Page 42 of Rears & Vices

“She is sure it was to Florida?” Vitaliy said.

Everard reached for the stack of papers adjacent to his left elbow. “The letter reads⁠—”

Vitaliy waved off his ignorance with a flop of knitting. “The states are selling ‘stolen’ slaves back to their rescuers, at half-price, with good title. They’re en route to New Orleans,” he said firmly. “Afterwards they will go to Spanish Florida, slaves and fresh titles in hand.”

Profit yet to be made. Everard frowned. The tick mark he’d scratched beside R. René’s Letter stood out brutishly, ink slowly darkening as he stared at it.

“That’s horrid.”

“That is capitalism.”

They shared a grim look.

“Will you try to catch her?”

Vitaliy shook his head. “I don’t take slavers outright. It is too dangerous for the souls aboard. But… what was her name again, the corsair?”

Everard double-checked, mostly for show; he had the feeling Vitaliy thought his memory was mere conceit, instead of the fatiguing burden it was. “Anemone.”

Vitaliy stood and stretched, arms high. “Forget the rest of the list,” he said, “it will wait, and Milly will meet us at Haïti. Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly.

Everard replied he was not, gracias.

“You’ve eaten? No one saw you at dinner mess.”

Keeping watch on him in his absence, was he?

“Earlier,” Everard said. “At lunch bells, I believe.”

Vitaliy looked taken aback. “It’s…” He groped for a pocket watch, and Everard had a small thrill, recognising the gilt thing. “Half-nine?”

“Yes.” Everard frowned. He wiped the quill, set it down, and self-consciously stacked the list onto the pile of papers to be burned. The watch bells rang every half hour, and yet Vitaliy had lost track of them? “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “If I had known you were staying aboard tonight, then I would have requested something be brought up.”

Vitaliy’s expression flattened; he seemed irritated. But when he replaced the pocket watch with a one-armed shrug, the expression melted away.

“No, don’t bother Rob,” he said, meaning the ship’s cook. He walked to the sleeping alcove. “Do you sleep to right or left?”

Everard slept in the centre like any single, average-sized man would. Was Vitaliy taking the subject where he thought he was? He looked over.

The hanging cot which Everard had been occupying the past week, alone—Vitaliy’s cot, at his insistence—was not average-sized. It seemed to be a custom model, wide enough to accommodate the man’s size. Wide enough for two.

Now Everard noticed that thoughtful Thom had acquired another pillow; it sat neatly beside. He felt his face turn crimson.

“I… don’t,” he said uncertainly.

Vitaliy gave him a sidelong look beneath his lashes. “You do not sleep either?” He began to pull his shirt from his breeches. “To which side does the lieutenant shove you, when in he sneaks?”

His true accent, slipping through; Vitaliy was more tired than he let on.

“He— I— To neither side,” Everard said indignantly. He looked politely away, down to the desk, and found his hand clutching the edge of it, like his straight, tensed arm alone kept him back, kept him seated there. “D’Arcy does nothing of the sort. Sneaking.”

Vitaliy hummed. “Fine, too. Though I do not think it will fit three.” He paused. “It may. I’ve never tried.”

Three…? Face still hot, Everard peeked over once more.

Vitaliy was down to drawers now, and not much else. Socks, too, the madman.

“I don’t wake for much,” Vitaliy said, “but I do object to… hummm, elbows meet ribs.” He pushed aside the mosquito netting and clambered in, fell onto his back; the cot swayed, silent, with the force of it. He threw an arm over his head, large and bare and blond-fuzzed. His hair spread across the pillow like a fan.