“Good to know perception is what you’re good at,” I mutter.
“Well, I’ve got a knack for reading people,” he replies, not even bothering to look up this time. “Comes with the territory of being an entertainer, I suppose. Helps that Mr. Zayan isn’t all that complicated. The way he moves, the way he talks—it’s all pretty clear.”
“Just don’t tell him that.” My voice is flat, but the warning in it isn’t subtle.
Vinicola chuckles softly, finally looking up with another easygoing grin. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I take a deep breath, trying to shake the unease crawling up my spine. Damn. This is too much.
I scan the horizon again, forcing my mind to focus on the task at hand. We’ve got bigger problems than Zayan or Vinicola’s casual observations. The compass, thatcursedthing, changes everything. After seeing it next to me, gleaming like it crawled up from the depths of hell, I can’t look at the sea the same way anymore. But I don’t have much choice but to sail it, do I?
The thought makes my jaw tighten, and I glance at Vini, sitting there, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing beneath the surface. He’s scared of the sea, scared of swimming, scared of everything between the waves. How he’s managed to survive this long on pirate islands, I’ll never know.
“You’ll have to swim back to the ship on your own,” I tell him, pointing at the water. The waves crash softly against the shore.
His grin falters, dropping like a stone in water. He pouts as he stands, shoving the quill into his pocket and brushing the sand off his clothes with the exaggerated care of someone trying to avoid the inevitable. It’s almost amusing, how he clings to the idea of staying clean.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me find a different way,” he mumbles, not meeting my gaze.
I can’t help it—I smile, a mix of amusement and pity creeping in as I give him the once-over. He’s still wearing that same pearly white shirt he had on when I found him locked below deck on the schooner. The same shirt he refused to wear into the jungle, terrified that the leaves, the flowers, or even the shimmer of yellow dust would ruin its precious fabric.
It paid off, I guess. The shirt’s pristine again, not a smudge in sight, even if it’s starting to look a little worn from years of careful tending. No doubt he’s been babying that thing since the day he set foot on these islands, as if a clean shirt will save him from the hell we’re in.
It’s nothing like what I’m wearing, of course. My own shirt might have started out white at some point, but now it’s more ofa grayed, sweat-streaked yellow, stained from a life lived in salt and grime. Some marks never come out, no matter how much bleach or scrubbing you throw at them. But a few stains never bothered me.
What strikes me is how odd we look next to each other—two people from completely different worlds. Literally.
I smirk. “Afraid you’ll have to get wet again, Vini.”
He pouts harder. “No mercy from you, Miss Captain,” he mutters. “I was hoping you’d be my savior.”
His words make me pause—just for a second. Savior. No one’s ever called me that. Savior of what? Of him? Of our ship? I glance at him, my smirk faltering as the word echoes in my head, tugging at something I don’t want to acknowledge. I’m no one’s savior. I can barely save myself.
But Vinicola’s oblivious to the shift in my thoughts, continuing with his charming little speech.
“In my song, I called you the ‘Sea’s own daughter, strong and brave,’” he says, drawing out the words. “I’ve portrayed you as the only force that’s on my side.”
A dry laugh escapes me before I can stop it, though it tastes bitter on my tongue. “You really think I’m the only thing on your side out here?”
I can think of something else. Luck. Lots of it.
He shrugs, not missing a beat. “Well, you didn’t throw me overboard during the storm, so I’m choosing to believe you’ve got a soft spot for me.”
Soft spot. If only he knew. The truth is, I’d have killed him already if he wasn’t so... helpless. He’s a liability. But somehow, despite it, I haven’t done it.
He’s become... part ofthis. As dangerous and irritating as that is.
“The ‘Sea’s own daughter,’ huh?” I mutter. “That sounds like quite the flattering title. But I’m not sure your portrayal is entirely accurate.”
“It could be,” he says, that grin of his returning, playful and light.
I chuckle, more to myself than to him, wondering if this little flaxen-haired bard really thinks he can charm me. Of course he does. He’s been trying since the moment I dragged him out of that cage. And as much as I see through it, as much as I know better, part of me... doesn’t mind.
“The Sea is The Lady, bard,” I say, my voice hardening. “Don’t call me her daughter.”
“Is she now?” he muses, tilting his head like he’s giving it serious thought. “Maybe she’s just like you. A mortal. I mean, legends tend to change depending on who’s telling them, don’t they?”
I narrow my eyes at him, a wicked little idea blooming in my mind. Before I can stop it, it’s spilling on my tongue.
