“Areyounot one more soul?” Douglas puts his head into his hands, gripping his own curls. “How many seconds did you consider his new deal before you agreed to it?”
Very few. I tried. But I’m more hound than detective. Point me at the problem to run it down to the ground, but don’t leave me clues. The ship was so close. Liney had to be protected, even if only to save her a short while. Was that not worth it? Besides. The storm’s the worst I’ve seen yet. Would the ship have made it to port? Or was it destined to be dashed on the treacherous harbor mouth rocks, wasted and forgotten?
Douglas continues through my silence, head still bowed. “If you see a sailor die but you aren’t the one to do it, is that a failure? What if a ship passes tomorrow and you spot the skipper at the helm but can’t reach him in time? If Liney were to swear herself no longer your sister—would she still count as your kin?”
Each question is more pointed than the last. It should’ve been him bargaining with Pratterman. He would’ve found a way. No. He wouldn’t have sought him in the first place.
“Pratterman promised—”
Douglas’s gaze turns withering. “Right, I forgot. The Devil plays fair with you, yes? He’d never manipulate you into agreeing to a worse deal than you started with.”
I slump farther down on the orange crate until I’m nearly parallel to the floor.
“What else could I do?” I don’t mean it rhetorically. I’m asking my own victim for advice. “It was either let him threaten Liney’s life for the rest of—”
“You don’t see, girl?” Douglas’s tone softens. I peek over at his upturned brows. Sympathy is worse than hate. Worse than superiority. It marks him as fundamentally good. Good is dangerous. Good hurts. “What would it have served him to make good on that threat? Lineywas in danger, yes—you were right to save her. But he has far too much to gain by keeping her hooked on the line for you to chase than by reeling her in.”
Humiliation courses through my nerves and sparks like tinder. Why does Douglas know Pratterman’s ways better than I?
“As if my sister were a worm instead of his perfect human victim?”
Douglas breathes out a long, hard hiss. “Listen to mymeaning. You need to think before you act. Impulse works in his favor.”
More sparks. Exhaustion and fear mix into something fiery in my belly. Not of the island anymore. Of me.
“I didn’t havetimeto think, Douglas!”
He freezes when I say his name. The first time, between us.
I sit up on the crate. “If I’d had time to go over every possibility, I would’ve. And he wouldn’t have bothered to offer me the deal if that’d been the case. I know he’s not fair. That he deals in fear. But I had no other choice, and I’m willing to sacrifice anything. I’ve done it before.”
“I know,” he says, so softly I shiver.
“It doesn’t matter that it’s a bad deal,” I continue, words pouring out fast. “I’ve never had a good deal in my godforsaken life. Am I supposed to give in? Accept doom?”
His hand raises, hovering above his knee, then falls again. Reaching out to comfort me? No.
This truth I’ve never allowed myself to utter before keeps pouring out. “Maybe you had choices in your life. Ones you could be proud of. But not me. My choice was live in hell on earth or bring helltoearth. I chose the latter. At least it was my decision.”
His gaze simmers my blood. Not through demonic power but the simple alchemy of pity in the eyes of a man I can’t accept such compassion from.
“Stop looking at me like that!” I’m loud—always louder than I should be. How can everyone contain their furies while mine burst out?I stand. He’s no longer in my way, yet I’ve come to need him—his irritation, his fear, his interest. And he has come to need me—my connection to the world, my protection of my sister, my role as keeper.
“How am I looking at you?” The calm in his voice coats me in raw frustration, thick like honey and twice as sickly sweet. Yet the fire has gone, as quickly as it came. His gentleness smothers my flame. My wrath has nothing to feed on.
“As though…” I search for the words. How many times have I looked at him and seen only my own sins? Like a mask, they peel away to show the real him. “As though you feel for me. Like I’m worth worrying about.” My heart beats quick, and a bubble forms in my throat.
Douglas smiles. It’s not an expression I see often. It changes his face.
“How old do you think I am?” he asks, as though reading my mind.
“Why?” The oddest smile creeps onto my face, mirroring his.
“You lied to the society man that you were my daughter. I never considered it before, but do you think I’m some old man?”
I hesitate to answer. This is personal, almost pleasant, in a way we’ve never been with each other. Conversational. “What makes you…? How old are you, then?”
“WasI,” he corrects, still smiling.
