“Jokes aside,” he murmured, “be careful.”
The room quieted slightly and Edith’s stomach tightened, because there it was. The reality for the moment. Spencer wasn’t just some handsome male she’d accidentally almost kissed on a cliff path. He was still a hunter, and dangerous. Still capable oftaking her back if he decided the bounty mattered more than whatever strange thing was happening between them.
Edith stared down at her untouched pea. “I know,” she said quietly. And somewhere deep inside her, the terrifying part was that she wasn’t entirely sure which outcome would hurt more.
25
“This is humiliating.”
Fate didn’t look up from carefully painting her black nails as she replied. “You say that every year.”
“Because every year it somehow gets worse.” Baba Yaga glared down at herself with deep, personal offense.
The bright gold leotard shimmered aggressively in the afternoon sunlight. Pink leg warmers hugged her calves. And somehow, she had also acquired matching glittery sweatbands.
Fate remained entirely composed on the swing beside her, dressed as always in layered black silk and lace, dark hair moving softly in the sea breeze while the chains of the swing creaked lazily beneath her.
In contrast, Baba Yaga looked like an aerobics instructor possessed by chaos.
“It’s the pirate festival,” Fate said calmly. “You lost the wager.”
“I maintain that the Kraken cheated,” Baba stated and folded her arms.
“The Kraken was not involved.”
“The energy of the situation felt dishonest.”
Fate sighed softly. Below the cliffside park, Krakens Hole bustled with growing excitement. Colourful banners had begun appearing across the town in preparation for the annual pirate festival, and somewhere down near the harbour, someone had already started playing aggressively bad accordion music.
Baba Yaga narrowed her eyes toward the sound. “I blame Blackbeard.”
“That’s because you blame Blackbeard for everything.”
“He started the accordion incident of 1892.”
Fate paused and nodded her head. The swings moved gently back and forth as the wind rolled across the cliffs, carrying salt air and the distant crash of waves below.
For a while, both women simply watched the town.
Then Baba Yaga snorted suddenly. “His arse is out again.”
Fate pinched the bridge of her nose immediately. “Please don’t say arse so aggressively.”
“I’m serious. Look.”
Against her better judgment, Fate glanced toward the harbour below. Sure enough, Blackbeard’s ghost drifted proudly through the streets, completely naked except for a tricorn hat and an alarming amount of confidence.
Several locals ignored him entirely. One tourist fainted.
“Why,” Fate asked wearily, “does no one make him wear trousers?”
“Because, technically, he’s dead.”
“That has nothing to do with trousers.”
Baba Yaga shrugged. “He says pants oppress his spectral freedom.”
“I hate this town sometimes.”
