
“Show some respect to Dorian’s crew, you wet-panted rascal,” he growls, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of his head. “Or I’ll cut your tongue out before you meet him face-to-face.”
I swallow. My tongue suddenly feels heavier than it should. Losing it? No, not today, thank you very much. I need my tongue—it’s practically my second-best tool, right after my… charm.
As I shift on the rough wooden floor—bound to give me splinters, by the way—I try to jog my memory. Dorian? Dorian… Who is that? Wasn’t that Jules woman’s husband on Zephyr Island? No, his name started with a T, I think. Oh! Maybe Dorian was the tavern keeper whose rum I swiped before… accidentally setting his storage on fire. Totally an accident, mind you.
Accidents happen. Common knowledge.
I blink at the man standing in front of me. Dirty grey shirt, brown breeches, simple belt, and not a single ring on his fingers. His beard—medium-length and stained a lovely shade of red from too much wine. A pale kerchief wraps around his forehead in an attempt at style. Never seen him before today, at least not until he knocked me out cold with the back of his pistol and dragged me aboard this ship.
“I’d love to show some respect,” I say. “In fact, I could write a song about you, Dorian, and your fine friend here to really drive home just how much I respect you all.” I point at the secondman, leaning against the wall. He’s quieter and cleaner, with the kind of face that looks like it’s never been immortalized in song. And boy, does it show. “Huh? What do you say?”
Mister Spit slams the rail of the cage with a loudclangagain. I jump a little, then nod.
“Or not. Maybe you prefer to keep a low profile. I get it. Not everyone craves the spotlight.” I tilt my head thoughtfully. “No song, then. Perhaps a poem? A short one, if that’s more your style. I’m quite the artist with a pen, you know. Just ask any lass on the nearby islands. They’ve heard of my repertoire.” I raise a brow, feeling hope start to blossom in my chest. Surely these men would appreciate a little charm.
But no. Mister Spit’s face darkens to a shade just shy of beetroot, veins bulging, his brow furrowed with rage. “We are not interested,” he growls, and there it is again—the flutter of spit with every ‘s’. Lovely. It lands somewhere near my chin this time.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way!” I rush to clarify. “As dashing as you two gentlemen look, I swore an oath to bring bodily pleasures only to women. But hey, I do know a good male brothel if you ever find yourself curious.”
Words flow effortlessly from my tongue, as they always do, and for a brief moment, I start to believe I might win them over.
My mother always said,“Vinicola, you’re the heart that sets the rhythm for everyone else. You create the melody, and we all follow your lead.”Making friends is natural for me—well, it’s my second-best talent. My top skills? A tie between songwriting and… well, let’s say the finer arts of seduction.
Both are higher forms of expression, after all.
“I’ve made up my mind,” Mr. Spit declares, interrupting my thoughts. His voice cuts through the air, thick with the smell of stale rum and aggression. My smile widens—I’m hanging on his every word.
“I’m going to kill him right here and now. Forget the extra coin. Dorian wants him dead or alive anyway.”
My smile fades. “What? No!” I scramble to my feet, my chains rattling loudly as I pull at them, wrists bound tight in front of me. As I stand, I realize the chain’s too short, forcing me to hunch over awkwardly. My neck cranes just to meet the man’s gaze. “Why would you do this? We’re friends here, aren’t we? Whatever I did to Dorian, surely we can resolve it. A little heart-to-heart? Me and him, we can talk it out. I’m an excellent conversationalist.”
“After you stole his daughter, whisked her off to some faraway island, and left her there to fend for herself?” Mr. Spit leans closer to the cage, his rancid breath washing over me. “You promised her marriage, you scoundrel. One does not steal a pirate’s daughter and escape unscathed!”
Ah.Thatexplains it. Dorian is Nicoleta’s father. Of course. Well, now things are making sense.
“You gentlemen don’t even know half the story when it comes to me and Nicoleta,” I say, trying to sound serious while my heart pounds in my chest.
