I grinned down at him. “But you are my friend.”
A faint blush tinged his tan cheeks, and he let out a cough. “Yes, well, get on out of here and see if Cook could use a hand.”
I followed Fidel out of the cabin, but I nearly ran back in. My reappearance was met with cold glares. More than one sailor stared a little too long at my throat. I scooted close to Fidel, so much so that I nearly stomped on his heels.
If he noticed the looks, he didn’t mention it, but just led me down the stairs into the belly of the ship. The hold was much like that on the Huracan, with storage, sleeping quarters, and a galley off the main, wide corridor. The cafeteria was as spartan as I imagined it, with plain tables and long benches on either side. A short counter separated the cooking area from the seats. A heavy stove stood against the hull wall, and barrels upon barrels were stacked along the same planks. I was surprised to smell herbs and saw that they hung from the rafters above a small man.
He was hunched over the stove in front of an open door. A small fire crackled inside the box, and he fed a few tiny sticks to the eager flames. The man wore an apron over his front, and his long, graying, red hair was tied in a tail down his back.
Fidel led me up to the counter and tapped his knuckles on the surface. “Cook, we have a helper for you.”
The man shut the door and stood, where he turned to face us. He was about sixty with a short red mustache and some of the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They compared well even to Torvus. His cheeks were ruddy from the heat and his stomach was a little larger than the other sailors.
He stomped over to the other side of the counter and clasped his hands behind himself. His bright eyes looked me over. “So this is the woman aboard, aye? I can see why the captain would want her aboard, even with the curse they bring.”
My face drooped. “Curse?”
“Do you think you can use her, Cook? It might make the men feel better about her aboard,” Fidel suggested.
Cook chuckled. “You mean it might make them less mad at her for almost getting the captain killed, right?” I winced, and his gentle eyes fell on me. “No need to look so guilty about it, miss. The captain would’ve done the same for anyone. You just happened to be the one the vines grabbed and yanked overboard.”
I rubbed my arm. “Lucky me. . .”
The cook returned his attention to Fidel. “I could use her help.” He lifted his large hands. They were covered in calluses and the joints were swollen. “These old fingers of mine don’t move like they used to. She’d probably be faster at the chopping than I, and the men can stop their bellyaching about choking on the vegetables.”
“We could do away with the vegetables,” Fidel suggested.
Cook stuck out his stomach and grinned. “Nope.” He stepped aside and caught my eye. “Come along now, Miss-?”
“Larkin, but you can call me Rose,” I told him as I slipped into the kitchen.
“And you can call me Cook. Everybody else does,” he replied as he turned to Fidel. “You get along now and let us get to cooking.”
There was a smile on Fidel’s lips as he bowed his head and slipped out of the galley. The cook hitched up his britches and sauntered over to the stove. “You ever worked on board a ship, Rose?”
“Never. I’ve never even cooked for anyone else but Tim and me.”
He hefted a huge pot out from a lower shelf and set it on the stove. “Who’s Tim?”
My heart twanged a little. “He’s my brother.”
Cook turned to me and brushed his hands. “And how’d he like your cooking?”
A faint smile slipped onto my lips. “He complained, but he always licked his plate clean.”
“Ya can’t ask for a better compliment than that,” Cook pointed out as he nodded at the kitchen. “This’ll be where you work. There are a few supplies deeper in the hold, but most of that is special stuff like brandy and some extra salt.”
I admired the stove, and a faint heat already flowed off the metal. “How did you keep the fire going during all these, um, troubles?”
He pounded the bottom of his fist against the wall of the stove. “This stove is nailed to the floor, and its walls are as thick as my arm. Then there’s the magic.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What magic?”
His eyes shone as he admired the kitchen. “Ships used to burn up when they came upon a squall, and the cook wasn’t smart enough to blow out the fire. Then somebody had the brilliant idea to use magic to contain it. Witches and wizards conjured up their spells and did just that, and they used the same spells to keep the food from going bad.” He opened the round wooden lid of a nearby barrel and revealed a mess of apples. “These things used to go bad after a month. Now they keep for two, and then some, but the scalawags keep stealing them for the crow’s nest.”
I looked around us. “So where do you want me to start?”
He nodded at the apples. “Start by cutting those up. We’ll make some pies to celebrate getting out of that trouble.”
