Skye turned a withering look at Lark. “Don’t be so sure. Mistakes could have been made.”
“Highly doubtful.” Lark plucked a card, shuffled it through her hand, and discarded. “I’ll win this round.” Her grin could have rivaled the sun.
“We’ll see about that.” Azaleen suppressed a smile, flicked her a challenging glance, and took her turn.
Lanky young first mate Flynn burst into their cabin, a look of fearful awe on his face. “You’ve got to come see this!”
Noting his sincerity, Azaleen laid down her cards and stood. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “You’ve just got to see.”
Tugged by curiosity, she followed him out into the bracing air, joined by her companions. Azaleen suddenly wished she’d thrown on a cloak. Everyone had gathered on deck as an awful hush draped over the ocean beneath a moonlit midnight-blue sky.
“Wow,” Luke sighed. “Eerie, all right.” He nudged Diego, and the two of them eased back to allow Azaleen room. Lark stepped up to the railing right beside her. To port, half-sunken vessels jutted from the water like broken teeth along the barren Dead Coast, moonlight slicking across their jagged edges. Not a gull cried, not a fish stirred—the silence of the place pressed on them heavier than the night’s aura.
Theboat rocked, and Azaleen’s hand came down atop Lark’s on the rail. An electric pulse raced up her arm, and she inched her hand to the side. This wasn’t a moment for intimacy—surrounded by crew, under the haunting shadow of desolation. And yet, the incidental touch had felt intimate—at least to Azaleen. Purposefully, she kept her focus on the sight ahead.
Lark’s heart leaped at Azaleen’s touch. It had been an accident, and she’d quickly moved her hand away. Still, it stirred something unexpected in Lark. The queen was, well, the queen—older, wiser, far more important and wealthier than a swamp rat. Of course, she was attracted to her—who wouldn’t be? But to have such a reaction, to feel such a jolt of desire, was unthinkable. A dream was one thing; to imagine she and Azaleen could have a genuine connection was something else entirely. Too unrealistic to consider.
Shaking it away, Lark gazed at the surreal scene before them. The sea grave sprawled like a forest of broken masts, moonlight catching on rust-flaked steel and skeletal rigging. Rusted hulls, half-swallowed by the sea, heaved with the tide like corpses refusing to sink. The air reeked of iron and decay, as though centuries of rust had soured the salt spray. A prickle crawled along the short hairs on the back of her neck, a sensation of trespass in a place not meant for the living.
Skipper Jonas Pike’s voice broke the silence. “A ship’s graveyard isn’t just wrecks, Your Excellency—it’s the sea reminding us how many captains thought they were smarter than her.” He keptHalcyon’s course arrow-true, his eyes never leaving the hulks as if afraid one might shift and bar their way.
“I suspect the captains weren’t at fault for this,” Azaleen replied. “How were they to know when a bomb would fall near their port, or if a tsunami raised by a faraway detonation would overwhelm them?”
“I wonder how many people were aboard when the disaster struck?” Lark asked. “How many souls went down with them?”
No one dared answer. Every lap of water against the hull carried a hollow echo, a reminder of the drowned steel around them. Lark tried to make out a nameplate caught in the moonlight—its letters corroded but still legible, whispering of a world long gone.Maersk.She’d never heard the name.Barnacle-crusted funnels jutted like skeletal fingers, clutching for the stars. Some were rolled over, their hulls facing skyward. Others, only the bow tip or stern propellers were visible. A cruise ship’s portholes gleamed faintly, moon mirrors like ghostly eyes tracking their passage. The creak of their own rigging felt indecently loud in the suffocating hush.
Lark glanced at Azaleen, standing only a breath away, their shoulders still touching in the crush of their shipmates. She read a poignant look there—eyes filled with remorse, memory perhaps, as if the queen shared a silent reunion with the dead. In the weeks they’d spent in close quarters, Lark had glimpsed hints of a more relaxed, down-to-earth Azaleen—the woman behind the crown. However, she guarded her words and emotions, avoiding personal topics, only mentioning her children, never her mother, father, brother, or herself. She reserved her opinions for professional matters, conducting herself with dignity and poise.
Still, Lark had noticed those unguarded moments when a sliver of vulnerability slipped past her defenses. This was one of those moments. If Lark didn’t know better, she could have sworn a pinch of fear swam in those haunted blue eyes.
“Do you think it’s a bad omen?” the Flynn boy asked.
“No, laddie.” Pike kept the rudder steady. “But it’d be disrespectful to disturb it. Best keep clear—maybe say a prayer.” A lone gull wheeled overhead but made no sound, wings slicing the air in silence.
“I suppose I could,” Secretary Navarro volunteered. “As a diplomat, I’ve learned many prayers.”
The skipper nodded, and Lark bowed her head in respect.
“Gracious God, we commend the souls of our brothers and sisters to your care. You are the master of the ocean and the calm in every storm. We remember their lives at sea, their service, and their dedication. We ask you to grant them eternal peace, to welcome them into your loving embrace, though their deaths came long ago. May their descendants find solace in the vastness of your love and remember those who were lost here. Through your infinite mercy and grace, Amen.”
Four days later, theHalcyonturned east, rounding its way between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. Lark sat on the aft deck behind the skipper at the wheel, hugging her knees, with Harlan standing at the rail to her back. She’d started wearing a jacket outside the cabin. Though the temperature wasn’t that low, the constant wind cut through her. She’d never been gladder she’d cut her hair. Skye kept hers in her traditional long tail, while Azaleen and Secretary Navarro tried various arrangements, including tying scarves over their heads.
“Don’t let the name fool you, my queen,” Pike said with a crusty half-grin. “The St. Lawrence is no stream. Eight hundred kilometers of tide and temper—and she always takes her due before letting you. We’re in Frostlands waters now.”
“How much further to Aurora?” Azaleen asked.
Gazing at her made Lark smile—the sun gleaming over her white-gold hair, wound into a single luxurious braid, eyes bluer than the ocean, skin still white as cream. She wore a hip-length wool coat, pine-needle green with broad wooden buttons.
“Depends on tides and weather, but four or five days,” he answered as he puffed his pipe, the trail of sweet smoke wafting past Lark’s nose. “We’ll make a staging stop at Tadoussac, a village at the mouth of the Saguenay River. There’ll be an inn with showers where everyone can freshen up before we arrive in Aurora. I know you don’t want to meet the high chief looking like you’ve been at sea for two weeks.”
“That’s for sure!” Lark chimed in, beating everyone else to the punch.
“And here I’ve finally grown my sea legs,” Wes quipped. Lark hadn’t seen him hurl in at least two days, and the sickly green had finally faded from his cheeks.
“Just make sure you keep them for the trip back,” Diego advised, leaning out from the galley entrance.
