The afternoon stretched into eternity. Each heavy drag of the mop left her arms aching, the saltwater from the pulley buckets slapping against the deck with a rhythmic slosh. When it was Lewis’ turn to lower a bucket, he let out an undignified yelp, clutching the rigging for balance as vertigo took hold.
"You’d think they’d have mentioned how high up we are before making us do this," he grumbled, shaking off his nerves.
By the time a sharp triangle bell rang, signaling the evening meal, Vivienne’s hands were raw, her tunic damp with sweat and brine, and every joint protested.
Gus’ deep chuckle rumbled behind them. "Come on, you two. Time to eat." Vivienne and Lewis fell into step behind him, following the thick aroma of smoke, salt, and simmering meat into the galley.
A squat man in a canvas-stained apron stood behind a narrow galley table, ladling stew into tin plates.
The galley shelves groaned under sacks of grain and barrels of salted fish, while hooks lined the walls, hosting well-worn ladles and cooking knives. The ship's cook, an older man with wiry gray hair and forearms crisscrossed with burns, stood behind a narrow table, ladling stew into tin plates.
"Thank you," Vivienne murmured as he plopped a generous portion onto her plate.
The cook nodded curtly, his scarred fingers gripping the ladle like a weapon.
Vivienne looked around. "Where are the spoons?"
Gus cleared his throat. "Oh, Cookie don’t talk, on account of pirates cuttin’ out his tongue years ago." Gus angled his head toward a haphazard stack of mismatched spoons.
Lewis froze, a spoon clutched in his hand. "A cook without a tongue?" He let out a nervous chuckle. "What could go wrong?"
Cookie stilled, then slowly turned to face Lewis, his gray eyes narrowing into slits.
The cook’s ladle rapped against the serving table—three sharp, deliberate taps, punctuated by a guttural sound from deep in his throat.
Gus winced. "Oh, he did not like that."
Another series of taps, this time faster, more insistent.
"Uh-huh," Gus muttered, mustache twitching. "He says if ya don’t watch yer tongue, he’ll be servin' it up next stew."
Vivienne pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, but Lewis gulped audibly, grabbing his plate and retreating toward the deck.
Florence Solandis strolled past, her spiral curls bouncing with every step. "Looking for a table?" she asked in her thick accent, her eyebrows raised. "You won’t find one. Only the captain and his guests enjoy such luxury."
They settled near a row of barrels, plates balanced on their knees. Vivienne sighed but kept eating, grateful Cirrus wasn’t among them. She was puzzled when she noticed only she and Lewis were using utensils.That’s odd.
The moment their plates were clean, Gus produced an accordion from nowhere, his massive arms flexing as he played. Lively sea shanties filled the air, and soon sailors were singing, gambling, and rolling dice in games Vivienne didn’t recognize.
"Blume, Banner," Thorne’s voice sliced through the revelry.
Lewis groaned, rubbing his sore shoulders. "Can’t he ever wait like five minutes?"
"Maybe he needs us to polish the buttons on his perfect uniform," Vivienne muttered.
The commander led them down the narrow staircase, past the galley’s clanging pots and bubbling stew, and gestured toward a towering pile of dirty tin plates.
Lewis blanched. "Oh no."
"Since you offended Cookie," Thorne said matter-of-factly, "you’ve volunteered for dish duty. Tonight and every meal tomorrow."
Vivienne’s head jerked up. "Commander, he’s always making dumb quips like?—"
"Fascinating,” Thorne cut her off, arching a judgemental brow. “I was under the impression you trained as an Antiquary. I didn’t realize you also served as Mr. Blume’s legal counsel."
Vivienne clamped her mouth shut, anger coiling beneath her skin.
Thorne’s hint of a smirk widened ever so slightly. "Since you’re so invested in Mr. Blume’s well-being, you’ll graciously be joining him."
