Page 100 of Rears & Vices

“Not likely,” D’Arcy came back with. “Me, they’d send to Portsmouth, the better for my father to watch me swing.”

Everard couldn’t bear the thought. “The earl would pay your way, surely?”

“Yes—if only to avoid the scandal. Though if I’d a say, he wouldn’t.”

“Preston,” Everard said, alarmed. “Say that isn’t true. You wouldn’t let them hang you, at any cost. Would you?”

D’Arcy gave him a strange look. “Whyever not, Mr. Morality? I am guilty of all of it. More.”

“And whose fault is that, pray? Mine. Fuck the morals,” Everard said fiercely. “They don’t apply. There’s no amount I would not pay to slip you free of a noose, had I the option. Do you understand me? I don’t care if it’s unfair or unjust. The thought of you…” He swallowed. “I have already had to comprehend it, you see, and it’s—it’s incomprehensible.”

D’Arcy’s expression was mingled consternation, shock, and affection. His lips parted, and he straightened so as to meet Everard’s eyes. “I thought the point was that one’s morals applied in all situations,” he murmured, hair falling over his eyes. He needed a cut badly. “But, noted.” He leaned in, like he would pull Everard close and kiss him, right there on the deck, in full view of the bay and the loader crew—he must be feeling much better indeed⁠—

Everard stared, but all D’Arcy did was smirk and tilt his bruised chin. Then his attention was suddenly elsewhere: he nodded behind Everard’s shoulder to the water’s edge. “Though maybe don’t mention that to our pirate egalitarian, aye?” he said, low.

It was rather too late for that, Everard thought as he turned, almost clocking D’Arcy with his nose in the process. “Vee’s returned?”

He had. There was no mistaking the taper of broad back, the white-blond hair tied in a queue. He himself rowed the little tender steadily towards the Sévère; Louis-Michel Alarie and Romilly René sat at the bow, René’s skirts marking a whole cargo of their own. She waved, then saluted cheekily. Alarie made no greeting, intent in conversation with Vitaliy; today’s satin was a royal purple.

“Why the devil’s the Frenchie still with them?” D’Arcy muttered. He returned the wave. “Wasn’t he to move along to Galveztown with his new navy?”

“God knows.” Everard wasn’t much pleased either.

Pirates didn’t pipe each other aboard, so Vitaliy’s ascent went relatively unremarked. Everard, though, felt his matelot’s steps upon the deck in his bones and blood; they jarred rhythm into his heart.

God help him, as angry as he was with the man, he’d still missed him. Had still felt the absence of his quiet presence like flesh torn out of him. Had put on the new hat this morning, because it was too fine to not, because it meant Vitya had thought of him.

Halfway across the deck, Vitaliy looked up to where they stood at the quarterdeck rail. His steps faltered, a hitch so small it was barely noticeable. Everard’s heart stuttered with him.

But without a word, without a greeting, Vitaliy turned his face away—and ducked into the companionway beneath. Alarie followed, short on his heels.

“Ooh,” D’Arcy said quietly. “Well, damn.” He pushed his curls further down over his forehead. Vaguely, Everard was glad he was well enough to raise his hands past his shoulders without pain. “What’ll you say to that, Ev?”

Everard took a deep breath. “I⁠—”

There was a thudding crash from beneath, as though something heavy had been thrown; they both jumped. Vitaliy’s low, angry voice shot, unintelligibly muffled, through the deck.

“What in hell—?” Everard started for the ladder.

He hadn’t made it two steps before Louis-Michel Alarie came dancing out of the companionway. He shut the door gracefully behind himself, looking utterly unbothered at Vitaliy’s uncharacteristic outburst of temper.

“Ah!” he said, finding Everard slack-jawed and staring at him from above. “The man precisely I must speak with!” He leapt up the ladder. “Do not you worry about Vee; his mood is rare only from being ashore—there is such heat!”

“Er…” Everard, not believing this for a second, glanced to D’Arcy with pleading eyes. “Quite.”

D’Arcy—having miraculously understood—nodded and slipped behind him on the ladder, past the approaching Alarie. Limping slightly, he ducked into the companionway. Everard hoped he was well enough to deal with whatever he would find there.

But there were no further thrown things, calls of alarm, or angry voices; and so, Everard was slightly more capable of meeting Alarie’s charming, smiling face.

He bowed. “How might I be of assistance, Governor?”

“I am going to be quite quick, very direct,” Alarie began, “due to sheer lack of future opportunity. Please do forgive me. I wanted to have more ceremony than this—over a drink, or a meal—but circumstances…”

“Governor…?” Everard prompted.

“Yes, quite. The bare fact of it is, de Anglada, you were missed at the junta yesterday.”

Everard blinked. “Indeed?”